Tether

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Let life be a wind
Decisive. Indecisive
Experiences multiply
Another, before the former coasts by

Hindsight touched
by God. Distinct similarity
masked to the present
Liberty in the assurance of what’s to come.

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Pet of Royalty

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what hangs in the air if the new age is combustion and lack of satisfaction?
everyone takes a piece of me, so i’m left with incoherent parts for the journey

Catastrophe is a normal part of life but did you forget
the times you used to be worshipped? brush shoulders
with royals. no matter how low you stoop, they still
hang prayers in the air; chandeliers in the atmosphere

a Pet of the higher kingdom chained in these polluted
mortal intersections crossing life with death. surprised
by reality—a lit face dimming of its expectations

did you forget?
it’s been a long journey.

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As You Look, Imagine

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there’s a Feather on the wall but really
we all know it is not just a Feather

there’s a Peacock on the wall that folds itself
into a single elegant Feather on the wind
~caught you looking~
catch a gaze then puts a busy, palpating city in slow motion
that’s the only way the Peacock can travel through
as a Feather, floating on the wind after it folds and folds

the Peacock belongs to a deity, a house pet
laying at the master’s leg
roaming the house of a god
dwelling in magic incapable to mortality

but there’s a Feather on the wall
mesmerizing to us all.
every time one looks at that canvas, they travel
a random Feather in elegance floating through the air
a portal to the immortal.

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Friendzoned

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Recently, I realized that I got friendzoned a lot in my life because I am too emotionally mature—even back when I was a young lad in elementary school. Back then, I didn’t know why, but now I understand it as a natural skill in conversation and natural emotional maturity that I have.

Oftentimes, when I start talking to a girl, after two to three separate conversations into our relationship, she would already be telling me very personal stories and truths about herself because she felt that much comfortable in opening up to me—something I’ve always respected and never violated. Unfortunately, when it came to the point where I built enough courage to ask her out on a date, or ask her to be my girlfriend, the answer would always be no, “I really like our friendship and I don’t want to mess it up by getting love involved” or “I love you as a friend, and I don’t want that to change” or “I only like you as a friend” or “no, can we just stay friends please?” or “but you’re my friennddd! Haha…” For a long time, I used to beat myself up over the fact that 1) of all my guy friends (including the ones who barely court/date girls), I was the one to get friendzoned the most and 2) 95% of the best friendships that I’ve had with girls started out as me having romantic interests in that girl until she ends up friendzoning me.

Now, I’ve grown to understand it all as the result of emotional maturity. Having experienced love from an internal view and an external view, I completely understand why someone would want to preserve a healthy relationship by avoiding romance. Nonetheless, I still think it’s best to date that friend that understands you. Date the person who invests time to comprehend and emotionally resonate with you. If the relationship ends up falling apart because love conquered the healthy aspects of it, well, at least you won’t walk away telling a story of how you were in a toxic relationship that you were blind to. On the bright side, the partner being so emotionally mature and able to resonate with you in an emotional level may lead to a healthier depart from the relationship when you two are no longer functioning ideally as romantic partners.

Cheers 💕

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dead roses

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these roses are dead.
There’re more thorns on the floor than petals

Tell me the color of your dreams
violet, violets are blue
but what have these roses done to Us?

i think We are romanticizing this too much
i think you’re holding on to these roses too firmly
baby you got fucking blood on your hands!
There’s no more saving this—you’re not Jesus!
So why are there holes in your palms
Blood on your hands
Crosses behind your back
Prayers in the atmosphere
My knees on the floor, pleading

heart bleeding, turning this room red
i only wanted to taste this dream. Violets
everything YOU said. everything i promised myself.

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.

laying on my bed. clothes drenched, red
the sheets, too.
my soul is blue. my feelings. my mood.

Roses bleed red,
to hell with the violets
We shouldn’t have loved.

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If the Night Could Speak

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stories that end in wit and regret:
memories overseas, encounters with domestic lovers
revealing truths about ourselves, the world:
astrological placements, society’s racial cleverness

“I’ll probably write a poem about this tomorrow”
so where do I start? maybe at your destination
which really are intentions that you carry around
the things you want to achieve, waiting on you
weighing you down, you fall into regret

The City Night is a greedy audience with a promise:
we will never know who it brings our stories to.
So, maybe we’re not really strangers
after all, my stars prophesied about you

We’re sitting on rocks as you describe the effect your sister left
A shadow constantly seen each time you finally fix the lights onto you
an inheritance following you, so your success and failures exalt her glory.
You speak to me like you knew we shared the same story.

