POETRY: 'For Madeleine' by George Abraham

For Madeleine
By George Abraham

To the girl I danced with at freshman year homecoming,
I apologize for stepping on your feet.
As if our dance wasn’t already awkward enough,
My lack of coordination didn’t go well
With the fact that you were barefoot, and I had wooden loafers on;
So I apologize for any bruises I may have left that night;
Maybe this was the reason you didn’t dance with me again
Until the time I decided to step on your feet at senior prom;
I’d like to say I improved my dancing over the course of
4 years of attending sweaty, cramped, orgy-like high-school dances,
but that would be an understatement-
perhaps the only thing joining the step team did to me
was help me learn to step on your feet more elegantly…

To the girl who sends me random snapchats of her cat,
I swear you’re not a crazy cat lady.
Yet.
And sadly enough, you’re not my only friend who
Snapchats me pictures of their cats;
In a digital world where exchanging perverted images can be done with the swipe of a finger,
It’s nice to have friends who sends me pictures of cute animals every now and then;

To the girl who got an awkward tanline when she crossed 2 bandages over her freshly-done bellybutton piercing before we went to the beach,
I think that outline of a cross on your stomach was the closest thing you ever got to a baptism.
And no, I don’t apologize for not warning you when the tide washed upshore
And got your whole torso soaked;
Sorry, that was for the time you gave me an awkward nickname,
And embarrassed me in front of everyone at a football game;
We have a healthily unhealthy back-and-forth, at-each-others-throats relationship,
If I had to give you a spirit animal, it’d probably be a barracuda

To the girl who invited everyone to her house to jump on her wet trampoline after a day at the beach,
It still angers me that your deep-fryer broke just when we started making wings.
But that movie you wanted to watch about flesh eating bacteria really made me lose my appetite anyways;
Those were good times-
That week before everyone went their separate ways for college,
And all we could do was kill the time we’d look back and cherish one day…
Because beneath the hookah-smoke-leaking smiles, and grains of  sand and shell fragments that littered our car floors,
Beneath the white lie excuses we’d give to our parents, and the nights that ended when the moon consumed our eyelids,
There was us.
And we were happy.

To the girl I danced with at freshman year homecoming,
I don’t know why it took us till senior year to become friends.
Maybe it was because my dancing turned you off,
Or maybe it was because we both needed time to come out of our shells;
Whatever the case may be, I apologize for any bruises I may have left-
That night, or any other;
Because being that pair of friends who fights every day can get exhausting;
I never thought I’d look back on my battle scars and smile,
And all I can say is, being your friend has been
The best boxing match I’ve ever fought.
I hear you may be going camping with us when I come back for winter break.
I guess that means round 2 commences….


Now.

Copyright 2013| George Abraham

POETRY: 'Stardust' by George Abraham

Stardust
By George Abraham

“We’re all made of stardust,”
he said.
And what a peculiar thought to arise
Here
In the world’s most powerful city,
Washington, DC;
Here
Where our nation’s story is engraved in
Sculptures as if history is
Trapped in time- forever living
Through triumph and tragedy,
Through war and peace,
Through economic boom and bust;
            It is here
Where immigrant protesters march upon capitol hill
Demanding their rights.

And the sculptures watch,
Remaining immovable
But yearning to speak.

For, they realize a divine truth,
Yet the mortals do not.
We are stuck in a country
Where people like
Johnny Moneybags can go to Harvard
Because daddy paid to build their latest library,
     But immigrants cannot get even the most
     Basic of college educations despite
     Hard work and diligence-
Where Taylor Swift can live her life
Making songs of all the boys that have
Come and gone; Breaking up with guys
is as periodic as sunrise and sunset;
     Yet, we hear talk of gays everywhere
     Being bullied into suicide
     Despite that their love is even more genuine
     Than that of this beloved star;       
Where people are arrested on sight
At our airports
For greeting incoming relatives
In Arabic,
     Because, in their heads 
     If one bad person speaks Arabic
     Obviously all people who speak Arabic must
     Follow suit…

It is easier to own a machine gun
Than it is to afford a college education
Here;
It is easier to find someone who has memorized parts of the bible
Than it is to find someone who can locate China on the globe
Here;
It is easier to find a McDonnalds
Than it is to find a book store
Here

In the God-blessed United States of America.

And as these sculptures
Fall
watching this country descend into turmoil,
they yearn to speak the divine truth-
a truth that is not even too complex-
the only criteria to understand this truth is
Giving a damn
About someone other than yourself-

“The ground you walk on-
It’s dust.
And so are you.

