#spokenword

TL;DR Part 6 One person starts naming what the room pretends not to see and suddenly everyone else has to decide whether they’re witnessing or participating. Most people hate that decision. Because participation sounds ugly when you say it plainly. People prefer words like: complicated. messy. private. family matter. misunderstanding. Language can anesthetize almost anything if you dull it enough. That’s another thing the Battleground teaches you. Pay attention to vocabulary. Abusers use it. Witnesses use it. Institutions build entire careers around it. “Incident.” “Conflict.” “Mutual toxicity.” “Poor communication.” Interesting how often language develops a passive voice the second accountability walks into the room. Damage occurred. Mistakes were made. Emotions escalated. As if violence just materialized spontaneously out of the fucking wallpaper. But once you learn to hear omission you can’t unhear it. You start noticing which stories remove the actor. Which narratives sand the fingerprints off. Which people keep describing harm without ever naming who benefited from it. And suddenly everything starts sounding honest. Not louder. Just stripped of the language that used to make it bearable. That part costs relationships. People say they want honesty. What they usually want is honesty that preserves the existing structure. Honesty without consequence. Truth without rearrangement. Confession without accountability. But real clarity reorganizes rooms. That’s why people flinch from it. Not because they don’t understand. Because they do. And once you stop cooperating with distortion people start mourning the version of you that made their comfort possible. That grief? Careful. A lot of it isn’t grief for you. It’s grief for access. For convenience. For silence. For the version of your suffering that asked less from them. That realization changes your spine. You stop confusing being loved with being tolerated. Stop confusing being needed with being protected. Stop confusing being included with being safe. And loneliness starts changing shape. Because the truth is: once you stop shrinking yourself to stabilize harmful rooms some rooms will choose their comfort over your existence in them. That hurts. More than I think people admit. Because humans are built to survive collectively. Even damaged ones. Especially damaged ones. So there’s a specific kind of heartbreak in realizing some people would rather lose you than lose the version of reality that protects them from themselves. And once you understand that conversations start feeling different. Less like connection. More like negotiation. You notice how often people aren’t listening to understand you. They’re listening for the first opportunity to return reality to a shape they can survive inside. Maybe he didn’t mean it. Maybe she tried her best. Maybe you misunderstood. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Maybe you should let it go. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Humans build entire religions out of maybe. Because certainty has consequences. And consequences require movement. Require grief. Require accountability. Require admitting some of the people they loved also caused harm. That realization breaks people open in ugly ways. Some double down. Some disappear. Some suddenly care more about forgiveness than truth. Interesting order. And some will look directly at your wounds then ask you to speak about them more gently. As if softness changes what happened. As if blood becomes less red when whispered about. That’s when you finally understand: most systems do not fear violence half as much as they fear disruption.

Canyon Hike interplanetary lightning strikes carve canyons in a blink creating park lands’ future hikes rising to then sink Marineris on cold Mars the Grand Canyon here on Earth… electric currents between stars and planets giving birth to interplanetary lightning strikes whenever coming near to each other’s brightening lights electrically a mere plasma mingling E.M. mix equalizing charge the only way there is to fix something that’s so large as each other’s plasmaspheres colliding and entwined until at last a serpent rears flashing for a time as an interplanetary lightning strike equalizing charge and now we enjoy a canyon hike or can float through on a barge…. bcpoetry.ca

Code Noir: Why is our hair still being policed in 2026? For centuries, the “Code Noir” dictated the lives of enslaved and free African people. This week, the French Parliament finally voted to repeal it.It is a historic step, but it brings a mix of emotions that cause me to pause and reflect. Why has it taken so long for this to be addressed? While I am glad to see some amends being made for the past, it is a stark reminder of how much of the past we still carry. This law was just one piece of a long history of policing Black identity. Even today, Black hair is still being judged and stigmatised in society, showing us exactly why this conversation remains so vital. I wrote my poem, “Code Noir,” to reclaim our beauty, our humanity, and our stories. These are the very things the original law sought to strip away! As we witness this historic step, I wanted to share this piece with you in full and unapologetically urge: Love and look after your hair. Love yourself. Love your crown. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. I have to remind myself of this too.Watch the full performance here: https://youtu.be/SLlSF0Kb9ZA

