Monday, December 27, 2010

Reflective Movement By Jasen Sousa

Reflective Movement


Dusting off the past
wondering what to carry
into the future.

The weights of what I once bared
lightened by a stroll to the dumpster.

Boxed memories re-visited,
what I needed once,
what I don’t have use for anymore.

Change

exists in the draft

you feel
over your shoulder
which turns into a wind
and forces you out
of the comfort of home,
into the uncertainty
of what is yet unknown

and the journey
to collect new objects
which will inspire
tomorrow’s mission
begins.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Sitting, on the Corner By Jasen Sousa

Sitting, on the Corner


Her daughter and I listen carefully for the door to open,
cartoons play in the background.
Trying to color inside the lines,
the aroma of a chicken nugget dinner
creeps through the apartment.

Weeks of dishes sit in the sink.
I scrub, she chews,
and before she swallows,
she tugs on my shirt
wanting to play hide and go seek.
Slowly counting,
my fingers like tweezers
plucking soggy roaches from the tub.
Continuing the search,
trying to stand milk and soda on sloping shelves
while picking clothes off the floor
and shoving them into drawers filled with old LifeStyles.
“I can’t fit in there silly,” she yells!
The loser has to give a piggyback ride.
Bouncing off my back from side to side,
as much love as I could have for a little girl
who is not my own.
Her eyelids begin to stutter,
I tuck her in
gluing sheets to her chin.

Hours later the door slams, the blind
falls like it always does.
Heels explode on the floor,
dress parachutes to the carpet,
I stare at a figure that was once


only touched by my hands.
Her mom stares back, but I never say much.
Somewhere in our teens I stopped telling her
things would change.
I walk towards and open the door,
hang the blind and shut it softly.

I put on my headphones
and walk home
listening to my favorite song as it skips.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

A Night under the Stars By Jasen Sousa

A Night under the Stars


My favorite drug addict friend returns
to Somerville from a rehab stay in Miami.

Not allowed home because
of countless times he ripped off his family,
can’t chill with old friends
because he wants to stay clean.

We eat bagels and drink OJ
on benches at two in the morning,
watch fiends come in and out
of the 24-hour store.

We watch pigeons parade on top of streetlights,
the sun peeks out.

A night to stay awake.
A night to stay alive.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

My Mother’s Keeper By Jasen Sousa

My Mother’s Keeper


A song is the only way
this child can remember
my mother, Brenda,
I appreciate the way you
tried to defend her.

As a kid
I had a dumpster
for a crib, I crawled
out of trash,
I decided I wanted to live.
At that time my mom
didn’t know, but just like you
tried to show,
from nothing,
I was able to grow.

Didn’t know much about my dad,
and my grandfather couldn’t hug me
because he had needles sticking out of his arms,
rubber bands in his teeth
and syringes in his palms.

My mother was a prostitute
who was found slain,
I appreciate the young man
who gave her a name.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

American Fiend By Jasen Sousa

American Fiend


A mother begins to consume,
her child develops
inside of a premature tomb.

That which will free her.
That which will enslave her seed.
A baby is born, a baby cries
because it feels the need to feed.

A heritage of needles and syringes,
rehab and relapse. Chemicals fade
our genes as we count veins
on the bark of a rotting family tree.

General injections
create her addictive complexion,
hanging on an Art Deco corner,
Miss Wrecked Whacko.

An addict’s faith,
sniffing broken down clouds off a crucifix
for the ultimate high.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Mr. Businessman By Jasen Sousa

Mr. Businessman


Mr. Businessman I see you often,
you walk briskly by me every morning
as I’m changing the trash that is rotten.
You wait for the elevator, yawning.
We cross paths, but never make eye contact,
I would like to introduce who I am.
I’m the one who keeps your office intact,
yes sir, I am that invisible man.
Your desk shines because of my elbow grease,
your windows are spotless because of me.
If something goes missing, I am the thief,
hot justice for those without a degree.
It’s this man’s business to ignore my life.
I clean and dream to be seen in plain sight.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Mattuchio’s Scrap Metal By Jasen Sousa

Mattuchio’s Scrap Metal


My grandfather walks
the streets of Somerville
and collects materials
the rest of the city considers trash
and brings them back to his underground factory.

He piles screens,
doors, handles, lead, everything
but the, oh, wait, there is a kitchen sink too.

On a Saturday we load
the back of the truck,
grunts, bangs.

We drive as partners, businessmen,
to Chelsea, MA and arrive
at Mattuchio’s Scrap Metal.

We unload the truck
into two laundry bins, separate copper
and lead from aluminum
and wheel them into what looks
like a former airplane hanger.

The Italian man covered
in dirt and dust weighs
the aluminum, the copper and the lead.

He pulls out a wad
of 20’s and gives
my grandfather three hundred bucks.

We get into the truck
and ride back to Somerville.
He talks on the way home, anxious
to show my Grandmother
the killing he made off other people’s junk.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Life’s Dust By Jasen Sousa

Life’s Dust


First,
there is uncertainty you will make it,
but it’s a path you must take if you wish to stay.
Even with little chance, it’s a trip you must take.
Look down, close your eyes and follow the way.

Second,
you are now in position.
Others fear you have made it this far.
They watch you closely, they look and listen.
Look up and observe the glow of the one true falling star.

Third,
you are almost home.
Dig your feet in the dirt, be ready to run.
This is something you must do on your own
underneath a fluorescent sun.

Life’s dust,
spirits who live
on the diamond of life.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

A Shovel’s Pulse By Jasen Sousa

A Shovel’s Pulse


Every August 17th
I go to the hardware store
and buy a shovel.

I leave my car
in the lot,
put the shovel over my shoulder
and march to the same patch of grass.

I begin at hell
and go deeper.

Shadows mock me,
I dig for answers.

I reach the casket
and lie on top of it,

my breath creates a fog
on the dirt-covered wood.

I carve his initials
and watch them disappear.

I speak and hope
one of these times,
my friend will hear.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Death of a Poet By Jasen Sousa

Death of a Poet


Last night I killed a poet.
Before I let him take
his last breath I tortured
him like only another poet could.

My mentor let me into his house
as usual. We said hello,
he staggered to quiet
the tea pot.

As he handed me a cup
and saucer, shaking,
I punched him in the face,
sending the poet to the ground,
out cold.

I unzipped my backpack
and took out tape and rope,
I placed them on his couch.
I picked up his limp body,
snuggled him into the chair
in the living room
near the fireplace.

While his shoulder held
his head, I duct taped
his mouth and tied his hands
and feet with rope.

I went into his bedroom
where he kept his notebooks
full of poems and great first lines.
The elderly man did
not store anything electronically,
I proceeded demonically.

He taught me how poetry
was supposed to look,
how great poets used form
and meter in their books.

He constrained my freedom
as a writer, as a human being.
His gray hair moved in front
of the fire like a solar eclipse.

There was nothing to say.

I threw his manuscripts,
some whole notebooks,
some page by page,
into the flames
as I watched canals develop
inside immodest wrinkles.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

A Voice from the Toolbox By Jasen Sousa

A Voice from the Toolbox


Grass burns.
Lights bulbs flicker.
Paint peels.
Trash overflows.