So is everyone.”

Copyright 2013| George Abraham

POETRY: 'Cubic Zirconium' by George Abraham

“Cubic Zirconium”
By George Abraham

Perhaps it’s like pulling stones off of earrings,
Childishly,
Thinking they’re diamonds-
Gazing with naivety and
Caressing each square inch as if there’s
Something special here,
Only to realize that, in truth, these gems are
Cubic Zirconium-

Or perhaps it’s like finding a lost sibling
After searching for hours amongst a
Crowd of thousands of people
And feeling relieved, yet
Angry
At the same time since he was
Stupid enough to run off when you
Weren’t expecting it.

Or perhaps, it’s like getting to the center of a tootsie pop
Just to realize all you have left is a
Damp wad of spherical chocolate taffy-
Just as the wrapper advertised.

Or perhaps, it’s less playful-
Perhaps it’s like searching through the trash
On a rainy day
Only to find your soul in the midst of the
Rot and decay-
Perhaps that is what writing poetry is like.
Because, sometimes, the poet’s search for
Truth
Isn’t easy to conquer;
Sometimes, the truth is just too obvious, too cliché;
Sometimes it is unable to be grasped;

And Sometimes, the poet wanders
For days and nights
Only to realize there is no diamond to be found;
Just cubic zirconium.

Copyright 2013| George Abraham

POETRY: 'At a Beach' by George Abraham

At a Beach
By George Abraham

I’ve had forever on my mind;
Walking so far down the shoreline-
            I’m lost
For, I’ve gone farther than I expected
In such seeming little time-
That once enormous lighthouse
Now becomes a speck in the background;
            I lose myself,
A bit,
My foot scrapes across the porous sand
As I forget that I will
Lose
Everything I engrave in the sand,
Even the shells I leave behind;
How, one day the tide will
Wash away these ephemeral impressions-
            But what to come?
What shall happen once my footprints all
Fade
In the tide’s voracity?
What of the sand, the sea,
The lighthouse?
Will the tide consume all,
Rendering this beach a
            Flood of regrets;
            Flood of lost memories;
            Flood of inconsequential impressions?

Or will remnants survive-
            Will the shoreline continue its infinite
                        Gentle roar?
            Will the sand maintain its
                        Impressionability?
            What of the shell fragments left
            Behind by the thousands of beach wanderers?

Perhaps the wind will take over
Forming one word out of these
Infinitesimal fragments of shell:

Continuity.

Copyright 2013| George Abraham

POETRY: 'The Final Procrastination' by George Abraham

The Final Procrastination
By George Abraham

I remember the white linen
Coating the altar’s edge
At my 8th grade confirmation-
            He remembers black linen
            Covering the faces of Israelites
            Forcing him, a child, out of his home.
I remember the catechist’s cold stare
As she told us that confirmation made it official-
We were choosing to be Catholics.
            He remembers the intruder’s cold stare
            Infused with the hatred of Arabs,
            Especially Catholic Arabs.
I remember ashes bestowed on my forehead
In the symbol of the cross-
Those Ash Wednesday masses I was dragged to.
            He remembers ashes-
            The remnants of his once-called home
            Destroyed for the cross his family bore.

I became an academic, through and through,
After confirmation-
A devout student; an intellectual.
            He became the opposite-
            He laughed at literature
            And its attempt to portray disaster.
I grew to be a critic-
To see the flaws in our country,
And proclaim my thoughts through words-
            He grew to love America-
            The land of opportunity; for home, to him,
            Became dusk to a once sunny day.
I grew to desire escape-
To loathe repetition, and yearn for
My way out of home.
            He clung to home’s once tangible existence-
            The rubble that once was wall,
            The ash that once was a bible page.

My 12-year old vision sees him
As a loving grandfather;
A witty man who didn’t quite know English,
But made the most out of what he knew-
I could still go to ball games with him.
            My 18-year old vision sees him
            As a fallen hero;
            His limping stride, his stuttered speech,
            His head bruised from a fall-
            His wit still remained.

I’ve been plagued by the thought that I may lose him
Soon-
But he lives his daily life fearlessly;
For, he knows he will be with the angels
Soon;
Him, among the choir of heavenly souls
Cloaked in white linen.
            I will remain a sly, angry poet
            Contemplating the nature of forever-
            Not truly understanding God,
            But remaining intrigued all the while.
                        Still believing, but not living-and-breathing.

