Shackled to Oppression

Fri, 10/16/2015 - 17:39 -- m.n.i.w

Picture a dimmed lit light fixture.
Smear blood on the canvas to paint a picture.
Blend pain and a smile until it's a perfect mixture.
Somewhere within the mess you may find me.
Bred to reside inside the belly of beast.
Confined to four dark corners,
turned my mind into a beast.
And when unleashed,
I propel poetic words on to loose sheets.
Shackled to my DNA,
but blessed with mahogany as my family tree.
To say the least, I never feel complete
until the next piece is complete.
My name resonates to the sound of the blues.
I convert these sorrowful whims into jewels.
Sparkling gems that can't flare up the pits of my darkest hours.
My fears and insecurities hover over me like towers.
I leave peace for those buried beneath flowers.
My kin, my friends, the many women and men, children,
and the turmoil that I'm buried within.
The haunting ashes of the past lash out
and I laugh just to keep from igniting another path
to eventually mourn in the aftermath.
Destruction led to my mental corruption,
bruised by its consumption of atrocities
until I burn up the surrounding terrain
like volcanic eruptions.
The instilled image of a potential king to never be crowned.
Is what I see in the eyes of my reflection.
I find mirrors in every direction.
This conception stems from the consistency of deception.
Revitalized by daydreams and nightmares.
Refueled by the carcinogenic malice in the air.
It's inevitable for me to live in despair.
Now stir that toxic mixture
until it resembles an elixir of purity.
Take a sip and see if you can taste the agony without obscurity.
Let it travel through your bloodstream
and seep through your pores.
And see if it opens up the doors
to an enlightenment of yours.
Lace up a pair of my shoes
and follow the footsteps of my soul's mutiny.
The overwhelming abundance of scrutiny,
then maybe you will see.
Who I am and what it means to be me.
Years after abolishment,
still shackled and praying to be free.

This poem is about: 
Me

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