Faces are not recognized.
Uneducated logo-bearers painted with blue collars,
underpaid, overworked and unappreciated

by men whose sense and compassion are strangled by bowties.

Compensation? I hope they factor in
bad backs, strains and stress
which were received at the end of
every week with our pay stubs.

We are offered numbers. We are numbers.
All we desire is respect and truth.

The scuffs from our work boots are forever imbedded
into a campus that struggles with what type of saving

they stand for.

Sweat stitched into the brim of my hat
will always remind me of snowstorms,
furniture in and out of basements and maintenance
to keep a place functioning.

Our lockers will be stuffed
with new items,
our chairs will carry
the burdens of other men.

“How many people does it take
to change a light bulb?”

Not as many as it takes to
disrupt ones livelihood.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Project Hallways By Jasen Sousa

Project Hallways


The wall’s paint,
same color as people’s hope.
Getting buzzed
in, lost in clouds of smoke.
Permanent as graffiti and urine lakes
hovering inside project gates
it stays in the air,
continues to float.

Empty Heineken bottles
grow out of staircases.
Walking up the steps, eyes stare
out of cracked opened doors. Never to see their faces.
A baby’s cries echoes through the hallway skies.
Magic marker memorials of everyone in the projects who dies.
Outside the broken window, worn out sneakers hanging
from cable wires by their laces.

A single mother off at work,
her two children sit in a dark corner and blaze.
Trying her hardest to get out, but gets stuck
in society’s economic maze.
Walking through the hallways are family, friends, foes.
The flickering bulb finally blows. Those
long never ending
project hallways.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

An Elder’s Tale Jasen Sousa

An Elder’s Tale


I am an elderly man, the last
remaining solider of the Israelite army.

I once believed in convenient worship and desired
to remain on familiar grounds. For who wants to live,
better yet, who wants to die in an unknown land
and be buried by strangers?

We wished Moses
would have let us be as comfort greatly outweighs truth.
None of us believed what this prophet promised
about a strange protection
we knew nothing of. It is hard to believe in things you can’t see,
but then we seen

as a powerful wind turned water into land
and we were allowed to cross. The Egyptians followed,
but they were pursued by a sea that was not as kind to them. Submerged,
still chariot wheels were the last we saw of them

and the sound of dead Egyptian soldiers being swallowed
by the Red Sea was drowned out and replaced by tambourines
and trumpets which began playing inside of me on this day
and have not stopped since…




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

The Low-Paid Beautiful By Jasen Sousa

The Low-Paid Beautiful


Arthur is the worst smelling man you will ever meet.
Screaming and yelling at one another,
his children in and out of the bathroom all morning,
he has already left for work.

Nine people live in his three room apartment,
two of them are not family.
The moment his shift starts
he can’t wait to go home.

Arthur’s young boys and their ashy skin,
lay on what used to be a hardwood floor
stretching down a narrow hallway.
Balancing their snack filled stomachs, playing videogames,
they have everything in the world they could ever want.

The one lonely table in the center of the kitchen.

The chairs are missing and the only light
comes from the aqua clock blinking on the microwave.
Mattresses get in the way of opening the fridge,
the kids never have to travel far to eat.

Arthur carries a blade in his blue gym bag
in case old beefs resurface.
The little he has

makes it even tougher to lose.
What’s left of the pay stub goes to his wife Diane,
the rest goes to his girl MaryJane.
Cash to keep love, cash to get lifted.

No bank account, no raises in sight,
no promotion in this lifetime.
Gets to work earlier than his boss,
Arthur realizes waking up is a miracle.

His overgrown belly, salt and pepper beard and the way
he coughs after inhaling from his asthma pump.
Arthur limps when he walks, the shoelaces on his boots
are always untied and flailing.
Yeah, he is his family’s hero.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Portrait of a Prostitute By Jasen Sousa

Portrait of a Prostitute


Not the pimp, and not the participant,
only the painter who captured a scene
of a girl wondering where her life went,
a profession that began at fifteen.
Not trying to add, but remove color,
erasing the bruises around her eyes
from different men who told her they love her,
and the shadowy tears from when she cries.
Swollen feet, twenty-four hours on heels,
layers of makeup to cover her pain.
Exposes parts, true beauty not revealed,
deep in my heart her image will remain.
My portrait of a prostitute I knew,
the most somber picture I ever drew.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Ghosts of the Playground By Jasen Sousa

Ghosts of the Playground


Remaining leaves try to
crawl over basketball court fences,
I walk past the park, step
over bones scattered on asphalt.

I see Earl “The Goat” Manigault
stand on a ladder and thread a net
through iron tassels on a rusty rim.

I see Richard “Pee Wee” Kirkland
with a broom, he sweeps dirt
and sand towards the sidelines.

I see James “Fly” Williams
with a paint brush, he touches up the key
and makes it glow once again.

I see Lewis “Black Magic” Lloyd
with a tape measure, he makes sure
the rim is 10-feet-tall.

I see Herman “Helicopter” Knowings
wipe dust off the top of backboards.

I see Curtis “CJ” Jones
throw away broken beer bottles
and syringes.

I see Joe “The Destroyer” Hammond
slam down thunderous jams,
“Seems fine to me.”

People walking by bump into me
and point out how much the baskets
shake from the wind.

Now I know who prepares
the courts for nice weather.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Roxbury Crossing Concert By Jasen Sousa

Roxbury Crossing Concert


It crawls into Roxbury Crossing,
horn blows at rowdy crowds.
Kids fresh out of school pile on.

An older man escapes the closing doors.
Dresses like he is still in the 80’s,
tongues on his Nike’s lick
halfway up his neon green sweat pants.
Kango covers his eyes,
boom box at the base of his feet.

The train begins to move,
he bends down,
gold rope dusts the floor.

He presses play,
beats level the train.

He begins to dance, clap
and stomp his feet and kids
from bad neighborhoods
who aren’t supposed to
be able to get along, let down
their guard and begin to groove
in perfect harmony.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Discovery By Jasen Sousa

Discovery


In 1965 my father left all he knew.
11-years-old, on a journey to reunite
with his father who had left years earlier
to build a new life in America.
Fascinated with the anticipation of flight, he left
the island of Saint Miguel on a small plane, watching
grazing cows diminish in size by the second. Before America,

there was the island of Santa Maria
and the hotel Pencao Batista where my father
became enamored by a tiny switch in the bedroom.
Summoning light on command was magical for a young boy
who had never experienced electricity. A larger plane

took him across unfamiliar waters
until he was welcomed by intimidating buildings
of New York. He didn’t understand the way people spoke,
looked or acted. Like cattle, he and the others
on the plane where pushed, poked, and pointed towards Boston

where his father waited to introduce wonders of a new world.
He watched television for a few minutes before telling his father to
turn it off so the battery wouldn’t die. 45 years vanished

before my father went back
to Portugal to see the house he grew up in
and familiar faces from his neighborhood.
He experienced the same feeling as when
he first arrived in America.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Hawk Eyes By Jasen Sousa

Hawk Eyes


Three remain, I serve with no name,
the only diner still open.
A lonely man silently weeps,
a couple dreams of love, hoping.

