POEMS, SONGS AND POETIC GIFS

​Poem of Silence (for no one dances at the quote mark ball) —except this cultural eunuch, who birthed the ball between blades and laughter
Author: DBara Arruda

Prelude

Shhhhhhhhhhh…
— the sound of ink drying on the page before the word is born

Epilogue

If I were to speak — then speak!
But the voice is a blunt blade, which shapes
a cultural eunuch and the tongue, a broken bone.
I feel I was already born cursed,
with a tongue branded by iron—
"yes boy, you shut up..."
It’s just the “inheritance of the whip.”

Wait, I’d rather scream to see if I purge
the disappointment
of not understanding those who don’t
understand
that the time between each millisecond
is a desert of air with no echo, a ball of
empty quotation marks —
memories of a childhood where the
belly doesn’t growl, it grumbles —
and I, dark-skinned body with no Aryan privilege
dance while they erase my lament
from the wall of white prayers.

A vacuum in the ink that writes
the thought —
and the page, a tomb of
bitten letters.

The problem is explaining to the hasty,
those who trip over the hours without
understanding
that perfection is flawed,
like a leaky hourglass
or a torn notebook full of verses.
(and a poetic soul forcibly converted
in the name of sick beliefs)

— and then comes the question:
have you never disappointed someone,
or was it disappointment that bit you
first?
Ah, divine martyrdom of disillusionment!

Or just a tooth falling on the floor of memory?
— I hit you today so you become a man tomorrow.
Tomorrow? Tomorrow your correction has already gotten lost
between lust and tears of someone who out of
necessity lay with another abuser.
— these aren’t bruises, son,
they’re tattoos of life.
he’ll change…

Well then, I’m already certified by others’ hatred…
my birth certificate
bears the handwriting of rage—
while yours,
signed in gold,
says “born to dance.”

I’m already hollow at the break of day
that precedes the night of my life.
“But what night is this, if not a room
without light
where words hide under
the bed?”

And if I were to do what mouths yearn for
— open them like rotten fruit to
count the seeds —
and truth is, I already did,
the one who didn’t notice
was me. And you.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
— the scream that doesn't fit in the mouth
and rips through the sky of the page
— There, I screamed.
(...and the ball is mine, even if they dance atop my
blood
as if it were cheap ink.)