emotions

Mortality.

cover
 

Mortal Man

Mortality. 

by: Matthew Vaughn

 

11/26/17

Sitting diagonal to a queen two moons past comfort, I try not to breathe too heavy. Afraid I may frighten her into forever, I speak softly, but with bass enough to be felt. I have never met this beauty, but she is fairly familiar with my face. I am told I resemble Her brother, my grandfather. I find this to be truth when a smile awakens to the mountains of Her cheekbones and a whisper is screamed into my spirit, “How are you doing?” I recite a half truth and tell Her I am well, feed Her hand into my own, and watch as Her wisdom dances still. We share a brief kiss of the eyes, mine, drifting above Her brow to the grey coils wrapping towards a crown.

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Tears of another elder cause a chaos in my chest. I witness the pain between two weeping rivers of remember when and a future without. A loss of hope engulfs the hearts of Her lineage, a gain of understanding sweeps them with purpose. Traveling word informs me, she is given the remainder of the week. Directly into the ear of my mother, and to the lip-reading eyes of my grandmother, “I'm ready to go,” is Her calling.

 

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I write this story without a drop of sorrow, not because I am strong, but because I was only awarded with a moment, and, fortunately, a living and mysteriously nostalgic one. Death often attacks without consideration for those outside of its grasp. It usually does not wave goodbye nor express its love one last time. But it is one last time that we get. Whether or not we know it is then is for the moment to reveal itself to passing truths. This year, a year of unexpectedness, my first year at a college and my first year losing a friend from college, a year which my father's mother volunteered mortality and was denied in her effort, a year which my mother's mother shivered at the mere mentioning of such… as we still await her results, I have learned how troubling the acceptance aspect can be. This is, however, a glorious reflection on the light we have casted in whatever amount of perceived time we are here. It is intentional in both the process of mourning we endure, in whatever way that may be, and the clarity and lessons learned following. Although mortality is on its way, we can still live with enough purpose to enjoy and be enjoyed in everlasting life. In the hearts of our homes. In the memory of many spirits. In the love we spread which lasts, without conditions, into eternal.

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Alexandria Austin 9/16/96—9/26/17

Shirley Williams 4/8/37—11/27/17
 
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Matthew Vaughn

Mortality.

Student + Spirit + Poet + Tree + Maroon Arts Group + Member of Underdog Academy

instagram: @MatthewVaughnUA & @underdogacademy

twitter: @MatthewVaughnUA & @underdogacademy

inquiries: underdogacademy937@gmail.com

website: uapoetry.com

Be sure to keep up with Matthew on social media and please leave comments on this page to offer words of encouragement, to share your story and to keep the dialogue going.

I Had a Life Taken Away From Me

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Mortal Man

I had a life taken away from me

By Leroy Bean

 

“Looking at my phone with a blank stare

as it mirrors my sentiments 

With a blank note pad

Cursor 

Just blinking at me

Waiting for the right words to be thought

To be said

To be written down

But the music it plays

Drowned out in the background 

Echoing almost

Like my thoughts 

Not quite able to make them out

But I feel them

An idea

Growing outside the boundaries of my mind

Controlling me 

Forcing ocean storms from my eyes

Stone petrified for long moments at a time

But the scary thing is 

You can't hear someone else's thoughts

And society doesn't value expression enough

And the idea

Of suicide 

is solitary confinement 

Surrounded by walls of your demons

thoughts of escaping suffering 

An idea that can barely be expressed

Just a feeling

And we underestimate feeling too much 

With the strength it can give you

And the weakness it can infect you with

But with enough

Love 

And 

Compassion

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It can become the cure to someone's day 

Or lifetime

Their breath 

and existence 

We miss yours already

I remember your smile 

Your goofy laugh

Your innocence when we played as kids 

I wish 

my reach extended past the limits of time

To reclaim the memories 

To experience the feeling again

I just seen you

I had faith

Between our eye contact 

That space

There was a connection 

Your face 

It told me something 

I felt something

A glimpse of those memories again

The world of oblivion we lived in

Ignorant to the demons that could tear us down 

They were just monsters under the bed

Under our consciousness

 

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Some of us become aware the hard way

We get scared

Cornered by our fears

Distracted from people who love us 

Standing in the peripheral 

We are here for you

Speak to me 

It's okay 

Express yourself

Cry and flood away your trauma

Please continue to check in on the people you say you love and care for

Dive deep into introspective conversation 

Don't be afraid of the darkness in the abyss when you get there

You are life

And light

You are love 

And Mark 

I hope you still feel

That we love you.”