All of their coffee is ice cold,
apologizing for hours.
A hand she does not want to hold,
she will not accept his flowers.

I listen to the friends argue,
the bright lights flicker when they swear.
Their anger towards each other grows,
sense the end of their bond is near.

My back aches from standing all day,
the dishwater has aged my hands.
“It is time to be on your way.”
Finally, everybody stands.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Map of the Battlefield By Jasen Sousa

Map of the Battlefield


Her skirt bounced, she trudged up subway stairs,
barricaded by her weight and bags she held.
At the back of her legs, I was forced to stare
at calves and ankles which were permanently swelled.

Fluorescent rivers flowed through aged skin,
faded scars of stitches, zippers that will never open.
Unshaved stubble, lost in the rubble, hundreds of surviving brave men.
The glare of the battle scene soaked in sweat and lotion.

Bombs exploded, left large holes,
hitting hard enough to bruise and dig trenches, but not deep enough to bleed.
Shade covered parts of her legs from mountainous moles,
as she stumbled, I heard the spirits of fallen soldiers trying to breathe.

Gun shot wounds, blisters bulged over the back of her heel,
a telling tale of this woman’s personal plight.
A battle which has left wounds that will never heal.
A map of the battlefield, a forgotten war and an unknown soldier’s fight.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Rachel’s By Jasen Sousa

Rachel’s


I walk up Highland Avenue
from the train station.
I spot a large woman sitting on a porch.

“Young man, young man.
Can you go to the corner store
and buy me soda and paper towels?” She asks.

She hands me money, feels
like a wet sock.

Back to her house, she’s gone,
the front door is open.

I tiptoe towards the threshold,
hear heavy breathing echoing
throughout the eerie environment.

“Hello?”

“Over here, over here.”
“I’m on the couch,” she huffs.

I give her the bag,
she thanks me.

“One more thing young man,

in my basement, there’s an air conditioner.
It’s so hot, can you please install it for me?”

I turn the doorknob,
it falls off on first touch.

Cobwebs stick to my face, it sits on a crate.
I lift, carry it up narrow stairs,
brute weight carves into my forearms.

I install it.
She thanks me again.

“One more thing please.
The sun is so bright. See those green drapes on the floor?
Can you please hang them for me?’

I balance myself on an old chair,
sun blinds my vision,
I hang her drapes.

“Thank you! Thank you!
One more thing I promise.
I’m going to start
a business in my house,
can you make a sign for me?
It’s really too hot for me to do anything.”

I place fresh marker tips on cardboard,
carefully curve my letters.
I finish the sign
and place it in the window.

I leave her house,
look at the air conditioner,
green drapes and the sign that reads,


Rachel’s Psychic Readings




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

The Laugh of Flora Gonzalez By Jasen Sousa

The Laugh of Flora Gonzalez


Flora’s spray painted graffiti gray hair,
her intricate colorful maze sweaters.
Fluorescent lights and her jewelry’s glare.
The graceful way she draws her letters.
Nothing compares to the sound and the way
it bounces off the confined classroom walls.
Bellowing laugh, Cuban missile astray,
debris from the explosion slowly falls,
blending embers, her smile surrenders.
A sound a student couldn’t help but remember.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Bliss By Jasen Sousa

Bliss


How can the poor open their ears to me
when they live in shacks
half-clothed and hungry?

How can captives listen
when chains strangle their spirits?

How can the blind see
vivid images I speak of?

Oppression and the struggle
to change your train of thought
to believe you are relevant.

Change surrounds us,
and located inside of change, is fear.

Fear that friends who inspire us
will become strangers.

Fear, that allows us to look
more closely into a world
which has been forgotten
by those who do not fear anything.

Powerful spirits cannot
keep still for long,
change allows hope to move into
places where it is needed.

Hope exists in that which is present
and it also exists in that
which is missing,

and it pulsates inside special people
who are able to build strength and courage
in those who do not have the energy
to listen,

so they can one day speak and be heard.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

617 625-8141 By Jasen Sousa

617 625-8141


This morning I called my grandmother.
There was no answer.

She must have went for a walk
to Davis Square with her elderly neighbor friend
to pick up milk and bread,

or

maybe she was down on her hands and knees
scrubbing the bathroom floor
restoring grout to its original shine,

or

maybe she had the mixer on
blending ingredients to a delicious cake,

or

maybe she was in the cellar
putting clothes in the dryer, gently
as she put muffins in the oven.

I call her every morning
knowing there won’t be an answer.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Boys with Bats By Jasen Sousa

Boys with Bats


They don’t understand our obsession with bats.
We scavenge through city streets,
look for our weapons of choice.
We scour through garbage,
leave barrels lying on their sides,
high-five upon their demise.
We raid abandoned buildings
and throw rocks through small square panels
of muck covered glass for practice.

We find hockey sticks, lead pipes and tree limbs
to go along with brooms we swiped from our parents.
Grinning young craftsmen sawing down sticks to our liking.
We blow away dust and tape both ends,
leave plenty of room to choke up.
We bring spray paint
to make sure everyone knows their way home.

We enter the park,
cigarette smoke
and foul language follows us.
Sagging fences surround, we splash
through puddles and crush lonely grass
that grows from cracks in the concrete.
We dress in our specific street colors
and wait to see if any other neighborhood kids
are up for a challenge.

Maybe it’s true what everyone says about us
being hoodlums and thugs.
With our bats, backwards caps, socks up to our knees,
beaters showing off our tats and crucifixes
dangling around our skinny necks.
But today, we are baseball players.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Dealing By Jasen Sousa

Dealing


When I was younger I watched them hang on corners
next to payphones and mom and pop shops.
When I was a little older they recruited me
and taught me the ways of the drug trade, but I
always wanted to start a business
where I could inspire customers
instead of destroying them.

I learned to package my product,
break it down into its purest form
and sell it to the same audiences
who have something missing in their lives.

OG’s explained to me how powerful drugs were.
Told me I could have all the money and girls
I could ever want, but they never taught me
about another product I could give to people
more powerful than addiction.

My words.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

80 Proof Water By Jasen Sousa

80 Proof Water


He approached as I waited for the train,
he stood, but his eyes were barely open.
Extending his hand telling me his name,
skinny shoulders, seriously sloping.
Skull tattoos covered his trembling arms,
his ghostly gray goatee moved as he spoke.
Told me tales of his time in Vietnam
and how he had just finished smoking dope.
Close to the tracks, he began to wobble,
he spoke to me, “Please don’t let me fall in.”
Offered vodka from a water bottle,
time seemed to stall as I recall my grin.
The train finally came, we both boarded.
A man distorted, a man recorded.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Street Magician By Jasen Sousa

Street Magician


I pull my dream out of the sewer
and mold it
into a guitar case.

The breath from the monster
living under the city tries to blind me,
I place it down
on the corner.

I stand by it
for a good portion of my life,
crowds walk through me.
Black furry skin
slowly drowns in change.

I smile, money spills
over onto the street,
each night I go home
and empty it out
until I have enough to go to college.

