Honesty (Freeform poem)

 Drenched in a haze of complete hopelessness creating a world before my eyes.

As each word fixates me, calmly elevates me past burdens in my mind.

I'm talking about easy living.

Where the green comes from the darkest corners of our dreams.

Ones where we're rich in the glow of his story, but time brings no mercy to those who don't make a choice, unable to hear. 

the voices of their successors and dreamers calling out with prayers I ask if there is a reason for it all.

But I need to be honest.

I know you're a person

You know. that I'm one too.

But as people, oftentimes. we are selfish.

I need to. be honest.

The time on this earth isn't what it used to be.

Connections with our ancestors have become thinner,  so. thin. We don't have what we once had.

What. we once craved as a people.

Our education,  our security, our pride,  our rights.

I need to be honest 

In memory of a man...

 Last post I shared a video,  this time I decided to share to images

Poem: Strong Legs

Strong Legs(VISUAL POEM)

BY. ANTONIO DOUGLAS

 Strong Legs

 Friends of the family.

Old drinking buddies.

A parent. Son and a wife.

Was true. Next to a hot cup of tea, I poured my soup. 

Food always tastes better with the company.

No home to return to.

Burning down their own. house

At sunrise, the rooster refuses to crow.

Standing up upright.

Staying busy as bees for nearly three days.

So impatient.

Ready?

One.

Two. 

Three.

Every time.

How wonderful you are!

Only time will on be as it is.

Only as it is.

It is what it is.

Poem: HOLDING OUT FOR YOU

 HOLDING OUT FOR YOU

BY Antonio Douglas

I’m holding my hand out to you. 

Foolish as I once again put myself on the line.

Constantly ready for the sorrow, the disappointment.

It’s the fear of what will become of myself if I can’t receive your touch.

I’m holding my hand out to you. Bloody and dripping with regret for not committing to you sooner. 

Now, my arms have grown heavy and tired. The joints and bones pop and crackle with every finger stretching toward you because they know as I do that they are reaching in the direction of perfection. 

It’s me! I’m screaming it’s me!

Screaming at the top of my lungs.

Tears fill up the eyes with hope.

I’m holding my hand out to you.

Won’t you take it?

Won’t you look upon my face?

This face, sweating, waiting for you to decide.

I’m somehow keeping hope alive.

Still, breathing and I blow air into its cancer-dark lungs.

‘Keeping it in stable condition as if it was living inside me.

Standing right there where I would always claim I would be.

My feet growing numb and the tip of my toes, 

Knees once used to keep these legs of mine strong now buckle under the weight of anticipation.

Making one last stand for you

I’m holding.

Always to you. Never to him, nor her. Nor them.

No.

I’m holding my hand out only to you.

Poem: Optimist

Optimist By Antonio Douglas Leo waited patiently. Nurses rushed by. Sweating begins. Clock hand ticks Smart phone rings. Leo scans. Heart beats faster. Phone call ignored. Sweating begins again. “God”, He whispered. Nerves fried. Panic begins. Leo worried more. Cries scream out. Leo stands quickly. He begins pacing. Heart drops. Doctor enters cheerfully. Relief settles in. Breathing becomes easy. Leo laughs. Baby cries continue. Leo smiles warmly Nurse opens doors. Tears fall. Arms extended. Tiny fingers reach. Eyes barely open. “Hi”, he said. Cries suddenly stop. Leo starts swaying “Love”, He sang. Eyes start closing. Tiny lips yawn. Leo smiles again. “I love You”

As a part of my new year, Digital spring cleaning. Old writings found in cleaning up my files