He always seeked to know God
            Where I always sat back and contemplated;
            Eventually, I may come across the day
            Where I will have my heavenly insight;
            Maybe it will be on my death bed,
            With me all cloaked in black;
            Perhaps it may be even too late
            And I’ll die never fully understanding God,
    But then again, no one TRULY understands God...

But that’s the difference between him and me-

I’ll procrastinate.
He never did.

Copyright 2013| George Abraham

POETRY: 'The Void' by George Abraham

The Void
By George Abraham

There’s a void in me-
            Like a salty wave
               Reaching out to my feet
            But stopping inches away
               As I stand, intangible,
            And the shoreline whispers a
               Somber tale-
A void-
            Like glass cracked in subtlety
            Forming two fractures that will never
            Converge- their entire existence
            On a plane of their own, expanding
                        Forever
            Unpredictably in endless dimensions-
A void-
            A distance oceanic,
            A brilliance less than stellar;
            An unfulfilling ending to a masterpiece;
            A wanderer travelling in circles;
            A _____ of poetry missing a word;
For despite fortune’s fair and
______ steady, I live my life
with too many ______s to fill in
but not enough ______s to fill them in with;
            Will you do it?
            Will you fill them in?
Because I can’t quite put my finger on it-
Is it you, missing from my life?
Are you my void?
            Or is it more complex?
            The simplicity of impossibility?
            The dullness of vivacity?
            The tears of fire?
Or is it far simpler-
The hollow of a sphere?
The resonance of a voice?
The dissonance of an adolescent?

The unwritten last line of a poem?

Copyright 2013| George Abraham

POETRY: 'Guacamole' by George Abraham

Guacamole
By George Abraham

I had this silly vision
Of you and I making guacamole together
One Saturday afternoon-
We’d go to the store,
Walking hand-in-hand
And people around us would think,
“Oh, what a cute couple.”
I’d run into a friend or two
And introduce you to them
As if you were my trophy-
A prized gem deemed priceless-
A higher being; the essence of everything-
My everything…

Then we’d go to my house
To make guacamole together-
You’d dice tomatoes while
I peel the avocados
And before we knew it, we’d have this
Delicate masterpiece before us…
Eventually, we’d stop and watch a movie-
Maybe something light and comedic
To balance the pouring rain outside;
We’d cuddle together on the couch
And eat our homemade guacamole,
And the whole time, I’d be so concentrated on
You that I wouldn’t even pay attention
To what was going on on-screen;
You were my light in this
World lit only by lightning;
The eye of the storm that is my life;
The lone thunderous applauds to my achievements.
You’re the epitome of everything-
My everything…

End scene.

So what now?
I never really thought about the rest-
Just the essence of us
Together.
I never dreamed of the logistics of it all-
The behind-the-scenes to our hit film…

Eventually, you and I would grow sour
Just like the guacamole,
Because that’s the sad truth about guacamole-
You have to eat it all before it rots,
But try to make the most out of it while you can…
You see, you’re my guilty pleasure-
You’re that soft, delicious Avocado
But I never realized your pit was so dark
Until I saw it myself;
You conceal it so well
Under your layers of perfection
But you’re really not a terrible person;
You’re skin and bone,
just like the rest of us;
you’re still
my everything…

I’ve always been bad at saying goodbye;
Whether it was to my grandma visiting from California,
Or a friend visiting for lunch,
But I’d have never pictured it to be like this-
I’d have never pictured myself saying goodbye to a star-
A heavenly star that will dissipate, in the long run,
Just as this vision will,
Leaving me questioning
If you were only a phase…