THE PASSENGER SEAT That was me for twenty plus years or so, eyes closed with the seat inclined back In that nice, soft, passenger seat With situations and opportunities, passing me by Sitting there, with life driving me, not concerned with driving myself Listening to what other people thought I should do Other people…that didn’t have themselves together I don’t know when it was, that the passenger seat stopped being so comfortable Or I started wondering where I was going, I decided right then! That I had to get out of the passenger seat and get myself into the driver seat Much easier said than done on any level, I had to first get the vehicle to slow down Then I had to get control of the vehicle, then I had to get in the driver’s seat And the hardest part came next Not just driving the vehicle, I had to learn myself, what drove me Drove me to get out of the passenger seat and drove me to get into the driver’s seat Now I needed to know where to go, so I started driving And I drove and drove and drove, until it came to me The goal or should I saw. Where I needed to go….SUCCESS BOULEVARD I’ve been driving for a while now In the driver seat, not quite as comfortable But nevertheless, I’m driving…Driving the vehicle, which is me And now I’m asking you Are you driving?…..or sitting in that other seat? From the digital Ebook titled “The Dark truth and little White lies” by Enfantu Raa #original prose#literature#musings#poetry#words#prose and poetry#poems#poems and words#quotes#spilled thoughts#writings#the dark truth and little white lies

THE UGLY DUCKLING SYNDROME I am the ugly duckling and everyone else is a swan. The swans bask in the sun snow white and clean. gliding across the lake and then fly away when I splash into the water I splash into the water and they taunt. Ugly duckling you can’t play. Why don’t you just go away. Ugly duckling go inside. You’re so ugly you should hide. They fly away in their segregated flocks While I, the ugliest duck am reminded of my forced isolation Tears held within me fill the empty space My existence revolving solely around a 2-story house and the library Books of history and Greek mythology became my playmates, Spinning tales which transported me away from my solitary childhood Lasting until 9th grade, 9th grade came and the swans brushed off excess feathers onto me They told me I would never transform from ugly duckling to swan And I was not a thing of beauty-which left me with inadequate feelings Now in high school I began to believe within my own self-worth, My insecurity which once was a sickness within my persona, changed inside of my personality. Clearly just as doubtful as I once w as, now were the swans who called me ugly duckling, They now had met a bigger flock of swans than themselves These swans looked down upon the others and as they had once called me, they were called ugly ducklings. Where they were once assured, they soon became doubtful of their own features Attempting to gain some measure of satisfaction they turned to me But it was in vain, because while they worried, about keeping their lily, white feathers the whitest of all and who was the prettiest or most handsome swan I had gained confidence in myself and my feathers although not white had grown enough to fly And that’s exactly what I did and you know what… I….still……….haven’t………landed. From the digital Ebook titled “The Dark truth and little White lies” by Enfantu Raa #original prose#literature#musings#poetry#words#prose and poetry#poems#poems and words#quotes#spilled thoughts#writings#the dark truth and little white lies

Floating Sun and Moon and in between you and me in a shared dream from waking up to when we sleep sowing seeds to later reap the fruits of all we say and do thinking thoughts of me and you contemplating, breathing in breathing out as we all spin atomically and through the stars spiraling along with Mars Venus, Saturn, Pluto too with Barnard’s star just in view in between the ISM where currents flow when we’re in REM day and night they twist and twirl always moving in a swirl from waking up to when we sleep and in between as we each keep floating in a conscious stream, waking up to share this dream… BCPOETRY.CA

Looking at Clouds looking at clouds through the window looking at clouds while outside puffy white clouds drifting below wisps in the sky very high listening to sounds from the blueness noisy planes flying by atmospherically distorting, as the air all around seems to cry in warm summer Sun with breezes caressing skin as it blows blossoms on trees senses do please as consciousness slows letting go of thoughts streaming endlessly rushing by butterfly dreams are what we’re in with magic in the sky looking at clouds in the blueness contemplating what’s really high consciously disengaging with whatever has been what tied puffy white clouds below wispy in winds remaining unseen letting go of thinking’s misty perpetual maybe daydream… bcpoetry.ca

In the Park cricket in the afternoon an eagle flying by sun shining brightly in a puffy sky broken clouds drifting up where mountains soar gingko trees blowing from age of dinosaur cricket bats keep splitting the peaceful natural hum, wind through trees hissing - all becoming one as ravens keep calling from somewhere unseen near dog walkers walking - altogether we’re by the super natural subtly entwined, senses entangled in moments shared in time.. bcpoetry.ca

