Freeze frame poets

poets
Soul speak ,

mind tweaks,
moving beaks,
spirit squeaks.
If there’s a noise it will capture our attention,
we turn to it,
be the noise an action,
words, gesture or occurrence,
we’ll be ready with our lenses.
We’ll capture the moments everyone misses and then remind you,
this is what it feels like to be a human in his shoes,
this is how much it hurts to be in her shoes,
this is where you stand in their shoes,
this is why you can’t look up in those shoes,
and we’ll paint for you,
without photoshop,
without a film roll,
the subtleties of all that you missed,
and all that you should in future aspire to see.
We’ll make sure you never miss out.
Because we’re poets,
we take snap shots of humanity,
and present it in the dark room of life,
so that the light can penetrate through to your own darkened souls.
So you feel, touch, hear and embrace everyone.
I’m not a poet because I string words together.
I’m a poet because I feel everyone together.
I feel the young boy determined to prove his father wrong,
and prove him right at the same time.

I’m the young girl aspiring to be beautiful in her mothers eyes,
but reject her mothers society burdened shoulders of image.

I’m the homosexual man finding it hard to look his father in the eye and tell him he loves him, not in that way,
but yet in that way,
no matter what he says,
it still comes out gay.
I’m the struggling mother,
who can’t look her husband in the eye
and tell him she needs to be left alone,
for a day or a year,
and hopes he’ll still be here,
when she recharges.
I’m the father who takes money from his wallet,
to give it to the destitute,
even when his children need shoes.
I’m the old man who sits on a bus,
and reflects at his lost agility,
his inability,
his fragility,
immobility,
lack of virility and smiles,
at the young man before him with all his alpha,
with all his energy radiating through glowing skin,
tight chested,
gym invested,
bravado infested,
eyes unrested,
journey quested.
I’m the beggar arm outstretched,
waiting for my fetch,
rain soaked clothes stench,
trepid of a mugging,
with one fist clenched.

I’m the whore at midnight,
whom for the they created this street light,
the sore of societies sight,
who wont go out,
without a fight.
I’m all that and more,
I’m the penman of folklore,
I’ll even the score,
Break the law,
Just to show you a snapshot,
Of what makes your soul soar,
Still, distilled and raw.
-W.E.

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