I go back to the corner,
place my dream down
and walk away.
I hope someone finds it
and shapes it into something that excites them.

Years later,
I come back,
the only person
watching a young boy perform.
We make eye contact,
I drop a nickel into nothingness.

The next time I go
and see the young man
it costs me 50 bucks,
he now performs under stars
hovering above a stage.

I still feel like I am
the only person watching.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

The Dishwasher Who Taught Me about Life By Jasen Sousa

The Dishwasher Who Taught Me about Life


Whenever I see a plate
sitting in a sink
begging to be washed,
I think of him.

His large mustache,
chubby cheeks,
white checkered pants,
and black apron.
His name was Wilfredo.

It was my first job.
I was a teenager,
he was in his 40’s.
8-hour shifts
and 5-day weeks
were rare.
The overwhelming crowds
at lunch and dinner we came to master
and laugh about.

During 15-minute breaks
I sat with him on the loading dock
on bread crates tipped upside down
while he continued to fill
an old tomato can with butts.

He taught me about the girl
tattooed on his arm and the son
he got to see a few times a month.
He taught me to always be on time
and how not to call in sick
because of a stuffy nose, headache,
shriveled hands and sore back,
because those were symptoms people like us
had to live and work with everyday.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

The Fading Moon By Jasen Sousa

The Fading Moon


Like a man without a home singing a sweet tune under a fading moon,
the center of my world is growling.
Heading underground hoping my ride will arrive soon,
my pupils looking for light, pacing and prowling.

My life starts moving, conducted by a sound which has become annoyingly soothing.
Comfort is not part of my day, so I choose to stand
near a young man with white strings that sing, his eyes closed, grooving.
Clinging to a pole, my athletically, aging, elderly hand.

The dusty bolder like books in my bag make my shoulders sag.
My cluttered brain, how much more information can it retain?
My fractured unfortunate frame I no longer wish to drag.
Inside the rumbling I hear a familiar voice, “next stop,” call out a familiar name.

The doors swang open loud to a gang banging crowd,
who greet you with spiteful, sweaty stares.
Like a bull, making my way through the heap one by one as I’m allowed,
I step over sections of a broken mirror, skipping up subway stairs.

Not noticing how old I am becoming, the toll of all the running, I sigh without regret.
Slanting slightly upon my spot, back propped on a quaint wall, paint always freshly wet.
Standing alone next to a silhouette of a young couple dancing under an orange sky, and yet

no one else knows of the only place in the entire city where the sun will never set.




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Underneath My Eyelids By Jasen Sousa

Underneath My Eyelids


If there is no Heaven
where I get the chance to be a saint,
through my words I have created
a world of my own
with ink in my pen as the paint.

If there is no life
after death,
I don’t want to spend
forever in the dark.
I might not be able to
open my eyes again, so,
under my eyelids I painted a portrait
of all that was in my heart.
I presume it will be lonely
once they bury me in a coffin,
mosaics of my mind
I will be able to view
while my body is deteriorating
and rotting.

My thoughts,
my journeys,
my visions,
to ensure my life
will not be forgotten.
I imagine death
to be like a dream


where you lay in peace
and view fragmented images
of moments with meaning.

No matter how much formaldehyde
they pump in my veins,
they will never be able to wash away
the portraits that remain.
Pictures of family who I have loved,
friends who I have specially selected,
great people in my life
who I have admired and respected.
Powerful, passionate, portraits,
painted underneath my eyelids
to ensure beauty in the beyond,
the art which I have perfected.




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

The Preacher’s Daughter By Jasen Sousa

The Preacher’s Daughter


The preacher and his daughter
lived on the campus of a monastery,
the atmosphere didn’t allow her to be unique.
Unaware she would stick her finger
down her throat after a bite to eat.
The preaching father didn’t bother
until he found out his daughter
did favors for a quarter.
Insides bleeding,
hanging out late in the evening
on the corner
of a street.
Left the house dressed in jeans and sneakers,
came out looking like Superwoman
after she hopped out of her pimp’s back seat.
See-through shirt
and six inch heels on her feet.
Discrete and upbeat,
coming home looking flawlessly neat.
Felt the heat to make more money
working the beat.

Lost all hope,
you’re saying she could still be saved...
Nope!
Started sniffing lines of coke,
giving head until her eyes watered
and turned bloodshot red.
Men didn’t let her come up for air.
Choke.

Addicted to drugs, fake love and
the feeling of hot sperm
trickling down her throat.
Hooking up, hooked on prescription pills
and ends the day on her porch puffing
marijuana smoke.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Waiting… By Jasen Sousa

Waiting…


Every morning at 6:35 A.M.
there is a woman who waits,
sits like a statue
with the same expression
on her face.
Extremely attractive, but yet
distracted.
Head turned to the side, she stares
knowing what she is waiting for
may never appear.

So still, so silent,
it doesn’t look like she breaths in air.
Trees keep her company, leaves change
from orange to red, to yellow,
to branches that are bare.

Birds chirp, bees buzz,
this woman doesn’t put up an umbrella
in the rain.
Snow plows growl, shovels scrape the pavement,
from those same trees
icicles hang, as
she continues to wait
for a moment that never came.

She keeps her ankles with no socks
and her fingers with no rings
crossed, her palms press down
on a mysterious brown box.

People sit down next to her,
she doesn’t acknowledge them,
she never talks.
The lonely lady sits on the bench
and continues to linger,
her brown hair blows in the wind
and on this little brown box
she gently taps her right index finger.
Patient,
contemplating,
waiting…



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

A Slightly Slanted, Slightly Enchanting Bench By Jasen Sousa

A Slightly Slanted, Slightly Enchanting Bench


On the outskirts of the city’s dirt and grime
is a secret place hidden by tall trees and twisting trails.
Put together with concrete bookends and rusty nails
is a slightly slanted, slightly enchanting bench I call mine.
It stands there and waits for me to arrive
after my hectic schedule which ends and begins again at five.
Painted with shadows, limbed brushes sketch over the sun’s shine.
Leaves fall slowly from the sky without a chance to say goodbye.
Every time I come back I hear the same bird cry,
it saves me a seat, it knows I’m on my way.
The perfect place to end one part and begin the next part of my day.
When society tries to leave me behind
as the world moves fast,
this bench is where I go to clear my mind.
A lifetime elapsed.




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Heading out of Control By Jasen Sousa

Heading out of Control


Kerri lives on the street
behind me. She’s 12-years-old with a figure
that’s pretty plump and kinda chunky,
she stands at about 4’3”
so, she’s pretty short and kinda stumpy.

Not quite a teenager,
but she is already participating in activities
meant for adults,
thinking sexy,
acting sexy,
looking sexy,
makes sex the eventual result.

Puberty hasn’t taken over her body,
yet she has the ability
to make every 15-year-old boy’s heart melt.
Her parents showed little affection at home,
Kerri only experienced love
when she was being felt.

I call her an entrepreneur
because she started her own business.
The name of her company, How to Unbuckle a Boy’s Belt.
Right off the bat business was booming,
word hit the street
and Kerri experienced great success.
Called her the head doctor
because she was too young

to engage in anything, but oral sex.
Profits and penis’ were rising by the minute.
Cash was the preferred payment,
her customers were too young
for credit cards and checks.