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TL;DR Part 5 People tolerate suffering far more easily than interruption. Especially the kind of interruption that forces accountability to enter the room uninvited. That’s when I learned the difference between defiant and non-compliant . Defiant still accepts the authority of the cage. Non-compliant starts asking who built it. Who maintains it. Who keeps repainting the fucking bars and calling it love. That question changes everything. Because once you stop assuming the system is trying to protect you every interaction starts sounding different. Advice starts sounding like containment. Respect starts sounding like obedience. “Keeping the peace” starts sounding like: keep absorbing damage where nobody has to see it. And suddenly the people who once praised your maturity start speaking to you like you’re unstable. All because you developed the unacceptable habit of noticing patterns out loud. That’s the thing about the Battleground. Most people think it begins with violence. No. It begins the moment truth stops staying convenient. The moment your pain stops behaving politely enough for public consumption. And once that happens people start choosing sides without admitting they’re choosing sides. Watch carefully. This part moves fast. Because once a system realizes you might stop cooperating it starts testing what still controls you. Guilt first. Usually guilt. After all, that’s the load-bearing wall in most families. Look how much they sacrificed. Look how hard they tried. Look what you’re doing to your mother. Your father. The family. The peace. Funny how often peace means: silence correctly. And if guilt doesn’t work anymore they try shame. Too sensitive. Too angry. Too dramatic. Still stuck on it. Making everything worse. Notice something? The original harm keeps disappearing from the conversation. That’s intentional. Because once the focus shifts to your reaction nobody has to discuss what happened to cause it. That trick shows up everywhere. Families. Relationships. Courtrooms. News stations. Churches. Police reports. Humans fucking adore punishing smoke while ignoring fire. And the longer you refuse to return quietly to your assigned role the more obvious the machinery becomes. People start correcting your tone mid disclosure. Start wincing harder at profanity than violence. Start asking whether forgiveness might help you heal before they as why the harm was allowed to continue. That one should rot in some of you for a while. Because forgiveness gets weaponized constantly against people still actively bleeding. As if healing means becoming easier for everyone else to look at. But the Battleground changes your eyesight. You start recognizing how often “be the bigger person” really means: return quietly to the position where the damage is easiest to manage, thank you! And once you hear that clearly something dangerous starts happening. Your fear and your anger stop facing each other. They start standing together. That’s when people really panic. Because afraid people still obey sometimes. People with nothing left but clarity? Those are harder to herd. And systems know it. That’s why clarity gets punished so quickly. Not because it’s incorrect. Because it’s contagious.

commentaries on the mysterium xarxes book 1 - SoundCloud Listen to commentaries on the mysterium xarxes book 1 by Bobby Bananabagle Hurgleson on #SoundCloud commentaries on the mysterium xarxes book 1 I forgot to put these here

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BREEZEWAY Publicly, there are no private lines. The outside world is a fantasy, he lost track of time. There might have been something lost in this transition To order bound soldier from rational civilian At the start of a new journey in this predicament. Marching every day in the thick of it. Living in barracks, which look like projects. In a new setting with all new effects. His fellow private reads a Dear john letter every night Cries to himself once we turn on the lights This military suppression makes him seek deliverance He thinks civilians have with proper guidance. 8 weeks of basic, 5 weeks of AIT. Our first duty station, What was said to me in MOS school? Success is a team player following the rules. I find myself wondering as well, my permanent injuries tell their own tale Stressed out-he was to be a chapter. His reward is extra duty, his life is a disaster He listens for the 4:1 5 am, trains of escapism for AWOLS. Soft seats time out of the elements for sick calls. Now cancerous his fear and discontent have grown deep I wonder about him guarding both of us in the foxhole while I sleep Barely 20 cast in a role as a man. Swore to protect and serve as he lifted his hand. Pretending for drill sergeants to have nerves of steel. Chanting redundantly one shot one kill. He’s been sent to the chaplain to find restitution. It may be there’s only one solution. in this occupation-there is no hesitation or you’ll be on the way to a darker destination Wondering if his old girlfriend has found a replacement. In a military marriage he thought was just an engagement one may say he’s in a place he shouldn’t be Sergeants call him a nonconformist, difference is diversity. We positioned ourselves, not as legends making history. More as willing counterparts of true effort-not hypocrisy This still isn’t anywhere what we were told or showed on t.v. Meanwhile-I look for blind justice and true democracy From the digital Ebook titled “The Dark truth and little White lies” by Enfantu Raa #original prose#literature#musings#poetry#words#prose and poetry#poems#poems and words#quotes#spilled thoughts#writings#the dark truth and little white lies

