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Some Legs Are More Equal Than Others

“The poem  started off as giving a voice to the voiceless but then evolved into exploring what it’s like to be wanted and the difference in how generations see objects and sentimental gifts. Would this sentimental item feel good about being passed down and would it be loved as much as it was?”

For Maureen

For you, I’m a sentiment. Kept as a reminder  that we don’t always get what we want. That’s how lives are. A part of everyone’s story. A part you would never get rid of.

For her, I was never what she wanted but always loved. Stretched beyond what I was capable of to try and fit her dreams. Left; Broken. Right; Always there for her as we tested how much happiness we could steal from a day.

For them, I’m inanimate. Left; Handicapped by years their attention span  can’t compute. Unable to fully grasp and comprehend the imagination of their predecessors.

Will they appreciate me? Will my story last for them and still carry the love she gave me as each word is told? Will they understand? I didn’t need technology to make me special or be part of a collection that needed to be completed.

Will they value me? Save a space on shelves where I can rest. Right; Next to other hand-me-downs from previous generations and their own trinkets to pass on to the next. Have a rehearsed backstory for why I’m on display full with spaces to laugh as others have in the past.

Will they love me? I may be broken but I am Right; Here. Left; For them.

By Tyrone Lewis

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Photograph

I wish I could take Photos with my eyes Save images on my memory Card I call a brain My eyes posses more megapixels than Any camera will ever be able to have I’ll capture every moment The way it deserves to look With my eye lenses I can’t help but Always capture your good side They’ll be natural Each photo as I see things No posing No blurred background No red eyes I wish I could take Photos with my eyes So I could show you How beautiful you look ___________________________________________________________________________________ You don’t think it do you? How can you possibly not think it? Here, borrow my eyes and Then look at yourself Look in the mirror and tell me How you don’t look beautiful You still don’t see it? Well maybe I should Try to replicate your beauty through words Turn letters and syllables into art Which would turn even the Mona Lisa Green with envy Or should I get the Angels to leave their sanctuary of heaven To lend me their voice So I can mould it with heavenly tunes And sing out your beauty Should I make a wish One wish that I could take photos with my eyes So I can show you How beautiful you look To me 

(By Tyrone Lewis)

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I remember taking the knife from my mum

I remember taking the knife from my mum stopping her from ending my dad’s life. They’d just finished putting the 15th candle on my birthday cake. Now, shouting was bombarding my ears. Screams destroying each of my ear drums till I could no longer distinguish the words my parents through out of their mouths. I was too young to be their role model but with months of acting under my belt I tried to play the part. Tears formed behind my eyes but I did not cry as I watched their mouths form childish cusses and wound each other. I left the viciousness of the kitchen. Sat in my room and finally let my tears fall. I lay in the foetal position trying to remember a time when my mother’s first language wasn’t swearing. I unwrapped my presents. Read the card that came with it. “Happy Birthday Son. Love Mum and Dad”.

(By Tyrone Lewis)

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Illuminate

Pay no attention to the men who hide behind printed words suffocating victims with texts they twist out of context force feeding ignorant messages down simple minded throats. Or those who fire bullets from keyboard guns with no care for who’s hit in the crossfire as suicidal teens fall to hate tainted shrapnel.

Modeled media messages marketing to the masses that we are all the same take time to appreciate the differences in us. Understand that love is not bound by genders. Labels are not currency we need to sell to society in order to figure out what we’re worth. We’re not worthless if our eyes see past gender and we fall for who we want.

Stay clear of those who turn religious passages into nooses and will hang you with their prejudice because your views don’t coincide with theirs. Don’t look down on those who believe in more and hold faith important in their lives and don’t feel superior if your beliefs give you a sense of purpose compared those questioning their views.

With confusion and corruption corroding our identities subliminal messages controlling us conspiring against us

Please. Allow us to illuminate your mind.

By Tyrone Lewis

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Happy Birthday

I remember taking the knife from my mum stopping her from ending my dad’s life. They’d just finished putting the 15th candle on my birthday cake. Now, shouting was bombarding my ears. Screams destroying each of my ear drums till I could no longer distinguish the words my parents through out of their mouths. I was too young to be their role model but with months of acting under my belt I tried to play the part. Tears formed behind my eyes but I did not cry as I watched their mouths form childish cusses and wound each other. I left the viciousness of the kitchen. Sat in my room and finally let my tears fall. I lay in the foetal position trying to remember a time when my mother’s first language wasn’t swearing. I unwrapped my presents. Read the card that came with it. “Happy Birthday Son. Love Mum and Dad”.