Down the street from her house
was an abandoned garage
where she conducted her covert operation,
it’s the spot where young kids
from the neighborhood
would give in to pleasurable temptation.
It looked like a ride at a Disney World vacation,
with kids standing in line anxiously waiting.
At the end of the night Kerri was soaking wet
from sperm and perspiration.

Kerri is heading out of control
before she blew out a cake
with 16 candles,
becoming a pro, taking two customers at a time,
holding on for dear life to hard handles.
A dirty business
that will go down as one of the all-time top scandals.




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

A Tale of Two Cities, 2005 By Jasen Sousa

A Tale of Two Cities, 2005


In one city houses are surrounded
by white picket fences
with flowers growing freely on their lawn,
illustrate a picture of a perfect community
and this city would be drawn.
Freshly painted houses never chip,
nothing in this community could be tainted.
Doors stay unlocked
without bars on the windows,
if you get chilly all you have to do is turn up the heat
every time the cold wind blows.
People go to work everyday
accomplishing their goals,
they go home and eat delicious dinners
and always have extra butter
to spread on their rolls.
In one city people are selfish
and only watch out for their own backs,
but today they’re going to take a trip
and see how people
live on the other side of the tracks.

Houses are falling apart,
people’s sidewalks and lawns
are filled with litter.
Look around someone’s house in this city
and it won’t be too long
before you spot a tiny little critter.
Paint has been peeling
off houses for years,
drenched by acid rain
from troublesome tears.
People peek out of their blinds
to catch a glimpse of the sun,
parents don’t let their children go out after dark


because every kid on these streets
either has a knife or a gun.
People stay in bed
because their desire is dead,
they only get up and go to work
to make sure their family is fed.
People get jealous
and crimes are committed,
the hearts that beat in this community are filled with hate
and it will never change unless
their spirits are lifted.
People from this city
have a harder time trying to make it because
the world believes
anything that grows here could not be gifted.

This is a tale of two cities
which takes place in the year 2005.
In one city people leave their house and live,
in the other city people leave their house
and hope to survive.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

A Boy and His Ball By Jasen Sousa

A Boy and His Ball


A boy shoots his ball
long after everyone has went home, until no one else is around.
A boy bounces his ball
from when the sun goes up, until the sun goes down.

A boy cradles his ball
in his arms like a newborn.
The last thing he thinks about before bed,
the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning.

The ball could never be torn out of his arms,
the ball is there for his escape.
He kept shooting and dribbling
until he was no longer good, until he was great.

A boy and his ball together at the playground, it is his life,
to others it might just be a game.
It is how he is known around town,
the ball has given the boy his name.

While others are up to no good
you will always find a ball in the boy’s hands.
The ball teaches and disciplines the boy,
it has helped him become a man.

He knows if he keeps practicing
he will be able to conquer all competition.
Throughout the neighborhood
the sound of swishing.

He shoots away his troubles until he is no longer upset.
His despair, with every dribble it seems to disappear
as the boy watches his ball, float
gracefully through the air.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Sound of Color By Jasen Sousa

Sound of Color


A
shadow
is cast
behind
your
aging ash.

Cobwebs
and
dust
are the only parts
left of you
to touch.

In my room
the shades
are shut
tight,
I can’t tell
whether it’s
day or night.
The body bag
is
zipped tight.

A
soul
has smothered,
assuring tears
would be shed by
your mother.

From what
you had
swallowed,


forever
ended tomorrow.

Outlines
of faded images
are
my only memories.
I remember it like it was yesterday,
standing in
the cemetery.

I remember
sliding into my suit
which was
solemnly stitched.
Traveling
down roads
of dried up blood
which lined
my wrists.

Putting on
my
sunglasses
wondering about
the strange way
time passes.
I tried to
listen to the
priest speak,
but became distracted
by mascara
streaking down every
woman’s cheek.
Watching them
carry you out of
the hearse,


standing in mud
which at some point
used to
be dirt.
Mortals,
spirits and lost souls
observed.
Eyes are closed,
vision
permanently
blurred.
As they lower you
into the ground,
over your casket
I held an umbrella.

On this day
I heard
the sound of color.




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Urban Monk By Jasen Sousa

Urban Monk


In a crowded city it is hard to breathe,
trying to inhale air so stale.
Mixed in with the breeze,
truth, lies, cigarette smoke and weed.
In a crowded city it is hard to believe.

Bare trees, girls on their knees,
the frail figures of drug addicts.
In a crowded city there is not much room to grieve.

Where does someone go to find inner peace in the streets?
Is there a place to experience tranquil thoughts?
I can’t concentrate with sirens,
beeps and the homeless woman who weeps.
Where do I go when I can’t escape my own heartbeat?
Running from my problems, from a broken family and from the cops,
no matter how pure, into my soul, sickness slowly seeps.

Hard to not walk in the same shoes as earlier crews,
easy money to make, hard to refuse.
Peers trying to convince me to be the same, I’m trying to change.
The effects of pollution and poverty, look at the sky,
it’s no longer painted with beautiful blues.
Everyday the papers are reporting the same violent news.
It’s in my brain, to fit in I have to wear gold chains
while gangs are my only real family.
I live in a society where there is little to gain and even less to lose.

It’s time to be serious,
this is no time to laugh,
if I don’t find a way out I am going to explode.
The cities wicked wind has me lost in its wrath.
This is the point in my life where I’m at…

While my friend is getting a gun to load,
I walk a different road.
I am an urban monk
who searches for a different path.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Tomb of the Unknown Writer By Jasen Sousa

Tomb of the Unknown Writer


His life came to a tragic end
before we learned of the legendary man
who held the pen.

Why did he choose not to sign?
Masterful material
from a mysterious mind.
When will we discover what drove his greatness?
When will we learn what decided his fate?

His scripture was something to behold.
A man who wrote
some of the greatest tales ever told.

A man who knew
his end was near.
Prophetic perception
that brings people to his grave
just to stare.
His name still missing, alas,
the tomb of the unknown writer
and his suspicious shadow cast.




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

I’m in Love with a Prostitute named Patricia By Jasen Sousa

I’m in Love with a Prostitute named Patricia


I fell in love with Patricia
long before she started selling
her body for money.
She’s still my girl
even though other men call her honey.

Patricia knew I loved her deeply,
she also knew her profession was slowly killing me.
Employed with a career that slowly destroys,
she was not a bad person,
only someone with limited possibilities.
When she was 12
her father introduced her to oral sex,
a true tale
with a moral everyone might not get.

Patricia’s mom passed away when she was 13,
that was her best friend.
It signified the beginning of the end as
she became pregnant at 14,
had her baby at 15,
spent nine months as an expectant mother
and nine months as a dope fiend.

Needle-fed heroine
into her daughter’s blood stream.
The baby didn’t want to get high,
but when you’re an embryo
no one can hear you scream.
A mother and an addict
who will never kick her habit,
it’s the only way
she knows how to cope with dilemmas.
I can still picture it now,
a cigarette in her hand

while her body experienced tremors.
I remember being at the house
washing the floor and doing the dishes,
hoping that I could rejuvenate her mind
to once again experience wishes.

