Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Poetry by Michael "Yasir" Belt


Never let hope die!
Along with it goes your soul, and your emotional control;
never let hope die!
We all need something to hold onto.
A gleam, a glimmer of light.
Light, being life.
Life without light, a dim sight.
Blind, floating through darkness.
No sense of hope; no sense of mind.
Open your eyes.
Open your eyes and see, what could possibly be,
Destined to be.
A sense of hope; a stable mind.
The Light of life; a passer of time.
Never let hope die!

©Michael "Yasir" Belt 2015


Walk with me, through a place where the stench of decay is prevalent.
But watch your step, don’t trip, in a place where one slip, could render you irrelevant.
Where the pathways are strewn with hazmatic material.
Amongst a people for whom sobriety is sorry and intoxication is imperial.
Through the market place of open air whose multitude of venders are fatherless men.
As generations showing the latter the way, when the former simply learned consciouses contradiction.
Walk with me, in a land where it seems as if the only way out is the way in
Where one either surrenders to the succubuses, or rises above pigmented in corruption and sin.
In the belly of where morals and standards no longer exist.
With a people who were once emercified with pride, only for the proud to be dismissed.
Where teardrops are permanent stains, stemming from a mass multitude of things.
Tumultuous territory in which the morning bird cries instead of sings.
Through a kingdom where property is poverty to those few who own.
Governed by an incredulous communi(s)ty, from the people, for the people, its people, who siphon marrow from bone.
Walk with me, in a land where the catch of the day has clawed the closest to getting away.
Of a people who have come accustomed to Stockholm served as a 3 time daily entrée.
In a valley where roses come encased in glass.
Where an epidemic was instilled upon the destitute, which seemingly shall never pass.
A place in which it is common to find three generations of men housed under one roof.
At a complex where numbers are substituted for names and to be timid is uncouth.
Where an inconsideration for life is man’s accreditation.
Wade through a dense air whose fragrance of searing metal and lost souls grew from nauseating to acclimation.
Through a foreign territory for which those who are abroad seem not to care.
In a time when a day is merely 86,400 more seconds to bare.
Where the doctrine is different, the taught have studied meticulously and have yet to have learned a clue.
Even when iterated about in plain English, its meaning continues to be lost among you.
In a domain where if you are not a native, its customs would never make sense.
Where the majority of its inhabitants still in wait of recompense.

©Michael "Yasir" Belt 2015

Michael Belt KU8088 (pictured with"Baby Girl")
SCI Houtzdale
P.O. Box 1000
Houtzdale, PA 16698-1000

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