Copyright 2013| George Abraham

POETRY: 'A Non-Linear High School Love Story' by George Abraham

A Non- Linear High School Love Story

By George Abraham

Chapter 24:
            One word:
            “Goodbye”
Chapter 3:
            That moment when the protagonist
            Begins to realizes he’s caught in that
            Vicious cycle once more.
Chapter 2:
            It began with a hug
            On a quiet afternoon;
            One intoxicating gesture.
Chapter 10:
            This isn’t going to end well.
Chapter 4:
            The protagonist’s previous crush,
            Who is already in a committed relationship,
            Begins to re-surface like an undulating wave-
            Schlepping the surface of his intangible thoughts.
Chapter 6:
            “There’s a fire starting in my heart…”
            Oh Lord Jesus, it’s a fire…
Chapter 5:
            The protagonist resorts to
            Listening to cheesy love songs
            To ease his tension between 2 unattainable lovers.
Chapter 7:
            That awkward moment when
            The protagonist realizes that
            He’s friendzoned..
Chapter 8:
            WE ARE NEVER EVER EVER
            GONNA GET TOGETHER!
Chapter 11:
            Stagnation.
Chapter 9:
            The protagonist decides to
            Live his daily life in the friendzone,
            Too afraid of action.
Chapter 20:
            It’s graduation time.
Chapter 15:
            A psycho from the protagonist’s past
            Re-surfaces to torment the protagonist
            Because what love story doesn’t have a crazy ex?
Chapter 12:
            The protagonist sees too far into
            The actions of the beloved,
            Thus dragging him deeper
            Into this pool of despair.
Chapter 19:
            Protagonist reads a cheesy
            Spenserian sonnet that tells him
            “It is better to have loved and lost
            Than to have never loved at all.”
Chapter 21:
            There is no feeling quite like
            Walking down the graduation aisle
            With the regret of 1000 prisoners….
Chapter 13 and 14 have been purposefully omitted for the sake of the protagonist not looking like a total imbacile.
Chapter 16:
            The encounter with the protagonist’s ex
            Makes him reflect on his former life-
            What he’s become ever since.
Chapter 17:
            The protagonist decides to confide his
            Secret with a best friend, who comforts him
            For the time being.
Chapter 18:
            The protagonist realizes that everything is ephemeral
            Especially peace…
Chapter 22:
            We’ve reached the climax to the story-
            The protagonist must now decide:
            Risk telling his beloved about his love
            And risk the possibility of all future contact?
            Or remain silent and probably fall out of touch in college…
Chapter 23:
            The author realizes that
            Some endings are better left unwritten,
Chapter 1:
            One word:
            “Hello”
Chapter 25:
            The love story eventually becomes myth.
Chapter 26:
            Myth becomes motif- repetition.
Chapter 27:
            An image of the spinning earth resounds as the symbol of continuity.

Copyright 2013| George Abraham

POETRY: "Upon Finding my 6th Grade Agenda" by George Abraham

Upon Finding my 6th Grade Agenda

By George Abraham

 

I remember it clear as crystal;
the unfamiliar halls beckoning for exploration;
the trite optimism of pre-teen youth;
the air of mystery over what the future will hold;
the reckless naivety of a brain lacking plasticity;
the natural awkwardness accompanied by this
transition.

For, that’s all life is, right?
A string of transitions
whether it’s day to night,
or Sunday to Monday,
or this week to that week,
or July to August,
or 2006 to 2007,
or 20th to 21st century,
or childhood to adult,
or adult to beyond.

But I live for now,
and if there’s one thing that’s certain,
it’s that everything is uncertain.
6 years have passed, and
I gaze at this tattered, worn book-
the very symbol of transition-
upon the brink of another transition
only to realize that my crystal-clear memory
occurred just yesterday,
for it is still crystal-clear to me.

It’s the truth I haven’t come to face:
that time flows in rogue waves-

subtlety. subtlety.
calm.
allured.

break.

Copyright 2012|George Abraham

POETRY: "Inside these Hazel Eyes" by George Abraham

Inside these Hazel Eyes
By George Abraham

“If you could change your name
to whatever you desire,
what would your new name be?”
She asks me.

And I replied, “Madame,
with all due respect,
that is such a silly question.
For this name is more than a
requiem to 2 presidents;
it’s more than just letters,
and words printed ever so
ephemerally on a small
square parchment;
this name runs deeper than
skin and bone,
and rhyme and reason,
and sense and sensibility
to me.”

She looks at me with puzzled eyes
and says, “Go on.”

I turn to her and say,
“Look inside these hazel eyes.
These are the eyes of my grandfather,
who was also named George.
These are the eyes that saw
rags turn to riches;
that saw farmland in Ramallah, Palestine
turn into suburban paradise in America.
These eyes saw my grandmother bear
3 blessed children,
only to dissipate soon after,
for these eyes belonged to a martyr;
a martyr for the cause of opportunity.
For that great voyage to America,
it killed him,
and I would be ashamed to
allow his name to
dissipate just like his eyes did.”

I pause.

“Go on,” she says.

“Look inside these hazel eyes once more.
These are the eyes of Anthony,
to whom my middle name
resides in honor.
These are the eyes that
saw his father die at a young age,
yet he was the eldest child in his family.
He was a father and brother
both in tandem
to his siblings;
the very essence of responsibility;
the proof that this world hasn’t gone mad yet;
the image that guides my success,
for he was my father.”

I pause.

“Go on,” she says
for she knows my story is not complete.


