Wayne Henry – A Poet’s Attempt at Honesty

Curated By Ralph

"The Road Not Taken" is a source of inspiration for me, because it encourages me to seize opportunities and chart my own course in life.

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So this poem is a poet's attempt at Honesty Honestly I have to get really drunk to Write about my life and put it inside of A poem it's like Hennessy and Tequila Numbs the hurt of Truth as it hurricanes Through my teeth my truth it's fire and Brimstone running down from The Eyes Of Heaven so I make umbrellas out of my Insecurities just to stand there in the Flames My addiction to burning beautifully Makes me believe that some days I'm Really not the poet of my poems that my Demons take hold of my pain and scribble Agony across my face like war paint no Honestly I write love letters for angels to give To God because I'm too afraid to face Him personally Like I won't survive the glare of his Judgment more afraid that he might just Be one giant vanity mirror reflecting All my flaws he created in His image my Beautiful bipolar Jesus but I digress I have a habit of picking my own Skies Or scratching to the sight of blood my Mother tells me it's something I do out Of nervousness my ex says it's me Obsessing over scars before they occur That I'm just afraid to be beautiful But honestly beautiful broken things Rather be avoided and left alone just to Be loved just to become broken no

Honestly beautiful broken things Daydream about one day becoming monsters Because monsters can every week be Vulnerable or anything that makes us Look like victims because victims Stand out like the nose of Pinocchio and Placed on the lap of Geppetto and acts How it feels to be alive how does it Feel to be a real boy you know honestly Some victims going to be six foot three Dark skinned dreadhead bare tone poet Scream for help in between the safety of Metaphors help looking for words to make Being molested as a child feel like a Spiritual masculine cleansing of his Fingerprints breast and saliva escaping The confines of my pores help I hide pain like treasure and chest A prisoner and ribbed cage help I grow tired of slicing my silence on Simile and Soliloquy because help is too Weak of a word for a batshit crazy black Man still insane enough to believe that One day I can be loved because my two Lips y'all my two lips have a habit of Kissing a woman's Temple into demolition Then I try to rebuild her from the Bubble like I didn't just ruin Everything she structured to make me Smile no honestly I'm a glass house Raining inside of it hoping to break out Before I break down and all that can be Found the Whispers of my poems that

Never had a chance to make a sound Because heaven y'all Heaven seriously Love letters with no return to dress So it feels like I'm writing myself in Hopes to write myself and I'm not sure If God is proud of the mess I make of me So if ever my poems sound like prayers It's because I stand on stage and Pretend that you are the ears of heaven And these words are the shadow of my Crucifixion I love myself to a Microphone no honestly These poems are a gift from a poet too Broken too tired and too sober To continue fighting them alone but Thank you For washing away all of my sins Helping me carry all of my burdens at The end of every single poem I pretend That you are heaven Pretend that you are my God

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