Shaquille Valenti Jones - "Syre"

Today's poems come from Shaquille Jones. This Thursday at 7PM will be the poetry reading at Rozz Tox! Enjoy.

syre                                                               



under the illusion my heart
is beating in my chest.
confused by contusions
conducting bass below my breast.
i guess my left ventricle is
performing sonnets under stress.

looking out into a world with morals
i clearly struggle to assess.
unimpressed at the headlines of
another mass murder in the press.
the news makes me depressed

but venting won't clean the mess -

LA's wearing autumn trends
with blood that blends into her dress.

60 random people
never coming home to their address.
i'm sure with love for many more
they can no longer express.
what defect in his moral code,
triggered him to just unload?
bullet holes stole random souls -

i bleed with those he laid to rest.
writing empathetic thoughts,
wishing i could've been there.
i'd skin that man alive,
peeling slower than a pear.
surgical incisions removing
the scalp, but not the hair.
maybe then i'll see the answer
to the question, "did he care?

once in a lifetime, events like these used to be rare.
seems like someone,

somewhere,

has mastered melancholic prayer.
chronic blues throughout the news

- tones my ears refuse to bear.
my eyes can't see a key to peace,

god will you please implant a new pair.

the tears in mine are trapped behind

barren tides and rivers dried.
i'm sure in time i'll find the rhyme
that hears my cry and answers why.

in peace of mind the answer lies.
alone,
confined -
assigned a cell by souls divine.

it hides behind the graves i mined,

way outside by the countryside -

all sixty labelled occupied,

for reasons i can't justify.

now that the issue's greatly magnified,
we all speak out, (although not qualified)

because the deaths just seem to multiply
and we need laws to be modified.

change came, with trumps reign,
as racial hate was amplified.
now if a terrorist is white,

his skin colour's never specified,
but yellow, purple, green or black,
means his colour's only emphasized.
using words that don't describe,
the way he should be recognized,
means he may as well be glorified -
blue tick on twitter verified.

60 fucking people died.

are guns too hard to set aside,
when it comes to saving countless lives?
or is it pride that makes us blind?

reflected truth is crucified,
when gazed upon with eyes shut wide.
families cried, so i got high

and now i’m burning past unsatisfied.

i need a life more simplified.
a world with hatred purified.
a world where colour's don't define

the binds by which we're classified.
a world where love's our only guide,

where abundant peace and joy reside.

no boundaries laid to cause divide
and a human race that's unified.

eerily, i see my dreams of life and

death and how they coincide,

drawn beside pink cirrus clouds
and all of their lush silver lines.

a swan-song, sung in tune
is gifting me a golden sign.

with open eyes, i realise,

my stars have always been aligned

but for now it's hard to step outside,

without contemplating suicide.