perception

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Perception VS Reality

If Life is a marathon,
Not a sprint,
How come then,
Everyone is going,
So, so fast
But I,
I’m already behind,
And while everyone else,
Is having a great day,
I toil away 

My legs,
Slabs beneath me,
Holding me up,
But barely,
My lungs,
Burning with every inhale,
About to burst,
But I cannot stop,
I have to keep going,
To get to the top,
I can’t ever,
Ever stop,
I want to pause
Catch my breath,
But that’s not possible,
Because the world won’t stop,
And the non-existing finish line…
Uncrossable

I see them,
In the distance,
So far,
Way ahead of me,
Doing better,
Crushing this war,
Me, however,
A nonstarter,
I struggle to keep up,
Everyone is running,
Sprinting, 
Me, however,
A slow trot, 
Kinda like,
A tortoise a lot,
In a world full of hares,
Speeding by,
We both mosey about

I turn my head,
I see the hares by me,
Wait!
I’m not so far behind?
I’m actually,
Doing kinda fine?
My eyes,
My mind,
They…
They deceive me?
Why?!
How can they not show me reality,
When it’s right in front of me

I turn, Timidly,
I ask, 
The hare next to me,
How its going,
To try and uncover,
The secret of her,
Great stride,
And to my surprise,
“I’M SO FAR BEHIND,”
She bursts,
Impossible.
My mind told me I’M the worst!
Turns out,
I’m not alone,
In my pain, and,
This hare,
Is not a hare,
Just a person,
And I,
I’m not a tortoise

So, I uncover,
Life isn’t a sprint,
Or a marathon,
I figure,
It’s a heckin’ triathlon,
Ongoing and never-ending
And I,
I’m not the only one,
Who struggles,
Because the hares aren’t hares,
And my eyes,
My eyes lie:
I’m doing just fine,
Jogging,
In my own time

by

Existential Ballet

Black and White Stock Photo of busy pedestrians in an urban city.

Bent, Bashed, Broken… I am nursing my own wounds.

I am stretched out wide but still I am shrunken & overlooked.

Sitting on a throne above the heads of many yet I look each of them in the eye.

I wipe their tears & I hear their cries.

They all want to know the secret of my dances.

Why choose to survive when oppression’s vice grip breaks my bones?

Why does my heart continue its dances?

How do I keep up when the earth never stops spinning while dancing rewinds the clock on my face?

The dances that define my divinity burn within a soul that sings the songs & rule the time.

In that time, wherever I stand that space is mine.

It’s there where the dances are done, & in that space my soul’s songs are sung.

Spinning and Swirling I reach high with hopes of experiencing a new feel & don’t worry, I will.

A remarkable existence if I must say.

An adaptive sway for the intimate encounters that pass by my way.

These are the same dances done by the fire’s flames.

I waltz the same waltz that puddles waltz when it rains.

My tears are called resilience & my beads of sweat are named endurance.

You can master the secret of my dances. Watch me give you reassurance.

The messages might escape you but it’s not of your choosing.

The secret to my dance, is to just keep moving.

What does an Immigrant Look Like?
by

What does an Immigrant Look Like?

After the 2016 General Election in the United States, the tensions between two economically distinct economies have started to rise in the public consciousness. In effect, the perception of minorities, impairments, and any deviation from the cis white heterosexual agenda has been challenged in terms of their acceptance within an American ecosystem and structure.

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