By Ashley Niedzwiecki
121 men die every year while taking a shit.
They just try so hard
that their heart gives out
and they die.
Four men die every year
while having sex.
It’s about willingness and effort.
Just something to think about.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Why Don't You
By AJ Kelsey
When night falls and the world fades away,
And you’re left with the silence, why don’t you
Hold yourself scared, afraid to wake upon the fire burning your flesh.
Worried for the immortal soul casted into the pits of hell,
By the light when it calls us all forth, bound forever damned!
Masquerade with papier-mâché,
Colored in paints that are not your own.
Afraid for when the music stops, the face beneath the will be revealed
As they walk away with distain marked on their faces
Knowing that friendly cards will turn in the eyes of truth
Or feel the fear of walking down the streets, then, out of nowhere, being attacked
By a mob of men, beaten for the sin of being who you are, face nearly
As bloodied and broken as your soul.
Why don’t you shamefully conceal the love of another
The love of another to whom you’d give your very life for
The love that you’d walk through shards of glass,
Wait a thousand lives to be with, because the world can’t see what you see
To hear the words of hate as you walk down a street
“You’re all going to hell”
Not knowing that you’re already there
For beneath the ever flowing, never ending stream of tears
Taking their leave from your body, your soul is dying
Why don’t you whisper the words fix me, heal me, make me better
As you take the jaded blade to your wrist
Deeply you pierce, to bleed out the pain
Wanting it to end you
Taking the blade to rest it upon your neck,
Oh the sweet peace it would bring
To cut the unspoken agony
But something outside of yourself restrains you
As it has done too often before
Tortured, defeated, there’s nothing left to do but will yourself to sleep
Wanting, hoping, to purge yourself of the shame
Of not understanding why you are the way you are
People laying claims to your name by derogatory means
So many throw the stones, but have never been hit
They speak the words of hate, but never felt their sting
Are my words opening the door to understanding?
Or do you still see without seeing?
When night falls and the world fades away,
And you’re left with the silence, why don’t you
Hold yourself scared, afraid to wake upon the fire burning your flesh.
Worried for the immortal soul casted into the pits of hell,
By the light when it calls us all forth, bound forever damned!
Masquerade with papier-mâché,
Colored in paints that are not your own.
Afraid for when the music stops, the face beneath the will be revealed
As they walk away with distain marked on their faces
Knowing that friendly cards will turn in the eyes of truth
Or feel the fear of walking down the streets, then, out of nowhere, being attacked
By a mob of men, beaten for the sin of being who you are, face nearly
As bloodied and broken as your soul.
Why don’t you shamefully conceal the love of another
The love of another to whom you’d give your very life for
The love that you’d walk through shards of glass,
Wait a thousand lives to be with, because the world can’t see what you see
To hear the words of hate as you walk down a street
“You’re all going to hell”
Not knowing that you’re already there
For beneath the ever flowing, never ending stream of tears
Taking their leave from your body, your soul is dying
Why don’t you whisper the words fix me, heal me, make me better
As you take the jaded blade to your wrist
Deeply you pierce, to bleed out the pain
Wanting it to end you
Taking the blade to rest it upon your neck,
Oh the sweet peace it would bring
To cut the unspoken agony
But something outside of yourself restrains you
As it has done too often before
Tortured, defeated, there’s nothing left to do but will yourself to sleep
Wanting, hoping, to purge yourself of the shame
Of not understanding why you are the way you are
People laying claims to your name by derogatory means
So many throw the stones, but have never been hit
They speak the words of hate, but never felt their sting
Are my words opening the door to understanding?
Or do you still see without seeing?
The Box I Choose
By AJ Kelsey
Pick a box, that’s what they say.
Straight, bi, gay, pick one and own it.
If you’re straight, you must love football Sundays, beer drinking,
womanizing, dominating – I am man, hear me roar.
If you’re bi, you must be a confused. Like your cake in eat it too.
You can’t be trusted – with a guy, you’ll be looking at the ladies,
and with a girl you’ll be looking at the fellas.
If you’re gay, you must flamer, work your hips like a girl,
speaking words like “what’s up girlfriend,”
oh, yeah, and must be a hoe.
Fuck you, I’m not going to wear you labels –
wear a sign for your peace of mind.
I can’t be read like a book pulled from the shelf,
my title is classified and undefined.
I won’t take a side like some fucked up school yard –
Red Rover, Red Rover, send that faggot on over…
Bitch, please. My layers are far deeper than that.
I am the music that soothes your soul.
I am the voice that causes your consciousness to awaken.
I am a feminist, a warrior for women.