(By Tyrone Lewis)

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Mr Boom Box

Mr boom box. I heard him speak before, His tongue tattooed in different colours. Syllables of saxophones Vowels of violins Words of wood chimes His voice moved me. Mr boom box. Twenty years of music queue up Waiting for the moment They can be set free. One hit wonders on the same level As platinum singers And novelty songs. Number ones ready to be played With songs that never made the charts, Songs virgin to ears That haven’t experienced the underground. Mr Boom Box. Your voice has caressed my estate before. It didn’t fix the cracks in the pavement Or wipe the blood from The walls but Your voice repaired the damage Caused by the violence. Gang wars have now been dissolved into Emcee battles. Where pride takes the place of your life. Where the loser  Doesn’t lose blood anymore. Mr boom box. You spoke to me once. Your voice called my name And now I’m answering back.

(By Tyrone Lewis)

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Untitled [Work In Progress]

Matt lives in his own mind. Kept company by his imagination He lives in ideas. Surrounded by the impossible and what he sees as unattainable.

In one world he’s with Kelly. He changes her natural blonde hair To brown. Her lisp disappears And most importantly, She speaks to him.

In another world he’s lost 13 years. He’s now 5 and Sits by his father’s feet Being forced to listen to Stories he can’t comprehend. Here, He doesn’t know that his father only has a year left. And that soon he’ll grow to appreciate these words And miss falling asleep to them.

In the real world, He’s alone. 

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Some words between a father and his child

He’d tell me that he loves me he’s sorry for missing my teenage years and aims to make up for them. He’ll take me to a football game. It may not be his favourite sport but he’d be willing to sit there and watch it because he’d be sitting with me. We’d go Pizza hut afterwards. He’ll claim that he doesn’t mind paying this much though I can see the shock on his face when the bill comes. I’ll chose the radio station in his car while he tries to plan a way back to my house. He’ll ask me for directions but i’ll just reply “I don’t know, i normally take the bus”. The half hour journey back will take us an hour. This time he’ll mean it when he says he’ll call and he actually does want to see me soon. I’ll say i love him with feelings rather than just  following conventions. He’ll say it back and i’ll know it won’t be the last time he says it.

(by Tyrone Lewis)

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A Poem.

If you stare at a blank piece of paper for 3 hours and 42 minutes

despite what mental powers you may be capable of

words won't suddenly burn themselves onto the page.

If you stare at a blank piece of paper for 3 hours and 42 minutes

with a pen in your hand

the lid resting on one end

leaving the tip to breathe air

it'll start calling out to kiss the page.

I can't speak for what happens if you stare any longer.

I don't know if words take 4 hours before they bring themselves to the page

on their own accord

rather than being forced out by a pen.

I also know not of what a pen will do if you ignore its call

and leave it so close to a blank page for 4 hours

but 3 hours and 45 minutes after opening my notebook

I've got a poem written in it.

By Tyrone Lewis

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The Certainty Of Numbers

It’s not the numbers you dislike—  the 3s or 5s or 7s—but the way  the answers leave no room for you, the way 4 plus 2 is always 6  never 9 or 10 or Florida,  the way 3 divided by 1  is never an essay about spelunking  or poached salmon, which is why  you never seemed to get the answer right  when the Algebra teacher asked,  If a man floating down a river in a canoe  has traveled three miles of a twelve mile canyon in five minutes, how long will it take him  to complete the race? Which of course depends  on if the wind resistance is 13 miles an hour  and he’s traveling upstream  against a 2 mile an hour current  and his arms are tired and he’s thinking  about the first time he ever saw Florida,  which was in the seventh grade  right after his parents’ divorce  and he felt overshadowed  by the palm trees, neon sun visors,  and cheap postcards swimming  with alligators. Nothing is ever simple,  except for the way the 3 looks like two shells  washed up on last night’s shore,  but then sometimes it looks like a bird gently crushed on its side. And the 1—once so certain  you could lean up against it  like a gray fence post—has grown weary,  fascinated by the perpetual  itch of its own body.  Even the Algebra teacher waving his formulas like baseball bats,  pauses occasionally when he tells you  that a 9 and a 2 are traveling in a canoe  on a river in a canyon. How long  will it take them to complete their journey?  That is if they don’t lose their oars  and panic and strike the rocks,  shattering the canoe. Nothing is ever certain. We had no plan, the numbers would tell us,  at the moment of our deaths.

