poems, short stories, faith.

I remember passing the freedom field And seeing old men, With their teeth missing Eyes missing Limb missing Looking like skeletons of their past self that was never allowed to bloom They sat in a perfect row Like there was a chain holding them in place And a master whipper, Waiting for someone to step out of line so he can whip them back into place But there was no chain And there was no master whipper But they were like slaves still under the master, In the state of freedom they were still being held in place by ideologies of the past never letting themselves taking a breath the whip, tho still gone, still has a hold over them. so they pass their fear to their young ones, tell them what road to take to avoid the whip, how to dress to avoid the stares what to say when to laugh and when to cry and then they became the whip holding the young ones in their chains never let them see what life was before the whip they label...

Running   The most I could do was run The least I could do was run The only thing I do well is run. Ever since she shouted at me to run With a machete hanging over her head, The only thing I've done since then was run, Even when I met the man, Who promised to help me stop running I ran Even with arms stretched out, and tears streaming down his face, I ran, Because He was too good to be true, Like a fairy-tale But fairy tales do not exist, So I’m running, With fear for the one with the machete And unbelief from the one who promised me Heaven.