 

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This poem is about my first close encounter with DEATH since the beginning of the destruction of my masculinity control system.

I’ve always been the type of person to think a lot; always confined to my own mind. Being a male, I locked my emotions and fears and feelings and unhappiness all up there with me. It drove me crazy. At the age of 22, for the FIRST time in my life I had somewhat of a “heart to heart” with my dad about how our disfunctional relationship has been affecting my life and the life of his other two sons. The conversation wasn’t really equally open on both ends. I realized I couldn’t force my Dad to change his mindset, but I could fix mine. It’s been over a year since I started chipping away at this wall of masculinity. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve had to struggled with in my life so far. To realize that I had an unhealthy relationship with MYSELF and I had to start over. To realize that I had been living in a prison this entire time, but only I could let myself out. To realize that I had been crippling myself rather than making myself stronger. I was suffering...

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This poem is about my first close encounter with DEATH since the beginning of the destruction of my masculinity control system. He was a childhood friend of mine. Our Mom’s were friends, so we were really close. We had lost touch over the last few years; felt like forever. One random day a few months ago, I stopped in Third Perk Coffeehouse and I happened to see his dad across the street. He comes to talk, tells me how he has been, and that is son is on his way over. I was excited, I hadn’t seen him in years! When I saw him I was happy. I couldn’t wait to link back up when we had more time, to talk to him - and share what I’ve learned - and hear what he’s learned - and discuss music - and share my poetry with him - and find out what new talents he has developed! 

So many more things I wanted our friendship to experience, but I guess there was only time for that one. 

I gave him my number because my phone was dead at the time. I heard he had been through some things, so I really wanted him to hit me up. I’m big on sharing wisdom and communicating. Maybe some of my experiences could help him.

About a month goes by, I wake up to a phone call from my mom, telling me that he had committed suicide the night before. The disbelief that fell over me was overwhelming. All I could do was cry...and wonder why. 

Why couldn’t he express what he was going through to get help? What was holding him back?

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After hours of asking myself unhealthy questions, I decided to write this poem about how I genuinely felt. I had a week before the funeral to find a way to process these new emotions I now have the ability to, sadly, only recognize. I found that it was easy to distract myself and have fun and feel better. But there were these moments... between breaths, where the world seemed to slow down and the background noise was low and distorted... I would drift off into a montage of thought about him and memories that we shared, hopeing he really found something more peaceful, his family and realizing that, per usual, I can’t open my mouth and say any of this. Just stuck in my mind. The farthest I got was, “...I had a friend commit suicide.”

 Then remained silent long enough for the recipient of my awkward sorrow to feel uncomfortable and say “I’m sorry to hear that.” because I didn’t give them enough communication to adequately give me the response I needed. 

The day of the funeral arrived. I’m happy with the connections and impact he made while here in our reality. Stuck in my mind, not really able to speak much. His mother asked me to do a poem, luckily I had started writing this poem before she had even asked. I thought I would let that speak for itself and for me. Still, I was incomplete. Until the end of the funeral when I released everything haunting my body thru tears, in my mother’s arms, and comforted by my women. An intimate embrace that felt so healing. Something a lot of men have never experienced, including myself until now. Vulnerability seems to be more haunting than the thing that makes you feel vulnerable in the first place. 

It wasn’t until a few days after the funeral where I sat down with my woman and fully expressed myself and talked about the descriptions of my emotions and thoughts 

with another human being. It felt freeing! After 23 years, it only took me a week and some change to express some serious mental trauma. I’m doing better but the effects of masculinity still has its holds on me. But we must acknowledge our fears and trauma and demons, in order to get passed them.

 
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Leroy Bean

I Had a Life Taken From Me

Leroy is a author, spoken word artist and member of Underdog Academy.