I could not provide comfort
for the entire day,
she needed to make her pay
and being a prostitute was the only known way.

I wish
I was the only man in her life
who got to hug and kiss her.
She might be a prostitute named Patricia,
but on my dresser I’ll always have her picture
and tell her every night how much I miss her.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Lexington Park’s Last Stand: The Battle between Somerville and Charlestown By Jasen Sousa

Lexington Park’s Last Stand:
The Battle between Somerville and Charlestown


The summer heat
was at an all time high,
the night was calm, the air
was dry. The scene was the same
as any other night, Lexington Park
illuminated by one single street light.
Kids were playing basketball
while others hung out
on the long legendary concrete wall.
Boys trying to mack
pushed girls on the tire swing,
some smoked weed, drank beers
and did other illegal things.
Rumors swirled for weeks
that these Charlestown cats
were coming to our spot in Somerville
strapped with gats.
Lexington Park’s fame
had been put on the map,
so much in fact, that people we didn’t know
from another city were plotting an attack.
We sat, we laughed, we waited,
some of us sober, some of us faded.
This was the night it finally escaladed.
Cars sped down the avenue,
music thumping, kids yelling profanity.
The night Lexington Park
erupted with insanity.

We thought
they were scared to stop,
complete silence,
just as everyone shrugged it off,

out of nowhere, the violence.
They abandoned their cars around the block
and rushed us from all sides,
Lexington Park was the battleground
where Somerville and Charlestown would collide.

They didn’t bring guns, but they brought
plenty of bats and hockey sticks.
The last thing I seen before I got hit,
hanging from a telephone wire,
a white pair of kicks.
We heard sirens
and all of us ran,
I must have landed a punch
as I looked at my swollen hand.
A few of us took cover
on a stranger’s back steps,
licking our wounds
and catching our breath.
Hearts beating out of our chests,
looking at each other wide-eyed,
happy we escaped death.
Hours later everything settled down,
we went back to the park
and thought about the possibility of revenge
in city dark.

Truth is,
we never found out who they were,
kids from Charlestown
who attacked in a blur.
Because of the commotion
the city thought it was time to rebuild


and tear down the park where many of us
learned our life skills.
A place you could go
when everything else in your life
was wrong, a place where
you always felt like you belonged.

A week later Lexington Park
was demolished. Some of us went on to jail,
Heaven, work and college.
The same sneakers still hang
from their laces under a Somerville sky.
Lexington Park’s last stand,
a moment in our neighborhood’s history
that will never die.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©


*(Previously Unreleased)

Swinging in Time By Jasen Sousa

Swinging in Time


She sat down on a swing listening to birds sing,
her beautiful brunette hair flared through the air.
A young girl without a care in the world swung back and forth inching closer to the sun.
This young radiant fair maiden with a gorgeous glare,
her feet so light, never touched the ground after taking flight.
Sun submerged out of sight and fell into night.

The sun rose like a flower, leaves sweaty from a nights shower,
the young girl rode the wind sitting on a morning breeze.
Never bending her knees, she kept gliding gracefully, innocently, playfully.
Silent rhymes came from wind chimes dangling on trees,
I looked out the window at a young girl, painting a picture with my brush
capturing a scene perfectly lush.

Days passed, she continued to sway forth and back.
The material hanging from the bottom of her dress swayed, the sky grayed.
Sipping lemonade out of a cracked glass, not aware of the dead grass,
she stayed for most of her life on the swing as everything around her decayed.
The swing slightly started to tilt, the flowers started to wilt, the swing started to rust,
the woman has now been diluted by a cloud of dust

settling a little at a time, I peeked out my blind.
Startled by steam screaming from my tea kettle, in my direction, she stared.
The swing stopped swinging, the birds stopped singing,
gray hair, glasses, wrinkles and age spots is now how she appeared.
I looked down at my hand and saw the skin of an old man telling the tale,
an image of what time decided to steal.




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

I Swear to God By Jasen Sousa

I Swear to God


God what the fuck!
Can’t you hear anything I say?

I have been asking for fucking help for years,
if you don’t answer me soon,
today is the last day I fucking pray!

Yeah, fuck that!
Pretty soon
I’m going to stop believing this religion bullshit,
I’m starting to think it has no meaning.

Fuck my values!
Fuck my ethics!
I try to live righteously,
but all anyone wants to do is fight,
I live a good life, but no one respects it.

I mean what the fuck is the point,
there might not even be any heavenly kingdom?
It might be all mother fucking lies!
I’ll never be able to hear angels singing!

If this fucking life is all there is,
I’m going to be so fucking pissed!
So much shit I fucking missed!
So many girls I could have kissed!

Crazy sex, drugs, stealing, killing,
living a life all out wild,
I didn’t do any of it,
I believed I was God’s child!
God, I’m in fucking denial!

I’m sick and don’t know if I’ll get well,
if there is a God,


sometimes it’s so hard to fucking tell!
I swear to fucking God,
if you can hear me
send me straight to fucking Hell!

I swear to fucking God
I did all I could for every person,
but my situation would always worsen,
that’s why God, that I’m fucking cursing!

I’m down here
drowning in your fucking rain,
that’s why I am pointing my
fucking finger towards you with blame!

I swear to fucking God
I see demons while I’m dreaming,
no God, no angels, no saints.
Look at the life captured inside my books,
the picture that someone like me paints.

I swear to fucking God
you better show me a sign
that I’m not losing
my mother fucking mind.

I’m calling you out God,
Mr. Mother Fucking Divine.
I eat the bread that is your body
and drink your blood you say is wine.

Show yourself to me God!
Don’t you think it’s about fucking time?
You’re hiding up in the clouds


while we’re down here dying!
Those punk mother fucker prophets from the bible,
Moses, John, Matthew, Paul,
they were all fucking lying!

That’s fucking right God,
I’m questioning your power,
your courage, your entire fucking existence!
I swear to God that if you showed yourself,
I would stop writing instantly.

I was fucking taught
to believe in you at an early age
and now I’m asking you to believe in me!
Stop avoiding and eluding me,
stop fucking deceiving me!
Show yourself God,
it’s time for you to guide us with your grace.
Show yourself God,
show your mother fucking face!!!!




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

The Night Lost By Jasen Sousa

The Night Lost


Five kids in a car,
turning on the ignition, music turned up so strangers could listen.
Bottle caps on beer bottles started twisting, sipping and passing.
Everyone was having a good time laughing and joking, sunroof open.
Kids full of potential and passion never thought of the car crashing.
On the way to a party on Saturday night, each looking for a girl who was just right.
Passing a blunt in the backseat and like a track meet, the car started to go faster.
The driver didn’t want to risk humility, so he didn’t speak of his inability.
Everything became still at 3:00 a.m. as they drove straight to their disaster.
The driver lost control, the car wrapped around a telephone pole, four was the death toll.