  (By Bruce Snider)

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Skin Deep

Her only redeeming factor is her looks

and she kills them with

toxins she so freely applies to her face

suffocating the youth she once

used to master.

She still shows off the curves placed

perfectly on her body which

force eyes to follow her every step

but now barely tries to cover them.

She’s not hard to mentally undress.

With her lack of clothes

taking them off is

simple.

Skin tight leggings hanging onto

near perfect hips

wait to be peeled off by

X-rated thoughts.

Despite being unable to directly see

what lies under there her

underwear is clearly covered in flowers.

Their pattern always seems to

press itself on the near see through fabric

she’s got trying to cover

the greatest gift

her mother ever gave her.

Purple frills thrill the eyes of guys who

love watching her walk away while

tight tops try to cover

her prized possessions but

always seem to fail

from keeping them out of

teenage dreams belonging to

the minds of those too afraid

to try and bring these

adolescent fantasies into reality.

Jealous of the exposure her pants get

her bra tries to steal the spotlight

showing itself under the cover of her

faded white t-shirt.

The straps are noticeable first

literally showing everyone the

green light to see

the best part of her chest.

Beauty is only skin deep and that line is

etched onto her stomach.

I noticed the words scratched into her flesh

when she was too poor to buy a full t-shirt so

only got one that barely covered her belly button.

It seemed to be a rough month for her financially

as skirts could never cover her thighs

and tights took the place of

trousers as they must have been

out of her price range.

She used to cry.

When her make-up didn’t cover her emotions

and she had

friends ready to help piece her together

just in case she

fell apart.

We used to talk.

If we were too far away to test

decibels and see how well the other

picked them up as we described

the humdrum of our days

we’d instead see how well fingers could communicate thoughts.

I used to respect her.

She still held innocence

and could spin stories I thought pessimistic

and show me them for their

raw natural optimism.

Now her name’s a disease infecting conversations.

Plaguing tongues with

antics she didn’t even try to keep private.

Ears dine on stories of

how her lips crave the affection of others.

And she’s only filled in on what she did this weekend

thanks to the pass-the-parcel rumours.

In a night, she forgot last year.

Drank away summers she spent with her

best friend

and erased her old crush.

If you ask her now

she wouldn’t be able to tell you his last name

but 48 hours ago

they were dancing in moonlight forming

intoxicated shapes

of silhouette’s that joined at the lips.

Hung over hands wake the next day

to realise

she’s only wearing his t-shirt.

Head aching from last night rises from an unfamiliar pillow

and her left eye is to first to notice

her underwear mixed at the foot of a foreign sofa

wrapped up in his.

That night,

she tests what she can taste more

mouths or cocktails

and when it’s a tie

she settles down at the back of the bar with

two glasses in her hand and

a guy on each side of her.

She’ll leave with her girls but

would have left 6 guys her

11 digit dignity.

Her only redeeming factor is her looks and

she could be beautiful

but her personality taints her looks.

Beauty is only skin deep

and she embodies that phrase.

By Tyrone Lewis

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Me performing my poem "Dance Routine" at The Roundhouse in London.

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Me Performing "I'm A Bad Poet" at the London Roundhouse.

This was part of the Roundhouse Summer Slam, Heat 1. An event I later went on to win.

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Lucille Rouge - Uni Life (Extract)

This was not how it was supposed to unfold. After it started so well this wasn’t what was meant to happen. I did not see myself sitting here, in my room alone  with tears ruining my make up . But here I am, sat up alone on my bed with the sad excuse of my life just laying in pieces around me. I never thought she’d leave me here in my black dress, half torn dress and ripped at the chest now exposing my bra. My feet are wrapped in my now heel-less shoes and covered in what has to now be my own blood thanks to how tight they are and finally my arm is limply carrying what was once my topshop bag.  There’s broken glass lying in a pool of its own wine scented blood on my table, broken bowls carving up the floor staining it with milk and the contents of my wardrobe dressing the floor, the chair, the shower and the toilet. I knew our flatmates described our relationship as “unique” but I didn’t think a fight like this would happen if you can still call what just happened a fight. We’ve had our share of fights in the past but not like this, never like this.

By Tyrone Lewis.