This page is dedicated to poems that I've written myself or have received from very talented writers. As great as books are a book of poetry gives you a direct line of how to express yourself. Each poem can be different or focus on the same topic but the emotion behind each expresses the feeling the writer had when writing it and also can reflect your own feelings when you read it. So there will be posting of poems here every week.
We Run <---- NEW POEM
We run into the old
We run into the new
Who would think life would have me run
into you
We run from the past
To an unknown future
We will keep on running
Until the rat race is over
Untitled <~~~~~~ 3/14/2013
Lift the burden from my back
take the weight off my neck
and left the chains that bind me fall
Give me a place of my own to be free
A space where I can stretch my legs
A place to fling my arms towards the sky
A space where I know peace
Lift the burden from my back
Take the weight off my soul
Give me a place
A space where
I can feel and remain free
My Dear Future Self
My dear future self
Donāt teach like you live
Locked up, dry, please donāt bet shy
There are things out there
They do not know
With no one to show them the way
Will you stay remote?
Uncaring teaching is about sharing
My dear future self
Play the part of the teacher
Play it will, push them like
Turtles to not stay in their shell.
The world is a big place they need to see
By reading Shakespeare they can go as
Far as me, maybe?
To my dear future self
Donāt sell those kids short
When you teach with all your
Heart.
A Way Out
When the dawn shows
me the way, I pick up
my hopes and run towards it
hoping it will crash up on me
like a wave.
Hope is all I have left in this
misbegotten world.
A trail of tears lay behind me
and an unknown future a head.
Wasted Time
When the dawn shows
me the way, I pick up
my hopes and run towards it
hoping it will crash up on me
like a wave.
Hope is all I have left in this
misbegotten world.
A trail of tears lay behind me
and an unknown future a head.
Wasted Time
By: Shamara S. Davis
I sat by a old oak tree it was withered by time
but it looked like it had strong roots, so I sat there
gazing outward towards the world
āWhy are you sitting by my root?ā the tree whispered as
the wind blows pass my ears
āwaiting for mankind to changeā, I sarcastically replied
She looked at me with a puzzled gaze and said
āI will keep you companyā, I sighed but welcomed
the company.
Falling asleep now and then I awake searching the for that
change that profound step by man, but I still wait.
My friend is now petrified and so I am. my eyes fixed on the world
canāt turn away and the wind that still blows never changing.
Panic
By Shamara S. Davis
Donāt panic it will all sort it self out
as you race your way to the end to try and forefill those promises
and meet those ugly dead lines.
When you PANIC , you forget what your there for what your
suppose do to. Sweating like crazy staring at the computer
wont help you finish, that paper, that list of demands everyone
has made.
Donāt clutch your chest, because the feat has crept its way
into your mind; donāt fear , fear is the main killer they say.
Iām panicing I have 10mins to finsih this, 10mins. Before
I burn out and give up and watch myself slip deeper into
a hole I cant crawl my way out of. Is this enough?
Eough to get me that A or the A-. I can feel the sweet
running down my face as I pound away at the keys
panicing as I rush my brain to think of something to write
before this portfolio is due.
Mirror
By Shamara S. Davis
Whatās
with the stare? I see the way you look at me,
When
I undress, I see the look in your eyes when I take my clothes off.
The
excess flesh, the marks that creep their way up my side from my body.
Fighting
to keep its current shape, losing and win, gaining and losing they look like
crawl marks.
No
Iām not her, that mannequin you love, but I am her in a dream.
I
see the look that you give me your eyes cutting through me like a surgeonās
blade.
Cutting
away what you hate it makes me cringe at the thought.
What
youāre trying to see? That mannequin isnāt me.
I ām standing right here bitch! Stop staring
at me.
Now isnāt it too bad
that reflections donāt answer or turn away.
Here are two of the latest poems that I'm posting to the Poetry Corner
Here are two of the latest poems that I'm posting to the Poetry Corner
Dark
Days
āDuckā, he yelled as
the ice cold night chilled their bones.
Over head bombs
exploding, young boys dreaming of home.
Crawling in the dark,
sharp rocks cutting through war torn clothes
belly skin being ripped
away not just by
the ground, but by the
bullets whizzing by.
Duck! They all yell,
when the boom crashed in to the ground
some not ducking soon
enough, before it touched the ground
pain filled screams,
āMy eyes, my eyesā. āWhat little can you see?ā
āYour lucky your blind
unlike meā.
āDuck!ā But he didnāt
hear and the bomb touched the floor
it shook and it
quivered and his body was no more.
Where he stood now a
black hole, stained with entrails.
āI want to go homeā,
someone dared to yell. He got his wish
after he was filled with
seven shells. They cut through him
with little effort and
killed with speed.
āDuck! Take cover! Hide
somewhereā
The last bomb blacken
the air, there was no hope here just dark days.
Brown
Skin
My
skin is brown not black like coal. So when they ask me if a I am black I say
NO, since Iām not. I am like ebony, wood that you find in the Forrest, strong
and beautiful like a diamond. My smile is so bright it reflects like glass when
caught in the sunās rays. My breeding is none of your concern since we are out
of those dark days, when my beautiful brown brothers and sisters with bright
smiles were bought and sold.
You
staple this label to me; BLACK, and now I give it back to you. My skin is like
ebony not like tar. Each time I hear the word black, I feel a flame, burning
and bursting within me. Trying to launch its way out of every single pore; if I
erupt now they will say itās a Black thing. Black what other words will they
use next? What other words will they use to try and crash through the wall of
dignity that I that I mean that weāve built?
What
adders and fillers they tack on to make it sound better; Black-African American
whatever they put on it I know the same label itās still there that thought
that I am like coal to them, something that came out of the dirt. But sometimes
I hear āoh youāre not black youāre Jamaicanā, as if that makes a difference.
But I am not black; you wonāt find my skin tone at the other end of the color
spectrum. So please donāt label me just find beauty in my brown skin.
Motherās shoes
When
youāre young wearing a pair of high heel shoes
is
just practice for you to eventually become a lady.
Your
motherās shoes are what you want to fill.
She
raised you alone and she had two other mouths to feed
so
you were the entertainment.
Strutting
your stuff across the room sat your bones on fire.
When
youāre young wearing a pair of high heels show is just practice
it
stops being practice when your old and people pay to watch you entertain
just
as well it pays the bills to fill momās shoes.
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