In the midst of the summers heat, bodies lifeless on concrete, none more than 20-years-old.
Results from moving too fast, broken glass, alas, this night would be their living last.
At the accident scene the wind is reciting the story being told.
After the smoke cleared, four peers sinking into a cemetery, overhead raining tears.
The one survivor has to live with cold stares, every night the moment reappears.
The moment before they crashed, four kids with bright futures became part of the past.
Every time a young kid opens a cold beer, their souls are released into the air.
One night of not thinking can change your entire world.
A bad decision left four no longer living and for one, a normal life stops.
This is the night lost.




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

An Unknown Endless Road By Jasen Sousa

An Unknown Endless Road


I
must proceed forward
toward a destination that is uncertain.
Step by step, embarking on a journey
that might cause great hurting.

This horrendous,
tremendous force pulls on my soul.
I want to turn around, but
if I go back now,
what I have been searching for
will not be found.

Without hesitation,
without reservation, I continue on.
Ignoring my inner voice and its opinion,
I walk past demons and devils
who dwell in dark dominions.

I do not look back,
I keep my eyes focused on
a hopeless sight
as I travel down a road
cloaked in night.
Red eyes stare from inside the bark
of bare trees, abnormalities in the air,
cold, bleak.
I follow my heart forward
even though I cannot see
the shadow of my figure

or the ground
where I place my feet.

I follow my heart
down an unknown endless road, calmly
trying to create
confidence in my character.
Wickedness whispering inside the wind
makes me wince,
I hear laughter.

I stand up straight
and follow my heart
to an unknown fate.
I follow my heart
down an unknown endless road, wondering
what will await?



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Lonely Leaf Floating Down a Stream By Jasen Sousa

Lonely Leaf Floating Down a Stream


A slow fall as every moment
the leaf inches closer to the ground,
it falls into a river
and there is no sound.

The leaf burns with radiant autumn colors,
a fiery blend of yellow, orange and red,
it’s caught in the current of the stream
and downhill it is led.
It is violently pushed and pulled
and thrown off of rocks,
it goes on forever
and never stops.
There is no turning back,
nothing to hold,
everything is moving so fast,
the water is so cold.
Leaves are supposed to live forever,
but this one’s skin is
wrinkled and getting old.

It cannot go back to the branch with its peers
and cover up the bare bark of a tree,
never again be part of a beautiful picture
people stop to stare and see.

It is gone

and no one will take the time
to put it back where it belongs.
Never again know the home
where it has grown,
the place where it blossomed during autumn.
When you find the leaf
it will be washed up,
located at the river’s bottom.

For those unfamiliar, the leaf’s
beauty remains unknown,
wrinkled up and rotten, forever forgotten.
A lonely leaf
floating down a stream,
eyes halfway under water, blurry,
barely able to see its dream.




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

The Owl By Jasen Sousa

The Owl


Sitting in a cemetery under a midnight mist, pen clenched in my fist,
pondering my dear friend who had too young perished.
Wide awake from the moons glare, from my eye fell a tear,
directly down at his grave I stare, at a friend I greatly cherished.
Then, there was something, all of a sudden my shirt un-popped a button.
I heard a dog growl, I heard it howl, then I seen an owl who arrived and said nothing.

As I preciously recall, the owl did not make any movement at all.
Fog from the graveyard squalled, the horror came to a halt.
My strength was getting slender, you see, from the cemetery I wished to flee,
words walked off my breath, my friends death, was it my fault?
The owl’s behavior, it did not waiver, still stood the earth,
believing I might be the reason my friend’s corpse is buried underneath dirt.

Although I could not see past the fog’s blur, I was sure, the owl and I, alone we were.
I did concur, who in their right mind, while alive, spends time where the deceased reside?
“Fly away,” I plead! “Fly away,” I plead, but the owl did not leave,
indeed, I started to bleed and I felt like I might not survive.
I seen the moment my friend died. I cried and puddles of mud became puddles of blood.
The owl stared with his scowl directly into my eyes and extracted every ounce of love.

My soul grew weaker, the night became bleaker.
I wiped blood off my sneaker and said, “What is it that you came to claim?”
It began to rain, the pain driving me insane, I took out a lighter and with the bright flame,
in the dirt with my finger, I spelled my friend’s name.
As if the owl wanted to spite me, the owl slightly, nodded his head,
as the letters, C——H——R——I——S, out loud, I read.

Out of my lips, then out of the owl’s lips came the name, “Chris.”
The silence had been broken, the owl had spoken.
Inside the owl, could the identity possibly be someone who was a very good friend to me?
Lost in the darkness of the night, fingers crossed tight, hoping.
The conversation I was having, a dialog I couldn’t fathom,



words only one other poet in history could imagine.

Two souls who were boldly brave faced each other by the grave.
With a whisk wave the owl tapped his toe on top the tomb,
waiting with respect with what would come next,
under the midnight moon, we stood amongst gloom and doom.
The obdurate owl observed obnoxiously and obsessed,
the invisible imagination of the owl was noticeably stressed.

“Chris,” the name of my friend was spoken by the owl once again.
The evil eloquence of the owl’s comments made no living sense.
The owl stayed on top of the tomb where my friend laid,
there I stood, head draped with a hood, facing a mystery that seemed immortally intense.
It was killing me, but willingly and diligently I paced back and forth trying to decipher,
the night seemed so long, but the sky was not getting brighter.

Maybe again never to see the light of day, the owl’s fur ghostly gray,
quietly, it only spoke one word, yet it sounded so loud, the owl stood so proud.
The wise owl on a mission to make me listen,
both our bodies glistened inside the fog, it looked like we were floating on a cloud.
“Please speak something else from your lips!”
The owl’s wings flapped, it almost seemed to laugh, out came the word, Chris.

In a circle I started to wander and proceeded to ponder,
that this, my friend Chris, was unearthly upset and unable to peacefully rest.
Somewhere in the spirit world he was trapped, on the dirt, the owl’s shadow was cast.
Boundlessly and boldly off the owl’s breath, there was something to confess.
Did the abrasive owl appear in the midnight air out of anger?
Was my facade familiar to the owl, or was I a grave stranger?

“Here I am! One man, in front of you I stand!
An explanation, a translation of your thoughts is what I demand!
Is your one word sentence part of your revenge or part of your repentance?”

The span between our spirits is not something I quite yet understand,



I stretched out my arm in frustration and like it was on command,
swirling smoke from the sand. It landed on my forearm, four inches from my hand.

What I observed ignited my nerves and made me want to vomit, amazingly astonished.
The leviathan landed and lingered. Carefully with my fingers, I padded the owl on its beak.
It stared into my eyes and much to my surprise, the owl wicked and wise,
more language began to leak out of its beak, another word the owl dared to speak.
The owl moved its lips and spoke, “Still exist.”
The owl moved its lips and spoke, “Still exist.”

I started to speak, but stuttered, from what the owl uttered,
something amazing I discovered, the faint familiarity of the owl’s speech.
The sound of my friend, it seems as though I have heard from him again.
Now it’s an idea that’s not too far out of reach, but what was the owl trying to teach?
In the twilight I was receiving a telegram from a transparent man,
but what was the purpose of his presence, and did he have a poignant plan?