Author of The Love and Theory of Womanology, "book and CD available on amazon."

host of Underdog Academy's Broken English 101 podcast available at: soundcloud.com/be101ua

instagram: @hxc24_ & @underdogacademy

twitter: @HXC24

facebook: Leroy Da'Vaughn Bean & Underdog Academy

snapchat: @xCaptainPlanet

tumblr: hyerpoetry.tumblr.com

and also at uapoetry.com

Prank Caller

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mortal man

PRANK CALLER

By: Shon Houston

 

Over the span of leaving home

I attempted to remember you in poetic ways.

Like the way your fingers were a backyard off Gettysburg Ave.

And your eyes were a crystalized oak tree in the winter.

Beautiful and always melting.

 

You spent your afternoons doing oddly romantic things.

 

You would sit in your favorite blue chair

Turn on your stories 

And try ti forget that grandpa died in a hospital holding your hands

While not recognizing your face

Just your hands.

 

Your living room is the first funeral that I didn’t count on.

The smell of yesterday,

A cringed nose of lemon scented furniture polish and something

Passing away early one Saturday morning

Before the sun swallowed you whole 

Filled the hallway of that apartment building.

 

My uncle’s adult head lynched in the hammock of my tiny arms

Felt unbelievably strange.

 

Your door was open, I knew what I was going to see.

I saw you, soul slipping through the floor of that tiny room,

I felt like there could have been a pond in my throat.

 

There is no other way that I can tell you just how much I was drowning.

 

It would be years later,

That same uncle would have gripped my hand

For the last time in August.

 

I imagine him with you.

 

I still haven’t been able to quite catch my breath.

Only a month ago I couldn’t remember your phone number.

 

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Someone called from it once.

I thought it was a joke.

I didn’t laugh. Just kept crying because I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

Always wondering if it was you,

Telling me that you forgot something.

That you weren’t fully ready to go

You just missed your husband so much.

I imagine that loneliness

Being an anchor dragging along the ocean floor of your spine.

 

Secretly, I feel that if I am not asleep by 2 am

My ears will gather a minefield of nicknames that you would call me

They would gather like sunflowers

And unknowingly I would fold them in half

Tuck them into an envelope

And address them to your tiny apartment because they still belong to you.

 

As you cupped your children’s faces into your ribs

Cradled them like whispers

All as if they were not adults

And pulled yourself from their tangible existence.

 

I wanted to be mad at you

But that phone call

One Thursday evening out of nowhere

Changed everything.

It changed everything

And I didn’t even answer.

 

 
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Shon Houston

When I wrote that poem, I was struggling to find the purpose of committing people to memory, like memorizing a poem. I have trouble memorizing pieces, always have. But I can recount the details of people. I can always link them with things that appeal to my senses.

I remember two of the most important people to me in details like colors and scents. Shortly after my grandmother passed, I got a phone call from her previous number. Her apartment was now being leased to someone else, phone was of course in a different name, so when I got the call it was a feeling that came over me, like seeing a ghost. I had yet to bring myself to take her contact info out of my phone so her name came up and everything. I always wondered would that phone call be the closure I was looking for.

Keep up with Shon on:

instagram: @iamshoncurtis

facebook: Shon Curtis

website: shoncurtis.com

"and please comment here as well."

The Vulnerability of Man

Mortal Man: Rev. Lewis

Mortal Man

The Vulnerability of Man

by Rev. Lewis

 

Mortality and legacy, 

Go hand and hand. 

But it’s vulnerability that makes a mortal man. 

Taught to be stone,  

But enough pressure will turn stone to sand. 

Show a moment of weakness. 

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Told to suck it up, be a man. 

Keep those raging waters bottled behind that damn. 

Build your walls high enough, 

and eventually you’ll stop giving a damn. 

But these walls don’t come with bridges. 

These moats will wash you away. 

And I keep my archers at the ready. 

To keep love away. 

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I wonder what my absent father thinks of me. 

Continuing your legacy of solitude, 

Hurting those closest to me. 

Maybe one day I’ll put my pride away. 

And be forced to face my own mortality. 

 
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Rev. Lewis

 

THE VULNERABILITY OF MAN

Rev. Lewis expresses himself through music, poetry and deep conversations.

Be sure to keep up with his journey.

facebook: Dionte Lewis

instagram: @reverend_lewis

"and please comments here as well."