Adverse Possession Self-crowned “Southside Legend” I don’t think it works that way But whatever If you’re such a beloved figure what are you doing here? Most of your jobs are on that south end, your excuse for never being home, remember? Your best memories favorite houses—oh! don’t forget your bullshit crown. Get out of my town. I cut my teeth here I’m remembered by others outside my head This really is a small town same strangers every morning same bartenders every Friday same trucks same ferry line same waves same roads You sit long enough somewhere people remember your face Funny thing is I never saw yours until after we met now you’re everywhere Get out of my fucking town I see your truck and roll my eyes there you are again parking lots gas stations grocery stores our old haunts like this island copies and pastes you every few miles I mean, dude— this isn’t your fucking town You really think everybody knows you couple drinks a few jobs people recognizing your truck and suddenly you’re some local legend That’s cute Being recognized isn’t the same thing as mattering This island remembers everybody especially the ones desperate to be remembered the barstool version the customer service version the loud laugh big personality buy-me-a-round version that doesn’t make you important just familiar and small towns are full of familiar men You confuse being tolerated with being admired Small towns catch on eventually Get the fuck out of my town. Adverse Possession TwistedJinx Creations It Wasn’t Nothing: Spoken

TL;DR Part 4 That thought changes people. Slowly. Then all at once. Because once you start noticing the rules you start noticing who benefits from them. Who gets protected. Who gets doubted. Who gets called “difficult” the second their pain becomes inconvenient. And suddenly every room starts looking different. The laughter sounds rehearsed. The tension stops feeling invisible. The pauses start saying more than the conversations do. You begin noticing how often people already know. That’s the part that really fucks you up. Not ignorance. Recognition. The tiny expressions. The quick subject changes. The careful wording. The: don’t make this worse. don’t embarrass him. don’t ruin the family. don’t turn this into something bigger. As if it wasn’t already. As if silence shrinks damage. As if unspoken things stop existing. Children believe this for a while. They have to. Otherwise they’d have to accept something far more frightening: the people in the room see the blood and choose the carpet. Read that again: the people in the room see the blood and choose the carpet. Because the Battleground doesn’t start when the violence happens. It starts the moment you realize the witnesses were never confused. Just comfortable. And once that realization lands obedience starts rotting from the inside. You hesitate longer before apologizing. You start hearing how insane some of the rules sound out loud. Keep the peace. Be respectful. Don’t provoke him. As if another person’s cruelty is somehow controlled by your tone of voice. That’s when anger starts growing teeth. Not loud at first. Just sharp. Just tired. Just no longer willing to keep dragging everyone else’s denial across the finish line for them. And people hate that stage. Not the pain. Not the damage. The noticing. Because once someone starts naming the rules everyone benefiting from the silence gets nervous. Suddenly your tone matters more than the wound. Your delivery matters more than the damage. People start acting like anger arriving after harm is somehow more disturbing than the harm itself. Think about that. Really think about it. A person survives being broken carefully over years and the moment they stop speaking softly everyone suddenly finds their concern. Interesting timing. That’s when the rewriting starts. You’re bitter now. Unstable. Too emotional. Hard to talk to. Aggressive. Impossible to please. Funny how often clarity gets diagnosed as cruelty by people invested in confusion. And if you keep talking? If you keep naming things? That’s when the room divides. The uncomfortable. The defensive. The ones quietly realizing you’re right. The ones already planning how to discredit you before anyone listens too closely. Because truth changes value depending on who it threatens. That realization cost me years. Maybe more. Because once you start seeing the system clearly you start realizing how many people mistook your silence for consent. How many people called you “strong” because your suffering was convenient for them. How many people needed you functional far more than they needed you safe. That one lands hard later. Especially when you realize how many versions of “love” were just requests for continued access to your endurance. And by then anger isn’t the problem anymore. It’s grief. But not the Beast. The realization of how many people fed it while calling themselves protective. That’s when something inside me stopped kneeling. Not loudly. Not all at once. More like a hairline fracture spreading through glass. Tiny at first. Almost invisible. Until suddenly everything touched it. Questions lasted longer. Silence started itching. Certain apologies wouldn’t leave my mouth without tasting like blood. And people noticed. Funny how quickly systems react when obedience loses enthusiasm. The room changed. Voices sharpened. Patience shortened. Not because the damage increased. Because my willingness to carry it quietly decreased. That distinction matters.

