Simply Stephy Sneezy
The Root of All Evil
__________* is(are) the root of all evil
people turned to savages
scavengers off the unable
and this non-action IS action,
it enables.
the ever omnipresent “they”
subconsciously sways public opinion
our thoughts, agendas and expressions
bent to any whim
we are spoon fed diluted information
turned into willing participants
because, general consensus is: purgatory isn’t as bad as hell
if we bide our time long enough
it won’t matter if we were murderer or witness
the temptation we face is gained privilege
our silence is what mars our true selves
those who refuse to speak against injustice will have no soul to sell
by design, the way we are constructed to think
is that our truth is the truth, simply because of what we perceive
but the thing about your truth
is you’re the only one who believes
the actual, factual, non-biased truth is more than what you see
simply because it is not acknowledged, it doesn’t cease to be
crack rocks of ignorance are sold to the masses
and the dope boys are those in power
as we wait, subservient, in purgatory
fast approaches the final hour
to avoid the brimstone and the fire
find the cause in which you seek
all are bound and shackled within their mental
and only the truth will set us free
*insert “root of all evil”
Hello World,
It’s Winfield via Mays Hall a.k.a. The Pit of Despair [and I mean that in the best way possible]. A couple of weeks ago, my friend Chitown invited me and a couple of my Mays Hall brothers to go Speech Club [Toastmasters International] with him at the bordering school. We went. People gave speeches. We clapped. It was cool. Blah, blah, blah. It was so cool in fact that three of us signed up to give speeches for the next club meeting which was two weeks away. (Yesterday, today.)
Originally I had planned on speaking in the defense of marijuana. Those who know me personally, know I always have a paper on weed handy (yes, it’s true). To my displeasure, a woman from Toastmasters called me Sunday afternoon (the day before the speech) saying that it was to be written within the theme of Love and Romance. Now, some might say I have a jaded view on love. I choose to see it more as simply a sensitive perspective. I believe that romance and passion within love is beautiful (I am, after all, a Scorpio), but overly romanticized love is disgusting and inauthentic.
So in accordance with my feelings, this is more or less the speech I gave:
In our society, Love (or more specifically, romantic Love) is perceived to be the ultimate end-all, be-all. It has the power to transform beasts into men, peasants into princes and mistreated maids into classy Cinderella stories. When it comes to love, ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low, ain’t no river wide enough, baby. Since childhood, at the earliest point in time of our socialization into American culture, we are taught to believe that true love can overcome any and all obstacles. And personally, I don’t think there is anything wrong with that. However, along with the notion that love can best any foe, tame any beast and make still all ill will, there is a paramount hypocrisy.
The problem I have with American society’s perception of love is not the enduring strength a man receives when he is fully invested in love, and being in love, and staying in love. Nor is it the enormous power a woman wields when full-contact, no thoughts, no regrets love immerses her for the very first time. The problem I have with the American perspective is how it has manifested itself into a giant painting simply titled “This Is Love.”
Now there is no actual painting entitled “This Is Love,” of which I am actually referring to, but you see it wherever you go. It’s in Hollywood movies, romance novels, the billboards you pass on your way to work, in the music you listen too or if you watch any type of television within two weeks of Valentine’s Day. The problem with this painting is it sets the standards of what people are to emulate. As in, “If that’s what Love looks like, then what the fuck do I have?” Therein lies the ruse.
Everybody is trying to create the same exact painting, when how can love be made to fit neatly into a little box with a bow? How can love be tied in with a bouquet of roses like a miniature card? How can something as complex and tried as love be homogenized so that to not fit within the set mold is seen as cold, or uncaring? It’s true: roses, jewelry and candy can represent, portray and even show the love and affection you might feel towards another person, but they can never replicate actual love. Even the dictionary, the bearer of language, could never truly define anything other than simply the essence of love.
It is a concept so terrible it can make you want to die, cry, break things, call her phone over and over and over and over and over again until it’s 3 o’clock in the morning and she won’t answer the phone but all you want to do is hear her voice on the answering machine, and as the world burns around you, nothing else matters. But love can be wonderful, love can be brilliant, love can inspire, love can be all those things that Lionel Richie sings about. What we all seem to forget is that love between two people is unique as the people themselves, and no two loves look or feel alike.
The point I’m trying drive home is: Shape and develop your own love. Create your own painting, and make it as beautiful as you want, because you can design it look just the way you want, and just the way you don’t. Below is a poem I wrote for a woman whom is very close to me (which I also read at Toastmasters).
This is Winfield saying, “Do the right thing.”
Peace & Blessings to All.
The Right Thing
The alarm clock reads 4:00
Honey is asleep, still,
Snoring me a lullaby,
White noise from the television singing backup
My fingers run up her taut stomach,
Trapezing around her navel,
Combing the light fuzz
Honey heaves short, labored breaths from deep within her chest,
Enveloping me in the moment,
and in her somber luminescence
Scruff from my chin itches her shoulder
As I push nearer, hand on her belly
I pretend to know what burden she holds
Dreams, hopes, love…
His name would be Jeremiah, but we’d call him Jerry
Or Nathanial and then I’d call him Nat
What if her name was Mary Ann?
With her mother’s eyes…
Young yet wise beyond her years
Genuine to a fault
She’d have my look of disdain,
Unable to unclench her eyes
When her heart was full
Of pain, of anger, of sorrow
Coated a warm, bronzed molasses
Honey ambition, chocolate natural ability
She would smell like the coconut oil
That we would rub through her hair
And be able to grin so wide
You’d be able to count every tooth
Then Honey begins to cry,
Asleep, still
Threading a finger through her long, brown hair
I say,
“Honey, it’s okay.”
She turns to face me and moans a requiem with such melancholy,
I almost cry myself
I want to be anything she ever needs
Whispering, I let her know
I love her
But I don’t even know if she hears me or not
Sonnet #1 [For Her]
Like her love was fire, it ignited
And like my soul was straw, it caught flame.
Though man’s natural instinct is to fight it,
My love went to her without question or gain.
How she spoke my name just oh so divine;
Like none before her and none other since.
She was rare as a passing second in time,
Spanning the length of my self, inch by inch.
I lose all strength when her glance and mine cross,
Barely keeping balance, her love my crutch.
Truly, my Helen, a war worthy cause,
A playwright’s dream to ado about much.
No beastie alive, to me, could deter
For all that I am is meant just for her.
Like A Summer Sunrise In Williamstown
The world is quiet.
And darkly dimmed
As ‘Prelude to Sunrise’ crescendos,
Sheep Hill waits, quavering like a flower ready to bloom
Early morning’s mist beads on the cheek
Of every leaf,
Collecting in the cleavage
Trailing down to the tips and swelling,
Teardrops suspended from every lash
And when first light fuses past the horizon,
Placid yellows,
Self-deprecating reds and burnt oranges
Blush
Over my purple mountains majesty,
Foreshadowing the foliage to come
And with the sun,
My heart wistfully rises, bloating
Until my soul aches
Because like I know this place,
This place knows me with a bittersweet fondness,
A chilling warmth,
Like a summer sunrise in Williamstown
Wading in repressed nostalgia,
Some days are worth more than others
I would live to breathe
For my Berkshire beauty queen
If so many of her promises weren’t weaved with duplicity
But nothing ever changes.
And as dawn breaks and the shadows trickle down through the valleys
Flooding across the clearings,
Light filters through the trees,
Cross-hatched all down Cold Springs,
The Village Beautiful takes a deep breath
Savor your chilled warmth
And shiver in devotion