“Look into these hazel eyes
one last time.
These are the eyes
that carried a bloodline,
once proud and strong,
yet it is turning to dust.
What was once a family
of the most noble people
is becoming a generation of
greed, lust, insubordination.
People ask me why I shoot so high
in my goals, my future ambitions,
and they don’t realize that I was
raised by a bloodline of strength
that’s fading quickly.
You see, I was always told to
shoot for the stars,
not clouds.
Clouds are for dreamers,
but stars?
They’re for creators
and I am the creator of my own destiny.

I am
and will always be
George Anthony Abraham.
I hope this answered your silly question.”

Copyright 2012| George Abraham

VIDEO: "Fall Fest: The Encore" by The Expressionists

POETRY: 'Schizo' by Robert Drake and George Abraham

Schizo
by Robert Drake and George Abraham


G:
I am a thief
Robbing people of
That which they need the most;
Stealing the unique consistency of
Self.

R:
My mother wont even talk to me
anymore...
I remember well, that day,
that fateful day that changed
my reality forever…
waiting in the guidance counselors
office with my mom to be seen about my
incident in class.
i felt uneasy, because I knew
what they were speaking so urgently
about...
Stress induced testing, the
Infamous AP exam, during this exam,
I began to perceive voices,
devilish, bone-chilling voices that plagued
my very thoughts.
They were whispering, provoking me, mocking me,
buzzing around my head like gnats
yellow-fog creeping upon the window-sill
tapping, my attention follows,
my emotions swell, the sensation
became to unbearable

G:
I am a voice;
A nonexistent manifestation
Of everything unwanted
Telling you you’re worthless!
Telling you you cannot be!
Telling you you’re nothing but an insane freak plagued by…

R:
so I SCREAM
and try to escape, but the voices
persist, whispering… screaming…

G:
They’re out to kill you.
All of them.
This testing area is merely a clever mechanism
Designed to suffocate you with toxic gasses.
You must escape from them!
Kill them!!!
Or yourself!
Whichever is more convenient
Because you’re dead anyways.

R:
We're finally summoned to the office,
and i notice a peculiar man with the nametag
M.D standing adjacent to the Counselor.

G:
these people, the counselor,
Mr. M.D,
Even your own mother
Want to murder you!
You’re too much of a liability!
She can bear it much longer!
You’re going to die!
You’re mother hates you!
You’re a cause to her humiliation!

R:
The M.D speaks to my mother privately
while i sit, silently tormented, silently
corrupted.
I felt my sanity slowly fade away
as i overhear one word
Schizophrenia.

G:
"YOU NEED TO DEFEND YOURSELF
AND TO DEFENT YOURSELF, YOU
MUST KILL YOURSELF
BEFORE THEY DO."

R:

As my eyes begin to fill with tears of pain and despair,
I spot a pair of scissors.
At the same time, the M.D and my mother
were finishing their conversation.
I grasp the scissors in my hand, trembling,
shaking violently, the voices in my head
shout:

G:
"DO IT!
ESCAPE FROM THEM!.ITS THE ONLY WAY!"

R:
Just then my mother walks through the door
with the M.D
and drops to her knees
as she suffers the worst pain
a mother can ever experience.

G:
I go by many names
Of those plagued and unplagued.
Contorter
Deceiver
Distorter.
a lobotomy;
A jagged silver metal
Jutting through the weak veins
Of the head;
Shattering that ¾ inch thick calcification
Protecting the self;
Then, finally, I penetrate
And remove the self from its body…
But only I and those plagued
By my kaleidoscopic lenses that enthrall thine ears
Know me and how I work, for I am a
Demon.
Sheltered in the pits of hell
Waiting for a poor innocent soul to lash out upon
With claws
To breach through branches of transmission.
And my fiery tale
Is kept aflame
By the souls of those consumed
By me.
Those on earth know me,
And my many forms,
As schizo.

Copyright 2011 | Robert Drake and George Abraham

POETRY: 'Speak.' by The Expressionists

Speak. (2010-2011)
by The Expressionists (2010-2011)

KNIGHT

The human voice yearns to be heard-
like a glorious gathering of angels
assembled on high to speak
to the mortals below, the beauty in voices
resonates in cosmic spaces
unrestricted by law, free to protest as lips part,
and mouths open to unleash carefully designed syntax,
pieced together, working in tandem,
delivering with pointed clarity-the idea,
the thought, the message realized long before its utterance;
born in the universe, listened to by the sun, moon, and stars
then shared with the masses here on earth-
the voice is power unrestrained, ready to launch
a syllabic assault on auditory senses unfamiliar with truth…

JAZELLE

And yet some cries go unheard,
imperfections so well seen.
And alas, these written words mean nothing
until we dot the i's and cross the t's
and you see this hidden masterpiece.
This message, so indirectly spared,
yet opened eyes and ears ache to understand,
to piece together this broken beauty,
the ambiguity of each line, each phrase;
perhaps what our eyes gaze towards or
ears ignore. No matter, for the soul seeks
this understanding of the message we convey
As the human voice yearns to be heard once more…

DANIELLE D.