Every time I try to sit down to write, I have doubts, doubt coming from inside me. I feel lost now that I left my comfy job at the airport cleaning planes. This is what I traded my independency for. Maybe I SHOULD start from a better point before this. It starts as often stories of mine do, with a boy, (No one I had thank you) Though not from lack of trying when I first met him mind you. I came in contact with him years ago.... on a bus. It's crazy where you met life long friends isn't it? The world of today gives people chances to connect and reconnect with each other virtually and it begs the question......What if life was meant to grow past a person. Even if that person is so important to you that they blindly treat you like family. And for most of us, It's a path of our choosing has it own plans, What is the best story you have ever seen presented in game form? One of the best stories I've seen presented in game form is the Kingdom Hearts Series, which is played on many game console platforms. The plot of the story interacts with different levels for the main character to explore and over come from settings established in popular Disney films. The Japanese role-playing game (JRPG) dive in to themes of good verses evil in and the inner conflict of a person's heart between light and darkness. I think the game worked for so many because it allowed gamers to be emerged in the world of fantasy while overcoming several challenges. This game was presented by several mediums. No sign of life By Antonio Douglas It wasn’t the spring breeze brushing pass the freshly light blue painted window sill or the sun peaking over the velvet curtains hanging in Jason’s room that shook him out of bed nor WRFM radio station playing from the smaller bedroom down the hall which barely crept beneath his door as the static came in and out. Missing footsteps out his room shuffling through the hallways felt strange to him as calmness. “Dad?” The pale bright walls through out the third story Florida Apartment gave nothing back as his voice carried pass Dick van Dyke reruns on TV Land station, Pass the cars trafficking mahongohony painted fence guarding 1328 Foster Avenue from the outside world and the front door left open. It was a quiet neighborhood after all and when Jason looked over at his alarm clock, it was only three in the afternoon. Twightlight zone had just airing and Rick wasn’t repeating his habit of haunting the apartment in confusion until he heard his son’s call. “ Dad, come on, say something.” A heart thumbing against his rib cage grew faster every passing moment. Damn dad, where the hell are- Nikes shoes mark and gave a screech the floors as he froze at the sight of the front door. “No! No! No! Dad! Where did you-”? His eyes fell away from the door into the hall. Rick had ventured out before but never without knocking on Jason’s door to say he was driving down to see his parents in Georgia who’d been dead for forty years. The living room had no signed that life had been there.

Betrayal

August 28 2014 My last post, I talked about the situation that took place in a circle of friends I'd been a part of within about six years. We played the Yugioh trading card game and enjoyed the times together. I try to remain general with my description of my friends and their names. That way, In case of my death, it won't look like I'm leaving behind a hit list after my passing. I've learned a lot of things in being an adult. I want to help people and I've grown accustom to what all comes with that. This world is cold, and even the bravest and smartest needs someone who can relate to them. I never felt that Jakiya Boykin related to me. Partly because she was a sixteen-year-old girl from another state who stayed with her grandma twelve houses down from my family and me. I just felt she was someone would could teach me about hanging in the streets of Atlanta. Something my older sister Angel longed to be apart of for so long. I am sure she just loved the same thing Jakiya loved. The moment right before you walk up to your friends, far away from your parents, free from talks of responsibility. A world were teens were sneaking on Marta for the first time, smoking a cigarette in front of people at the bus stop, and praying to God that your parents or anyone who knew you were suppose to be in school see you on the corner of Peachtree Street. Sometimes I think young people choose to be homeless just to keep this freedom alive. Maybe that why she did it in the end. Betrayed me.

Coffee Shop Poem/ Purpose statement/ Remember

Fresh brewed coffee; I close my eyes and take the aroma in slowly filling my lungs. Smooth indie music plays and I’m looking around the café, reading the faces of readers who read their books. Students who type on laptops and coffee beans grounded in a blender reminding everyone that the sale carry on, even now. At five o’clock in the evening downtown. Eighty-one degrees outside fresh after a week of autumn. The entire room, talks low, speaks easy, and doesn’t draw too much attention. How does having purpose affect the quality of your life? What happens when you do not have purpose in your life? The quality of life is unmesureable. The connections people make with each other are needed to increase our over all understanding of being alive. To have purpose, one often looks to their pretscers who accomplish all their goals and in that inspiration, purpose is born. A boy born into a family of farmers would more likely find his purpose in securing his survival by relying skills he gathered while being raised in that environment? Everything we do is working toward a purpose. Whether it’s finical stability, spiritual awareness, physical perfection, social acceptance. What do you rememeber? I sat outside aside by a lake down hill from and closed my eyes. First, I heard cars behind me in the distance driving. The tires trampling over a speed bump had distracted me at first from focusing all my attention to water flowing down stream pushing under the bridge with the speed bump. Planes passing overhead were loud at first but then faded in the distance. Woodpeckers were tapping across the lake almost the entire time I sat there. There had to be at least four or five. The only thing that overpowered the sound of rabid tapping was a more airplane blasting my hearing at first but then calmly fading away. I could almost tell the difference between each aircraft by the time it would take to fade. There was a splash in the water suddenly, which caught my attention. It sounded like someone might have thrown something but I didn’t hear any voices near me. I listened harder but still heard nothing that sound like footsteps in the grass. After doing this for about a minute, I listened to the wind blow pass. The sound was really coming from the trees above ruffling against each other.

