Save Us

Calloused hands are bruised
from mending broken plans
with pins and thread and needles
and using pens to please the people
because poets are
And performance poets beyond reach.
but hurting people
are just
So broken hearts sometimes show signs
by external bleeding
onto flat lines of journals
And excessive vomiting of internal organs
induced by a spotlight and an ear that will listen.

But ears listen to poems,
not poets.

And I know this
by the reoccurring themes of my people:
The band of burden bearers that were never taught how
to bear burdens,
only that we were to bear them.

The reoccurring themes:
Being “that girl”, giving your heart to a guy never to get a call back girl,
Being ” that man” who never knew his father so now he lives in fear of being a dead beat dad man,
Being a black man,
living on welfare,
eating ramen noodles for 2 meals every day and learning life’s not fair,
Death of parents.
Death of dreams.
Passive aggressive silence,
wishing someone could decipher what a muted spirit screams…

These are the reoccurring themes of my people.
But no one listens to poets,
only to their poems.
And writers are too busy to call for help,
rushing to write
to reach the writer’s rush,
that performance high under the lights
when you know the audience is there with you…
somehow they can relate to what you’ve been through
and will care for you after you walk off the stage,
but words can’t save you!

How many journals do you have to fill
to know that 2 poems a day won’t result in pain killed?

Keep writing,
surrounding yourself with crumpled papers and worn moleskins.
I bet you’ll feel safe in isolation,
the cocoon you’re building,
but you’ll emerge a mummy,
not a butterfly.

Words are beautiful,
but words can’t save you.
Can’t dry your tears
or mend familial warfare that’s been waging for years.

Please, I beg you.
Give to the broken poet Fund.
Don’t see our words as simple art.

Grab a poet, and say that you love them.
Ask to hear the hurts that won’t fit into a poem
then stick around to hug them.
Look at the hands,
tired of trying to write heartache
in a way to please the people.

Drowning in seas of ink,
we look like we’re swimming in words,
but words can’t save us.



About lovelyiskey

I'm a disciple of Jesus that happens to write/perform poetry and have a book. I'm a poet that happens to wait tables. I'm a waitress that happens to have a blog. Welcome to my life.
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