Rude Boy Reality

Posted by on Dec 10, 2011 in Hindsight, Poems | 0 comments

Rude Boy Reality by Stephen A. Dantes With a Biggy Smalls literary philosophy And a Tupac Shakur immortal imagery Rude Boy life is a harsh reality An enumeration of the living in a colour-clad prophecy   Where guns talk more than tongues of dope Sniffed blood instead of mounds of coke That space where the first matters more than the last breath A place that time has ceased and love is ruled by death   Manhood and respect is bled from the gun Liquated valour injected by comforting needles But hid from the sun Hid at times where the...

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War: losing my senses

Posted by on Dec 9, 2011 in Hindsight, Poems | 0 comments

WAR (losing my senses) by Stephen A. Dantes     SIGHT I see you through eyes that project my heart’s unspoken words And speak silence to listening ears and sight into blind thoughts Free flowing like birds To some; beauty unravelled Quintessence unprecedented Ugliness hidden The perfume of your body, your hair, your hand Is unmistakable for I know you   TOUCH The touch of your lips can be distinguished from a million kisses The kiss of death, the sting of hate, mistaken fate Then grievous wishes Ephemeral pleasures stain your...

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Rather Hate You Than Love You

Posted by on Dec 9, 2011 in Hindsight, Poems | 0 comments

Rather Hate You Than Love You by Stephen A. Dantes   I would rather hate you than love you Because there are some things that I can’t go through I would rather hate you than love you Because I know I can’t stand it if you turn up not being you   I would rather hate you than love you Instead of spending days and nights crying over you I would rather hate you than love you Instead of wondering where you are and what you do   I would rather hate you than love you Instead of thinking if you feel the same about me as I about...

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The Man in the Mirror

Posted by on Dec 9, 2011 in Hindsight, Poems | 0 comments

 The Man in the Mirror: by Stephen A. Dantes   Yes, That bastard that I see A man in the mirror who looks like me Who is he?   My eyes show me a picture of a man A figure with hands like mine And acts finicky Intertwined with time and poise An image enshrined in my soul as I gaze upon a visage that’s marred   A reflection of myself I presume Or should I assume anything at all Can this just be a poster on a glass wall? Is this really me?   That face that I see, is it truly real? I feel that this isn’t me looking...

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