As a part of my new year, Digital spring cleaning. Old writings found in cleaning up my files

Dragon Con Poem written November 1st 2015 They decided to leave together. The nurse and the walking egg. The party wasn't dying down as Villains made their way from bus stops. Angels clutches their wings as autumn winds sweep pass. Witches and Amazons danced with Spartans and Ghostbusters to a track by The Roots and Dilla! They call it Plug two. The celebration’s climax had just begun. Jack O Lanterns glowing . Liquor overflowing, feet stomping as she danced. The zombie themed nurse from South Georgia laughed out loud. Her cup was empty. Exhausted from being full. Tonight…. She was the undead. To the night crawling X-men cosplayers….she was a dancing Goddess.. The front door opens to a white shell well over five feet tall. It wore tennis shoes and had no room to walk through the crowd. It scrabbled passed the DJ Booth. It posted near the John. It cracked some poor bastard who had turned to him and thought he was golf ball. So they decided to leave together. After glimpses across the jubilation. After casual word exchange. Before he accidentally stepped on her left foot. Before the "Who came first dilemma involving a chicken" joke was uttered. She laughed at him and smiled. "Do you want to go so where?" "Where?" "Some where quiet." A Solider singing Hendrix. Karaoke fun. "All Along the Watchtower" As Storm troopers and vampires join in drunken. As the undead and poultry conversed into the next hour. But she wanted to leave. She wanted to. The egg didn't seem to mind.

As a part of my new year, Digital spring cleaning. Old writings found in cleaning up my files

October 3rd 2014(Day this was written) I’m starting to think the only time I can focus any more is away from my family. This thinking doesn’t have a simple explanation to it. In fact it comes of as a prideful method to my work as a writer. My father this morning got up and cursed out some poor city slicker on the phone. This of course wakes me to my mother laughing at him in his rage, which I’ m sure she has developed as a defense mechanism to counter his temper tantrums. Nothing gets out of hand but he does march up and down the hall, nick picking at every issue. Why do we as people tolerate things like this… its because we love him. My life is totally about love for my family and respect for them. Any thing that I have established about myself is owed to them. My state of mind, my broken traumatic childhood which taught me over time about life and it’s lets down, the kindness words you can say, and the meanness phrase you can put out there. This is my family, the ones I love. But damn it! I can’t focus. My mother sits around and fumes about my father and his behavior. My nephew is constantly up to any 12 years olds sneaky crap he can get way, and my father yells. Don’t get me wrong; He loves his life there in the country. He always say he rather be away from where people could find him easily. I guess that where I going with this move. Away from the studio apartment many have come to know as my Bachelor’s Pad. I didn’t really myself getting anything done there when it came to staying in that apartment when it came to writing and I feel the same way at my mom’s house. It dawned on me, I used to feel like the loneliness and lack of people in my house through me off focus, but know I see its because my thinking is different when I comfortable. Laying on the couch, sitting down stairs, lying in the guest room all make me too comfortable and I loses my muse of adventure for my writing. I no longer hold the advantage of my imagination and I don’t feel like writing. Maybe in the blog at times, but I never just sat down and really got any school work, personal projects, or free time poems. I haven’t even had my finger fly over my keyboard in two days and I realize…. I not writing…. I should be writing…. but I’m not. These are the times when I am really, really feel crazy about being in school. I even considered moving back home for a moment before I decided to crash with my co-worker at his mother’s house. I need to feel uneasy in order to write. I doubt if that makes sense. It’s like sometimes I need to be under pressure or running out of time. -AD