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Assuming Roles
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Assuming Roles |
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D.Lester Young Senior Member
since 2001-12-08
Posts 1219Austin, Tx |
Disclaimer of “Assuming Roles”: This poetic piece does role models as a way of expressing the tragedy that affect others from abuse. I have never condoned any form of abuse on anyone. This is about someone who has had to endure abuse and I try to comfort her while she sees me in these vulgar roles. This piece, which was not distributed at work but may have entered the workplace and offending some at those there who seen it vulgar, as maybe they should, for it should have never happened but if we have closed eyes to wrong, how can we correct it by not bringing it light, so others will never attempt to abuse another. If you are easily offended please do not continue and if you are not willing to read the whole poem, please do not. Remember if in a play, the people who act out the part can be so realistic, that you hate them. If you must hate me, do in the fact that it even happened in real life. Since this piece has seen fit for my company to ban me from any form of poetry on company grounds. That I can not distribute or have anything to do on poetry on company time, do not under any circumstance bring any of my writings to any workplace for fear someone will not under stand it. Especially do not bring it or even send it to my workplace, for I will be terminated. I even fear of having any poetry in my vehicle that it will be grounds for dismissal, so I will park on state right a ways unless sure my interior is save. I will be evaluated by my company on a mandated basis or by job will be terminated. I will try to explain what a poet and artist is about, which might be a hard struggle, unless I ask what there job is about. Asking if they can share it with others unafraid of retribution without mentioning real names. Someone may paint something ugly and shameful but if it has hidden motivations in which the beauty flourishes, then is it not art. Write from the heart and do not let others detour you. I again apologize for the pain in this poem and the discomfort it brings. I met you for the first time tonight. As memories faded, in how I had raped you, as a child, instantly becoming a pedophile. In the next series of words of comforting you, I found out that I was your father, who had abused you. Soon I was the face of a lost lover, who used you to only fade away into the bruises, still felt so strong in the sting of memories never forgotten. I turned into someone seeking comfort long enough to give compassion, as the words stung so hard the hurt cried, that I barely survived. So the beers drowned me. As your words devoured my insides, burying me in your curiosity. For soon, I became your stalker, who had spied on you, gaining a lifetime of knowledge within a few minutes, from little secret writings recording intimate details in verse before me. You accused me of spying because these images could surely not have come from me. So these spread out thoughts, incriminate my observations that where blind to your existence. Writing in hieroglyphics, you try to express your inner self, in the puzzle of who you are, with one in ten words understood, yet to gain comfort within them, in scratched lines of miscues. I said you where beautiful, and you said. I had to buy you a drink. So in one sip, you became this beautiful creation, and in the next was the denial. In see saw conversation, my words cast doubts, for my words were lies that wanted you. Then they became real from within, fearing I would find out the truth. You stated, I was highly intelligent, that women loved men like that, especially if they were older. That I was lonely, seeking a ghost, for now the pressure was on me, as you hit the bull’s eye. As I became older in your vision, becoming this phantom great lover, seeking to be understood, from within a woman’s eyes. Saying to me suddenly, that some lucky lady will bless my inner void, as my mind dreamed in momentary agreement. And in turns that only women can make, we were off on a new tangent, on how weird I was, that it was spooky that I could try to understand. Soon your first children were going to be twins, then their was a little boy, five minutes later they were born, in how lucky you were to have a family. So my words are starting to fade here, as the bar starts to close. Your poetic husband, who having just met, recites a poem about a garden with a fence around it. And I in turn recite my own. In a garden so special, the fence opens up into such possibilities, that it will never contain you. You will create new boundaries. So the door closes behind me. Leaving me wandering, swaying side to side, as to what had just happened. In role paying a monster, I had become, yet from the soul searching, it brought me beautiful confusion in how special I was in assuming roles. Thought: In every role my mind plays, in creating beautiful gardens with thorns in them, I bleed from within hoping for the creation of a perfect red rose in full bloom, to share my loneliness in. Note: The above experience is essentially true, it happened to me in Tuscaloosa on the morning of April 12th, 2003. Bless her, for in her hurt lies a woman who deserves to be understood in the reality of how special she is. D.Lester Young (04/12/03) Tuscaloosa, AL Copyright © D.Lester Young (White Eagle poetry) [This message has been edited by D.Lester Young (04-16-2003 11:12 AM).] |
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