Some Legs Are More Equal Than Others
“The poem started off as giving a voice to the voiceless but then evolved into exploring what it’s like to be wanted and the difference in how generations see objects and sentimental gifts. Would this sentimental item feel good about being passed down and would it be loved as much as it was?”
For Maureen
For you, I’m a sentiment.
Kept as a reminder that
we don’t always get what we want.
That’s how lives are.
A part of everyone’s story.
A part you would never get rid of.
For her, I was never what she wanted but
always loved.
Stretched beyond what I was capable of
to try and fit her dreams.
Left; Broken.
Right; Always there for her
as we tested how much happiness
we could steal from a day.
For them, I’m inanimate.
Left; Handicapped by years
their attention span can’t compute.
Unable to fully grasp and comprehend
the imagination of their predecessors.
Will they appreciate me?
Will my story last for them
and still carry the love she gave me
as each word is told?
Will they understand?
I didn’t need technology to make me special
or be part of a collection that
needed to be completed.
Will they value me?
Save a space on shelves where I can rest.
Right; Next to other hand-me-downs from
previous generations
and their own trinkets to pass on to the next.
Have a rehearsed backstory for
why I’m on display
full with spaces to laugh as
others have in the past.
Will they love me?
I may be broken but I am
Right; Here.
Left; For them.
By Tyrone Lewis
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Illuminate
Pay no attention to the men who hide behind printed words
suffocating victims with texts they twist out of context
force feeding ignorant messages down simple minded throats.
Or those who fire bullets from keyboard guns
with no care for who’s hit in the crossfire
as suicidal teens fall to hate tainted shrapnel.
Modeled media messages marketing to the masses
that we are all the same
take time to appreciate the differences in us.
Understand that love is not bound by genders.
Labels are not currency we need to
sell to society in order to figure out what we’re worth.
We’re not worthless if our eyes see past gender
and we fall for who we want.
Stay clear of those who turn religious passages into nooses
and will hang you with their prejudice
because your views don’t coincide with theirs.
Don’t look down on those who believe in more
and hold faith important in their lives
and don’t feel superior if your beliefs give you a sense of purpose
compared those questioning their views.
With confusion and corruption corroding our identities
subliminal messages controlling us
conspiring against us
Please. Allow us to illuminate your mind.
By Tyrone Lewis
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Untitled [Work In Progress]
Matt lives in his own mind.
Kept company by his imagination
He lives in ideas.
Surrounded by the impossible
and what he sees as unattainable.
In one world he’s with Kelly.
He changes her natural blonde hair
To brown.
Her lisp disappears
And most importantly,
She speaks to him.
In another world he’s lost 13 years.
He’s now 5 and
Sits by his father’s feet
Being forced to listen to
Stories he can’t comprehend.
Here,
He doesn’t know that his father only has a year left.
And that soon he’ll grow to appreciate these words
And miss falling asleep to them.
In the real world,
He’s alone.
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A Poem.
If you stare at a blank piece of paper for 3 hours and 42 minutes
despite what mental powers you may be capable of
words won't suddenly burn themselves onto the page.
If you stare at a blank piece of paper for 3 hours and 42 minutes
with a pen in your hand
the lid resting on one end
leaving the tip to breathe air
it'll start calling out to kiss the page.
I can't speak for what happens if you stare any longer.
I don't know if words take 4 hours before they bring themselves to the page
on their own accord
rather than being forced out by a pen.
I also know not of what a pen will do if you ignore its call
and leave it so close to a blank page for 4 hours
but 3 hours and 45 minutes after opening my notebook
I've got a poem written in it.
By Tyrone Lewis
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The Certainty Of Numbers
It’s not the numbers you dislike—
the 3s or 5s or 7s—but the way
the answers leave no room for you,
the way 4 plus 2 is always 6
never 9 or 10 or Florida,
the way 3 divided by 1
is never an essay about spelunking
or poached salmon, which is why
you never seemed to get the answer right
when the Algebra teacher asked,
If a man floating down a river in a canoe
has traveled three miles of a twelve mile canyon
in five minutes, how long will it take him
to complete the race? Which of course depends
on if the wind resistance is 13 miles an hour
and he’s traveling upstream
against a 2 mile an hour current
and his arms are tired and he’s thinking
about the first time he ever saw Florida,
which was in the seventh grade
right after his parents’ divorce
and he felt overshadowed
by the palm trees, neon sun visors,
and cheap postcards swimming
with alligators. Nothing is ever simple,
except for the way the 3 looks like two shells
washed up on last night’s shore,
but then sometimes it looks like a bird
gently crushed on its side.