Take me around your world, around the world;
leave this night to experience the nights in other cities
While here, sitting on rocks.

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You Look Like A Slave (Video)

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“You Look Like A Slave” is a poem about a biracial couple in a toxic relationship. The woman is being controlled by the man and she cannot find it in herself the will to get out of the relationship.

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You Look Like A Slave

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If I told you that you look like a slave you’d think me offensive
but sadness droops down your face like the body has recognized
its youth will never return. Regret and dishonesty is a very heavy
feature to wear, so your face stretches farther from accountability

If your ears were not in his possession I’d tell you to run ‘til La Luna
de Dominicana caress your curves, make melodies with your laughter,
then build a nation with the force beating la tambora through your veins

But you don’t know better than being trapped
You’ve made a normality out of your captivity
Your bond to your owner is bondage in the end
Goddess of forests and islands in savage hands

When I first saw you, the splits in your hair told me this man don’t take care
of you. Honey, does he oil your scalp each night like your African Ancestors
did to worship their gods? Darling, does he kiss your flesh like the sun kiss the
Earth? Stopping only to move to another part begging for love. Sweetie, does he
know you need more love? In every crevasse of your smooth melanin skin? Bella,
does he make you moan so loud that the celestials hear and rejoice your purity?
Your natural form. Love. Mi’ja, does this man know how to love your black body
after taking all of your fruits? Una mujer elegante como tu. Una negra como tu.

Did you know a thriving line of your ancestry is annihilated each time you
bring this gringo with you? La Luz de mia, you’re a slave. Nobody knows
what hold he has on you. You refuse to know what curse this man is to you.

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My Soxy Collection

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To my dear Sock Buddy,

I have the utmost respect for people who appreciate funky socks. Believe it or not, I actually do not own a single pair of black/white or single-colored socks. I started collecting funky socks (yes, I collect them and they’re called my “Soxy Collection”) towards the end of my senior year of high school. By my Sophomore year of college, I had quite the impressive collection of socks.

Sophomore year was also the hardest year for me in college. I was in and out of the hospital at least once a week, I ended up switching my major—which felt like giving up on my life’s dream that I had since childhood—I strongly considered dropping out of college, and I was in a losing fight with depression. I was fighting a monster that was not physical, yet, it was taking so much from me.

This story sounds a bit crazy whenever I tell it, but something that helped me through that hard time in my life were my socks. Every morning when I slide a sock onto my foot, I looked at the funky design, felt silly, blissful then I cracked a smile—despite what I was feeling or what I wasn’t looking forward to for the day. The socks played a crucial role in my mental stability back then, and they still do till this day.

I hope that, in your beautiful life, you always find bliss in the smallest things, in the most unreasonable things—no matter how people may judge you about it. I hope you’re able to find joy in the simplest things until that joy has a permanent place in your heart, being with you everywhere you go.

Cheers,

Charles

@sircharlesthepoet

Indie Girl

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I have a soft side for Indie Girls.
Girls I’ll never get; girls there are no formulae to getting
I have an addiction with just spectating.
Knowing I cannot do anything, but never testing that theory

Sometimes I’d much rather look
with a virgin mind filled with possibilities, fantasies
than to try
then be left with a mind filled with regrets
and intellectual ways to improve next time

Ones that will probably, just as well, fail.

I constantly have this need: step into another’s world
and I have. But their similarities start to blend
until they all look the same
until I can predict the probabilities without delving,
I tell myself.

I have a keen attraction for pieces that do not fit; bodies that can flow with the current
but they just DON’T!
The Indie Girl steps me into another world, into her world
outside of this world (filled with commonalities, similarities, and coincidences)

I’ve always had a passion for adventure—although with fear
I’ve swarmed myself among creatures whose speech is unintelligible
I’ve been trapped in infinitely expanding forests, caves of no bottom
some, I was only able to escape by opening my eyes

The Indie Girl is an adventure waiting for an outburst
an estranged world in a society that has evolved to normalities and routines.
It’s a dare we all have the outburst for—though with fear
because comfortability is addicting so flux becomes threatening
It’s a love I want to get lost in.
but I guess I’ve gotten comfortable with my potential achievements and sins
So, instead, I spectate.

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