Formed from birth, our voice was first heard
As life threw trials and challenges our way, our voice grew.
By speaking the thoughts we held so deep
Our voice gained strength and power.
With all the different dialects we use to speak,
Our distinct voices were formed.
After years of speaking what first came to mind,
There is nothing that can silence…

ROBERT

A unique synthesis of Amplitude
and Frequency,
Congruencies of pitch, range and power,
A power, that howls,
Drawing in the masses from
Massachusetts to Italy.
Strength in the diaphragm, draws diagrams
into the hearts and minds of the
finely tuned ear.
Sprouting, Springing, Sprung,
from the symbol of Yin and Yang in the form
of Consonance and Assonance.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the Uniqueness of
the Voice,
for it yearns to be heard...

KABRIEL

One word can change the world
Create a new future where thoughts
Aren’t cross examined, rather they are analyzed
For their impact on a society
Where speech becomes a virtue
And silence becomes a punishment that’s incomprehensible
Because for humanities sake
the human voice MUST be heard…

ANA

They are tortured by fear,
as the knowledge of those
who believe in the
status of majority rule
pours into the minds of
the innocent. They
object to their theories
knowing that they can't be right.
Intimidation has their voices
chained to the walls of silence,
so they become hoarse temporarily.
Yet understanding that in order
to bring the world out of darkness
they must be the light.
But they remain captives voluntarily,
listening to the cunning words of
intelligent fools, knowing that
these chains could be broken
if only they would
speak…

REG

Speak.
Vocalize the voice buried beneath the layers of doubt and uncertainty.
Break that trend.
A trend of faint-hearted fearfulness that impedes the personification
of one's own expression from reaching the auditory aperture.
Speak.
Show the world the wonderful words that can be spun and manipulated,
words that unveil a curtain of hidden thoughts and feelings
long overdue for a grand finale on the biggest stage.
Rise to the occasion.
Speak, and be heard; speak, and be free…

DALLAS

speak and say freely
because in America you are protected;
oh how they trapped themselves
by giving our voices an amendment of firsts
through the strength of our vocal cords
we can relay emotions, prophecy, and power;
this noise is more than just a rhythmic styling,
this noise is the yell of a radical
ready to change the world's mindset…

ALEXIS

As the tongues of the seemingly inconspicuous cause
eyes to rise in amazement not yet encountered
Canals are enlightened at the mesmerizing outlooks of every single one
Because as sounds bounce to and fro from confining walls,
We see them crumble, with the sound of a single voice
Single call
Single cry, to the sky, for an ounce of hope to awaken us with quickness
To hurry us from our meticulous fortresses, where we call home
A comfort zone, a familiar whisper
we hear that make us second guess our needs,
Our dreams
Our aspirations, in such a world where they are snatched back in a second,
to the point where we doubt our motives,
our potential;
We sing, and we scream, and we do these things,
against the darkest of odds…

CHERYL

WE speak
Because our words are powerful
WE speak
to convey our messages to the world
WE speak
for us and for those who cannot speak for themselves
WE speak
to get the internal us
onto our outer facade
so speak what is true to you…

GEORGE

speak
of the world's injustices;
speak
for the sake of being heard;
speak
to comment on this ever changing society
to inspire
actions amongst the globe
to captivate
man, and stop the world
for just that moment
when the voice is recognized…

DANIELLE G.

Our words are indestructible,
our voices have power yet to learn.
Then we began to dream,
our dreams turn to thoughts,
our thoughts to words.
We learn to use our voice,
and the power behind it.
We learn to speak,
because the voice yearns to be heard!

YASMIN

Everyone is their own person,
So, when you speak, dress, or simply walk,
You’re embracing your style,
It's what separates you from the rest,
It’s the tone of your voice or unique music that should be heard,
Don't put a limit on what you can do,
Release your inner self and show us what you got,
With every step there is something you have to overcome,
THIS is YOUR stage!

Copyright 2011 | The Expressionists