And the 1—once so certain
you could lean up against it
like a gray fence post—has grown weary,
fascinated by the perpetual
itch of its own body.
Even the Algebra teacher
waving his formulas like baseball bats,
pauses occasionally when he tells you
that a 9 and a 2 are traveling in a canoe
on a river in a canyon. How long
will it take them to complete their journey?
That is if they don’t lose their oars
and panic and strike the rocks,
shattering the canoe. Nothing is ever certain.
We had no plan, the numbers would tell us,
at the moment of our deaths.
(By Bruce Snider)
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Skin Deep
Her only redeeming factor is her looks
and she kills them with
toxins she so freely applies to her face
suffocating the youth she once
used to master.
She still shows off the curves placed
perfectly on her body which
force eyes to follow her every step
but now barely tries to cover them.
She’s not hard to mentally undress.
With her lack of clothes
taking them off is
simple.
Skin tight leggings hanging onto
near perfect hips
wait to be peeled off by
X-rated thoughts.
Despite being unable to directly see
what lies under there her
underwear is clearly covered in flowers.
Their pattern always seems to
press itself on the near see through fabric
she’s got trying to cover
the greatest gift
her mother ever gave her.
Purple frills thrill the eyes of guys who
love watching her walk away while
tight tops try to cover
her prized possessions but
always seem to fail
from keeping them out of
teenage dreams belonging to
the minds of those too afraid
to try and bring these
adolescent fantasies into reality.
Jealous of the exposure her pants get
her bra tries to steal the spotlight
showing itself under the cover of her
faded white t-shirt.
The straps are noticeable first
literally showing everyone the
green light to see
the best part of her chest.
Beauty is only skin deep and that line is
etched onto her stomach.
I noticed the words scratched into her flesh
when she was too poor to buy a full t-shirt so
only got one that barely covered her belly button.
It seemed to be a rough month for her financially
as skirts could never cover her thighs
and tights took the place of
trousers as they must have been
out of her price range.
She used to cry.
When her make-up didn’t cover her emotions
and she had
friends ready to help piece her together
just in case she
fell apart.
We used to talk.
If we were too far away to test
decibels and see how well the other
picked them up as we described
the humdrum of our days
we’d instead see how well fingers could communicate thoughts.
I used to respect her.
She still held innocence
and could spin stories I thought pessimistic
and show me them for their
raw natural optimism.
Now her name’s a disease infecting conversations.
Plaguing tongues with
antics she didn’t even try to keep private.
Ears dine on stories of
how her lips crave the affection of others.
And she’s only filled in on what she did this weekend
thanks to the pass-the-parcel rumours.
In a night, she forgot last year.
Drank away summers she spent with her
best friend
and erased her old crush.
If you ask her now
she wouldn’t be able to tell you his last name
but 48 hours ago
they were dancing in moonlight forming
intoxicated shapes
of silhouette’s that joined at the lips.
Hung over hands wake the next day
to realise
she’s only wearing his t-shirt.
Head aching from last night rises from an unfamiliar pillow
and her left eye is to first to notice
her underwear mixed at the foot of a foreign sofa
wrapped up in his.
That night,
she tests what she can taste more
mouths or cocktails
and when it’s a tie
she settles down at the back of the bar with
two glasses in her hand and
a guy on each side of her.
She’ll leave with her girls but
would have left 6 guys her
11 digit dignity.
Her only redeeming factor is her looks and
she could be beautiful
but her personality taints her looks.
Beauty is only skin deep
and she embodies that phrase.
By Tyrone Lewis
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Lucille Rouge - Uni Life (Extract)
This was not how it was supposed to unfold. After it started so well this wasn’t what was meant to happen. I did not see myself sitting here, in my room alone with tears ruining my make up . But here I am, sat up alone on my bed with the sad excuse of my life just laying in pieces around me. I never thought she’d leave me here in my black dress, half torn dress and ripped at the chest now exposing my bra. My feet are wrapped in my now heel-less shoes and covered in what has to now be my own blood thanks to how tight they are and finally my arm is limply carrying what was once my topshop bag. There’s broken glass lying in a pool of its own wine scented blood on my table, broken bowls carving up the floor staining it with milk and the contents of my wardrobe dressing the floor, the chair, the shower and the toilet. I knew our flatmates described our relationship as “unique” but I didn’t think a fight like this would happen if you can still call what just happened a fight. We’ve had our share of fights in the past but not like this, never like this.
By Tyrone Lewis.
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