#workshop shit

[dwma-sketchesyo]

Ive been dumbass busy by working on new comic stuff. Hello new and old followers alike.

[poetryismyweapon]

My older brother and I would make similar mistakes, Enjoy treks into thistle and thorns Leaving nigh unscathed Because living is not pain, it is not bleeding, It is bending your body And accepting the consequences. My older brother and I skinned the same knee, We found band aids in the same room, years apart:  Our own.   He knows that men with few secrets have few friends And the smaller the number of friends The more they evolve into family. He and I would be okay with both keeping the quiet and splintering the silence. My older brother and I would watch out for each other In the way the rest of the family doesn’t understand how to do so:  At all.   I grew up in a house of mirrors but instead of bends in the glass It was the reflection of the dark room that was my home.   We never knew how to find ourselves And no one bothered to look for the light – I think that’s what family is supposed to be for, Letting you find the brightness you were born into Before it was covered by the smog of your parents’ shortcomings.

“The Line Between Me and My Father“

workshop piece written at CommonWealth Slam, 11/4/15

more poems

[poetryismyweapon]

The Count of Monte Cristo Contemplates Ordering Pizza for the Fourth Time this Week

Vengeance has always settled well In my stomach. My hunger was born In prison; freedom is a cornucopia. I will feast once for every day I was imprisoned And I will consume whatever pleases me. The corruption of my body Has been a price I've willingly accepted Ever since chicanery blockaded Every channel I could have taken to sea. To barrel through my regrets I shall take none further upon my shoulders. Now sail to me, my prey, I will devour you.

[poetryismyweapon]

Hiding Behind More than a Badge

Circumstances decide whether I draw dust or blood - I used to be satisfied either way. I used to escape the closet to make more skeletons, Embracing what I would be asked to perform. Now I leave scraped walls and dented door frame. In rest, I am order. When in battle, I am worn.

My ancestor was a knight’s armor But today I am a snake’s scales. My department has decided Lawfulness is the key to Eden And my wearers have tasked themselves With making sure there is never another dark Eve. Ever since mankind fell, it has been policing The ancestors of Adam; people have always feared Darkness. I embrace the lack of light now, The peace of storage. When the light is extinguished I can breath again. No more flashbangs. No more lightning strikes to skulls.

I used to believe I was doing the right thing - That I had more of my ancestors blood in me But the recent past is what has scarred me serpentine; Badges of honor fade from friction When a prideful chest becomes underbelly.

From Bahrain to Ferguson, I question my existence. What use is a Kevlar ribcage if there’s no heart to protect? The strands that make up what I am Disperse with every righteous rebellion I’m asked to quell. I am asked to protect the county seat, the state, The threat presented by power. My purpose Is supposed to have me as the visor of the righteous under fire, To be the shield that shelters actors of justice. Even when being sewn into existence I was taught That the most important aspect of open carry is the holster, It gives you time to think. Enough malice swirls in the middle of war zones To make whoever grips my brethren question whether Self defense takes precedent over any decision making process - The most important lesson though is not to be drawn into battle In the first place. To never don the gear expected for crowd control. What good does it do to protect a backwards system Where there’s never a riot until the people in riot gear appear?

[poetryismyweapon]

Contrapuntal - Expanded Text

2 separate poems become 1 poem when combined. Here goes: Title: Listening to the Voices of Richmond Poem 1. Not survivors, not victims Damn sure not the voiceless. Everyone on this stage owns Every facet of their lives Shouting out what moves them Every syllable dragged from behind Gums, every dagger removed from back Bleeding profusely into memories. What is this therapy that grants absolution? Drops forgiveness like pennies To a wishing well? The foundation Stone, the rising tide within, the passion Of being alive and proving it. Placed into the air, heavy thoughts of Praise; never obeying laws Of gravity and falling down On scales of judgment. Everyone owns their voice Everyone owns themselves Everyone is free Everyone can transform Can be. Everyone Poem 2. People of bonded circumstance, Existence is standing, spoken is provable; Their stories, complicated, Written by a supreme playwright. A schizophrenic world, so many parts cast in Noise, the invisible, walking measures of rest, a breeze of bleeding. When friends were closer, more meaningful Every problem was easier to ignore. The forgotten beg and beg to know, what Granted beggar's cup to hands, what was done wrong Of last life's folly, if karma is forever sinking the departed? People, tired with their lot. Tired of having little. Tired. Chance, fate, God, which motherfucker is to blame? Evaporating, feeling you are not worth A negligent sum of change cast at you; the intent : To cloak you further into the night God, so many people let fade your humanity. Everyone holds their own opinions, Except the transient; they don't own anything. To treat the homeless as nothing, knowing Someone's suffering is unsettling. Healing Is worthy, is not defective, is worthwhile. Look into helping them. Poem 3. Not survivors, not victims people of bonded circumstance, Damn sure not the voiceless. Existence is standing, spoken is provable; Everyone on this stage owns their stories, complicated Every facet of their lives written by a supreme playwright. Shouting out what moves them a schizophrenic world, so many parts cast in Every syllable dragged from behind noise, the invisible: Walking measures of rest, a breeze of bleeding Gums, every dagger removed from back, when friends were closer, more meaningful Bleeding profusely into memories every problem was easier to ignore. What is this therapy that grants absolution, the forgotten beg and beg to know, what Drops forgiveness like pennies granted beggar's cup to hands, what was done wrong To a wishing well; the foundation f last life's folly, if karma is forever sinking the Stone, the rising tide within, the passion departed. People, tired of their lot. Tired of having little. Tired. Of being alive and proving it. Chance, fate, God, which motherfucker is to blame? Placed into the air, heavy thoughts of evaporating, feeling you are not worth Praise; never obeying laws a negligent sum of change cast at you; the intent Of gravity and falling down: To cloak you further into the night On scales of judgment. God, so many people let fade your humanity. Everyone owns their voice everyone holds their own opinions, Everyone owns themselves except the transient; they don't own anything. Everyone is free to treat the homeless as nothing; knowing Everyone can transform someone's suffering is unsettling. Healing Can be. Everyone is worthy, is not defective, is worthwhile. Look into helping them.

[poetryismyweapon]

This was written for the CommonWealth Slam workshop last Thursday

These Are Not the Reasons (A workshop facilitated by Slam Richmond team member The Dodd) Your dragon scale eyes, Slits from distance, Are not the reason I felt safe around you. If anything, they were Emerald caution lights. The wind whipping Over your back Carried your laugh; Its willingness to Escape your Sultry fire pout Is not the reason I felt safe from you. The way you would fly, Barrel forward, nose tilted Towards trouble Willing to sacrifice self To guard more Than your own way of life. The animalistic strength In protective passion Of stolen eggs Guarded as if your own, These reasons, These reasons, As powerful As your mythic wings, Are not the reasons I stayed my word And hung up my quests. The way you played chameleon By adapting yourself To my weaknesses While keeping breast Flush and heated Was not the reason Your bonfire throat Scorched my twig resolve. We broke because of my fear Of letting myself Burn with you.