The silence here is mind shatteringly deafening
Where are the voices in my head?
Deserted I stand, haunted by nothing but nothingness.
I look up at the house.
That house which once held my hopes and fostered my dreams.
The air of gloom that hangs there now is potent to my lungs
What perils awaits me?
A broken relationship between a father and his child.
Duplicate personalities, generations apart.
Crude, uncaring, unapologetic eyes stare down at me from the maleficent tower which was once my home
i meet that stare with one of my own.
Cold, and indifferent
Oh how time has molded me to be the exact replica of him.
The gloom creeps up on me again,
Turning now into an air of bitterness
The mad man that lives within me has begun to stir
He spews Thunderous rapids of resentment
They erupt within my head and for a brief moment I miss the deafening silence
I quiet him down
Today is not the day for a clash of the personalities,
Today I bury all thoughts of abandonment and feelings of hatred
Today I end the me that was.
When the night is dark and the world has gone to sleep.
When the moon shines down and caresses the moment with its nocturnal beauty.
When he birds have ceased their song and the crickets begin their orchestration…
I lay awake and think of you
As the sun emerges from beyond the horizon,
The morning dew sprinkles down on the flowers and trees,
As the birds flex their wings and tweet their salutes
I lay awake with thoughts of you
With the pitter of the raindrops that saturate the earth,
The ebb and flow of the ocean that kisses the coastline, .
As the flowers bloom in and out of season…..
The iceberg melts,
The levees break
I’m constantly plagued with thoughts of you.
Sereta A. Thompson
When you look at me, what exactly is it that you see?
Look closely! Pass the smile and composed demeanor,
Look within my eyes.
Look past the outward beauty and you’ll find deep, inner sadness.
Hurt feelings and hidden emotions.
Un shed tears burning to the core like flames engulfing parchment paper.
Can you see the shattered soul,
The battered heart?
Do you sense the insecurities?
Feel the painful truth behind my silence?
You wonder why I don’t speak,
Often I don’t know what to say
Often there is a hovering fear that my thoughts, if voiced will be rejected.
My opinions frowned upon and my entire self being judged.
Sereta A. Thompson (2011)
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Whilst stumbling across my myriads of poems from yesteryear, i came across this. Its probably not the best i’ve written but it did bring back thoughts and emotions i thought i had forgotten. The universe is playing tricks on me again!
You say one thing
Yet you mean another
You try to be up front
While hiding beneath a cover
Why are you so selfish?
And why so ignorant?
What exactly does love mean to you
Or should I say, meant?
I’ve never known someone so fake
Someone who can’t speak the truth
Someone so terribly insecure
Someone so cruel, someone like you.
Why did you have to be like this
You started off quite fine,
You would always say how much you care
I guess that was just another “line”.
I just sit around and remember
How much I used to enjoy your name
And how I so dearly loved
To play your little game.
But now finally I know
That you aren’t at all what I thought
And its a damn shame too,
Because I really liked you….a lot
Sereta A, Thompson (2011)
I remember when i wrote that, I was going through lets call it a ‘phase’ where i though i was in love with everybody and they had no right to not love me back. I do believe that year was a turning point in my life as the eighteenth year usually is though i was actually turning nineteen that year (mind scramble)
Anyway, it was the year i rebelled against my father, the year i started University and the year of my very first heartbreak…or was that 2010???
The tittle is strange, i just remembered i wrote another poem “The Truth” which was quite lulling… i guess i had to do a followup.
That was that.
I have always considered myself a ‘writer’ even though i have no published pieces nor do i get paid to do it. Writing has just always been my greatest love. I think it is really the fact that you right and write well that make you a writer.
At what point is one allowed to call oneself a writer is a question that I’ve spent far too much time contemplating. When I was younger, I would shy away from calling myself a writer because my writing wasn’t serious, wasn’t good, wasn’t published, wasn’t published in a paying magazine, and myriad of other reasons. I now say that the only thing that makes a person a writer is that they write (something I’ve heard a lot of other people say for a long time before I accepted its obvious truth). As long as I spend a good portion of my time getting words on the page, I am a writer. Maybe not a good one, a successful one or any other qualifier, but I am inarguably a writer, though there is always a little (or huge) part of me that doesn’t think I can call myself one. Part of the…
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When I visited my parents recently, I sat down with my mother to show her photos on my iPhone. There were photos from Thanksgiving, from Hanukkah and from my father’s eightieth birthday celebration, along with pictures from back in the summer — some really good shots I took of our family Fathers’ Day brunch in Los Angeles and my nephew’s college graduation dinner.
Although my mother enjoyed the photos, the problem, she says, is that they’re not real. You can’t touch them, put them in an album, let them gather dust in a closet until you pull them out for special occasions.
I assured her that the photos can be printed and that we would make this happen.
After we got home, I emailed the photos to my wife, who uploaded them to walmart.com. For about three dollars, Wal-Mart printed them and mailed them out to my parents.
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