I’m a bitch that takes no shit.
I am the passionate lover who can bring you to your knees
in ecstasy – reveal your hidden desires.
I am a son, a brother, a lover, a stranger.
I am complex, made up of things you don’t even conceive.
I cannot, will not, be put in a box,
Forced to conform to some fucked up ideology of society.
Pick a box, that’s what they say.
Straight, bi, gay, pick one and own it.
If you’re straight, you must love football Sundays, beer drinking,
womanizing, dominating – I am man, hear me roar.
If you’re bi, you must be a confused. Like your cake in eat it too.
You can’t be trusted – with a guy, you’ll be looking at the ladies,
and with a girl you’ll be looking at the fellas.
If you’re gay, you must flamer, work your hips like a girl,
speaking words like “what’s up girlfriend,”
oh, yeah, and must be a hoe.
Fuck you, I’m not going to wear you labels –
wear a sign for your peace of mind.
I can’t be read like a book pulled from the shelf,
my title is classified and undefined.
I won’t take a side like some fucked up school yard –
Red Rover, Red Rover, send that faggot on over…
Bitch, please. My layers are far deeper than that.
I am the music that soothes your soul.
I am the voice that causes your consciousness to awaken.
I am a feminist, a warrior for women.
I’m a bitch that takes no shit.
I am the passionate lover who can bring you to your knees
in ecstasy – reveal your hidden desires.
I am a son, a brother, a lover, a stranger.
I am complex, made up of things you don’t even conceive.
I cannot, will not, be put in a box,
Forced to conform to some fucked up ideology of society.
Honeysuckle Thoughts
By Ashley Niedzwiecki
Lips form the words
I always thought
seemed cold as the night
air in winter, but they come
from a place inside where
it is warm as any day in June –
springs trickling playfully
at dusk as the warm
and gentle breeze stirs up
honeysuckle thoughts, and cherry blossoms
gather in a pool along the bank,
the knuckle on the hand of Mother, passing
sweets through metaphorical mouths,
so I just let the words form in
the warmth of a seemingly cold Truth.
Lips form the words
I always thought
seemed cold as the night
air in winter, but they come
from a place inside where
it is warm as any day in June –
springs trickling playfully
at dusk as the warm
and gentle breeze stirs up
honeysuckle thoughts, and cherry blossoms
gather in a pool along the bank,
the knuckle on the hand of Mother, passing
sweets through metaphorical mouths,
so I just let the words form in
the warmth of a seemingly cold Truth.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Poetry
By Ashley Niedzwiecki
Poetry
can let you
wear
the sky,
speak
salty words,
kiss
the stars,
dance
with a fish,
breathe
vast secrets,
listen
to the grass laugh,
devour
the breeze,
wake
to a stream of flowers,
ask
a tree a question,
think
with the rhythm of eternity,
and trust
that the wild air lingers.
Poetry
can let you
wear
the sky,
speak
salty words,
kiss
the stars,
dance
with a fish,
breathe
vast secrets,
listen
to the grass laugh,
devour
the breeze,
wake
to a stream of flowers,
ask
a tree a question,
think
with the rhythm of eternity,
and trust
that the wild air lingers.
Burning Poetry
By Ashley Niedzwiecki
I threw one of my poems
into a fire
just to feel the heat
of my words
cutting through the cold night air.
To see them
glow red among the embers,
twisting and curling with the flames
that licked their chops longingly.
To hear them
crack angrily and hiss their wants,
the way the black ink
that tied them to the page
never could.
To see their remnants,
gray and frail,
float up, furling and unfurling
with the smoke,
to join the ranks of the stars.
I threw one of my poems
into a fire
just to feel the heat
of my words
cutting through the cold night air.
To see them
glow red among the embers,
twisting and curling with the flames
that licked their chops longingly.
To hear them
crack angrily and hiss their wants,
the way the black ink
that tied them to the page
never could.
To see their remnants,
gray and frail,
float up, furling and unfurling
with the smoke,
to join the ranks of the stars.
Founder's Hall
By Ashley Niedzwiecki
I am a reflection in the window,
faded, mingling with tree tops.
I float above a rippling pool
encased in concrete,
no more able to flow freely
than I am to fully exist.
My face is masked
by the florescent glare
on the square pane
that separates me from myself –
the square pane
on which my very existence depends.
I am a reflection in the window,
faded, mingling with tree tops.
I float above a rippling pool
encased in concrete,
no more able to flow freely
than I am to fully exist.
My face is masked
by the florescent glare
on the square pane
that separates me from myself –
the square pane
on which my very existence depends.
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