Just vibing to myself 🤷🏾‍♂️💨🙌🏾 Long Live Big Bro Heaven by K. Exum

DON’T BITE THE HAND Once upon a time There were two hands Each one with a mind of its own The right hand did the writing The left hand-held paper and books And everything else together Left hand believes the right hand gets to do more Dropping papers and books handling former duties with an attitude that’s poor Everything’s a contest, Just to write with a pen Foolish as it is left hand must always win Left hand plots to be alone more with each confrontation Day after day constantly feuding The left hand is envious and jealous always brooding And finally decides to do something drastic Intent plus action equal results which are drastic One fine night left hand hides a knife in the books To act on the fiendish plan that has been made Cuts off the right hand filled of glee But now when writing and everything else must be done The left hand has no time to have fun Now the fingers are always are always sore, That’s what happens when you try to be cruel So never bite the hand that feeds Now who’s the fool? From the digital Ebook titled “The Dark truth and little White lies” by Enfantu Raa #original prose#literature#musings#poetry#words#prose and poetry#poems#poems and words#quotes#spilled thoughts#writings#the dark truth and little white lies

SOUL OF A SLAVE I’M THE-I’M THE SOUL-I’M THE SOUL OF AN OLD-I’M THE SOUL OF AN OLD BLACK SLAVE . Trapped in this body, seen hard days. Never received justice, for all he gave. Once wore gold, diamonds and jade. Kings and queens, herbal made. Worst mistake was the very 1st trade. After that, off guard in a haze. Pride did me in, wasn’t scared or fazed. A little bit confused, a whole lot amazed. Blinded by greed, and in a haze. Got me spinning around in your maze. We agreed verbally, then came a raid. Other skin man, took all in a rage. Locked us up, put us all in a cage. Herded livestock, like we in caves. Packed on wood ships, some died on the waves. Sold my whole tribe shackled on stage. Watched, brothers and babies come of age. Scorched by ferocious white hot sun’s gaze. Through picked cotton, plantation raves. Butler, nanny, cook or maid. Life time of service, never got paid. I’M THE-I’M THE SOUL-I’M THE SOUL OF AN OLD-I’M THE SOUL OF AN OLD BLACK SLAVE . Trapped in this body, seen hard days. Never received justice, for all he gave. Or a thank you for the roads I paved. Three fifth’s a man, became our gauge. Emancipated proclamation, and still slaves. Told to follow pre-made rules and behave. Kept illiterate, I couldn’t read a page. As we bailed hey, watched our kids play. Told us to pray, didn’t change evil ways. Fought for a country that turned me away. Civil war times, left dead where I lay. After we free, there’s nowhere to stay. Black only everything, still held at bay. Once, I saw the pro black panthers. They were destroyed like internal cancer. Meantime the klu klux Klan still here. How is that possible if truth’s fair? Or fair if you got blue eyes, blond hair. Things I speak on, you probably don’t care. Honesty, in these lands seem rare. Everything sold, even horse’s hair. I’M THE-I’M THE SOUL-I’M THE SOUL OF AN OLD-I’M THE SOUL OF AN OLD BLACK SLAVE . Trapped in this body, seen hard days. Never received justice, for all I gave. Do what society says, be saved. By the holy book, long as I accept lies. Instead of break mental chains and rise. And be powerful, asking questions. About high gas prices, rigged elections. One month celebration of our history. Eleven other months absent, mystery. Two amendments in the constitution. Freedom came, no restitution. More prosecution, poverty destitution. History books that we read. From a conquerors view of his own mighty deeds. Told everyday, we can all succeed. Secret pieces gave other skin the lead. My restless spirit float about as a seed. Planted in the conscious of those who feed. Off knowledge, power from within take heed. This be revolution til my soul be freed. Truthful retribution, my only need. Until you amend all past misdeeds. From the digital Ebook titled “The Dark truth and little White lies” by Enfantu Raa #original prose#literature#musings#poetry#words#prose and poetry#poems#poems and words#quotes#spilled thoughts#writings#the dark truth and little white lies

Spiraling Ganymede and Io Callisto and the Moon Europa and Titan with Triton too are tuned to planetary frequencies constantly embraced invisibly attracted as onwards they all race spiraling with planets spiraling with the Sun spiraling with the galaxy becoming what’s to come in the plasma ocean where everything takes place in perpetual motion through forever space energized by currents flowing in between the Interstellar Medium and this conscious stream… BCPOETRY.CA