While I was Writing

I don’t know if these words will find

The one’s they were written for

Or that the expression they contain

Will be heard by those they were meant for

Or Even if

The need is greater than the art

I find these times to be of great concern

I sense the breeze is strong for those of duplicity

This is the irony in these tales

And their meanings

Drone bombs fall on my brothers

My sons my daughters my sisters

Blinded by poverty and the air of deprivation

Blinded by machines that show no mercy

Blinded by the men who control their aims

Blind are those who see not this travesty

Foolish am I who thinks we will reach this amnesty

Yet, despite this anger and rage

These lyrics are not bullets

They are not incendiary

Maybe these thoughts are too simple

Their aim a little elementary

Could it be that such emotions

Just don’t reach the parts of us

That will give rise to a force

For change

That will actually deliver

The people of Gaza from their innate disaster

The price of the suffering in Bosnia

And the screams of Ten-year-old Husna in Chechnya

I use to believe

Now I just bleed words

And lyrics for us forgotten misfits

We chase the web for YouTube and a million Tweets

While I was writing this…

Another family’s dreams was just blown to bits 

“While I was Writing” by Cypher 7 A.D

Cypher 7A.D is a Poetry & Spoken Word based enterprise aimed at expressing issues that count, not those that sell..peace.

http://www.cypher7ad.com

The Power of Words

I took the words. I loaded them. Took aim and FIRED! but there was no sound. I cocked back my pen, fixed the jam, took aim again and fired! but again nothing happened.

The words that were once my private passport to another world seemed empty. 
I once commanded the verbs, the nouns, the adjectives, the adverbs like my own private army completely loyal to me and willing to be strategically manipulated at any time - day OR night. 
Able to strike fear into an enemy's heart and nourish the soul in the same poem and all that was needed in the middle...was a full stop.

What I thought flowed from the soul, through the heart, took a right at the brain and exploded from my right arm onto the paper.

I didn't write to topic or to please an examiner and I didnt care who liked it! I wrote for ME and if someone happened to like it then the more the merrier.

The ideas of rhyme, form, pentuplets, sonnets were nice but rather like being told to pick certain sweets at a pick and mix...the final taste just wouldn't be what I really wanted.

The concepts that wordsmiths had struggled to define in rigid formats for millennia came easily to me.

Love wasn't love. 
Love was a demonstration of compassion that held A beauty so unique that only the beholder could perceive it.

Hate wasn't hate. 
Hate was a manifestation of the souls response to its own misgivings - to the moments that felt like a lifetime of torment - to everything wrong in the world.

I was one. Heart, body, mind, soul and pen. 
My own musical instrument. 
My loudspeaker. 
My comfort and my real voice. 
The "like"s, "blad"s, "bruv"s and "fam"s of everyday life replaced by words of infinite majesty and terms of blinding greatness all wrapped in a sheet of A4.

And yet here I sit, words on the paper, life displayed in the ink and the death of my poetry seeming evermore fictional.



By
Eddie O'Garro-priddie - poet and part of the Words Apart collective!