I stood straight, the owl draped on my arm, not too far from the cemetery gate.
My friend who I thought was destroyed, now his presence, I again have awkwardly enjoyed.
Body tightening getting stiff, scene frightening like standing on the edge of a cliff,
a sign for all mankind that the vanished can come back from the void.
After the devastation of his demise, I looked to the skies, for this situation I have dreamt,
an owl who flew down from Heaven because it knew what it meant.

Back from an endless journey from all eternity, my friend has returned to me,
back from the annals of astrology, back to accept my apology.
“I hope you can still feel love and find it in your heart not to hold a grudge.”
The owl gave me a little nudge and I knew this tale was a moment meant for mythology.
The owl’s look of affection, the undeniable connection,
to my recollection, there was no doubt this was some sort of resurrection.

My friend stood on my arm in his new form, attracted to the sound of a heart torn.
My stressed out spirit stained with scorn.
Not responsible for his death, was the message coming off the owl’s breath,



the pain from my mundane mind, could this be a weight I no longer had to mourn?
The owl let out a yawn that put me at ease,
all of a sudden there was a rustling that came from the trees.

I carefully scouted, and then, “Shouted!”
The owl flew off of my hand, back on top the tomb where I first seen him stand.
Heavier, it began raining, from out of the darkness appeared a raven,
with its big black bold wings it flew next to the owl to land.
Out from the shadows appeared a second raven, who no longer felt the need to hide.
On top of my friend’s tomb stood an owl and two ravens, side by side.

I could tell they were allies from the look in their eyes,
in the sky, thunder and flashing light, I stared at an unreal sight.
Cemeteries are places of death, but here tonight, you could feel the power of life.
Myself, the owl and two ravens alone in the graveyard, in the middle of the night.
Truly something to behold,
from the dead to the living, a message was being told.

The soft spoken luminous language of the deceased, helping us humans live in peace.
The owl moved its lips and again spoke the name, “Chris.”
For years I shed tears as my heart fluttered with fears,
maybe because of me, my friend might not exist,
that was a thought that came nevermore as a raven spoke the word, “Lenore,” ever so slow.
It took awhile for the second raven to speak, admiring my style, it spoke with a smile, “Poe.”




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Kelly’s Kid By Jasen Sousa

Kelly’s Kid


If Kelly’s kid was created by two people
who hated their lives and abused their minds,
what will become of Kelly’s little girl as she grows up
and does not know of other ways to deal with tough times?

I don’t blame the young man
and I don’t blame the young lady,
it’s not their fault
they were created crazy.
I don’t know if there will come a time
when this wickedness will wither,
maybe it will be after a boy realizes he becomes a man
when he opens up his mind and closes his zipper.
Just because you see a pretty girl
does not mean you have to kiss her,
how can you say you love her
if you are not sure you would miss her?
You don’t impress anyone, these days
it’s much easier to open up the door underneath their draws,
as easy as it would be to go out every night
and break existing laws.
It doesn’t matter if the laws are right, or
if the laws are wrong,
a father who creates a child and abandons it, teaches his child
they live inside a world where they will never belong.
Try to imagine growing in life
and feeling like a mistake,
blowing out candles on birthdays,
but were never meant to have a cake.

The courts have decided that on weekends
she can visit her daddy, to talk and maybe even have a meal,
no one loves him enough to pay his bail, they stare at each other eating

through the mirror separating them in the county jail.
Her father has been in and out of prison
for as long as she has known,
many men have come in and out of Kelly’s house,
Kelly’s kid has had a hard time remembering which was her own.
She grew up in a hotel for the hopeless,
every guy in town tried to make it their residence.
Kelly’s kid goes to school, but her mind stays at home,
trying to figure out life, she could care less about learning past presidents.
A little food for thought,
if you believe knowledge produces power,
when Kelly’s food stamps expire, one less lesson
and one less meal for her daughter’s mind and mouth to devour.

I have been in Kelly’s house, I know Kelly’s kid.
The moment Kelly reads this
I know she will start crying.
I’m sorry,
but if I didn’t tell,
the world would never come together and begin trying
to find a way to keep Kelly’s kid from dying.
The truth hurts, almost as much
as the pain virgins feel all over the world
when they are too quick to lift up their skirts.
There is a single reason why
a young boy flirts.

The can of worms we call the world, I broke
open the cover and removed the lid,
a baby conceived corrupted
before it gets a chance to crawl out of the crib.
Another child is born and
another father has ran and hid.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

A Threshold’s Whispers By Jasen Sousa

A Threshold’s Whispers


For at least a moment I yearn, to grab the knob and turn,
for just a peak, just a ponder, just a glimpse.
Afraid to stare at what might or might not be there, and in what form?
The door never opens more than an inch.

I don’t want to let it out, what’s still alive, what still survives.
The old chair still rocking, shhh, you can almost hear her talking.
Others come and visit, they can’t hear the sighs
of her weightless feet on the wooden floor still walking.

Nothing in her room has been touched, memories blanketed with dust.
This will always be the room where she will sleep,
guarding the gate to her legacy, to me, she has given her trust,
an honor I will forever keep.

Most nights I sit against the door and lean, close my eyes and dream
of her coming out dressed in her robe and slippers.
I press my face on the floor against the beam
and listen to a threshold’s whispers.




Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Jump Rope By Jasen Sousa

Jump Rope


While
the teacher stepped out of the room, a lesson
was being taught that would bring a young girl to her doom.

Students began touching her in the darkest places,
mean faces filled a swirling room.
They tore her shirt and stockings, threw her clothes on the floor
until she was wearing nothing more than sneakers with untied laces.

Their flailing arms prodded,
her knees stuck together as she crunched down
to cover up all she was revealing.
A few girls half-heartily tried to help her,
most laughed and snickered
as the classroom lights flickered.

Cell phones
caught the scene on tape,
footage boys
would go home to and masturbate.

Held by her hair,
sitting in the teacher’s chair,
feet walking on air.
Nails scraping the board,
in a position where she could not be heard by the Lord.

Fingers addicted
to her shape,
no where to escape,
wasn’t ready to give
what they decided to take.

The moment ended,
five boys were apprehended.

Diminished her worth

while leaving memories
which could not be murdered
once they gave birth.
Full of blame,
full of shame,
boys who erased the pureness of her name.

Later that night,
leaning against her bedroom window
listening to the soothing sound of rain.

Watching a leaf
slowly fall,
knowing she could never go back to school
and walk down those halls.
Couldn’t live with the guilt,
the only way to sleep peacefully
was to tuck herself under the earth’s quilt.

Hands underneath her skin
forever feeling her from within.

Tickling her throat with twine, underneath the moon’s shine,
the only way to remove the scene from her mind.
Tied one end of a jump rope
around a pipe on her ceiling,
left a note
trying to
explain
what she was
feeling.
She then
wrapped
the other
end of the
jump rope
around her
throat.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Subway Scriptures By Jasen Sousa

Subway Scriptures


8:30 p.m. and I’m on the subway
headed home.
Seated directly across from me was this guy
who had a Davy Crockett hat on his dome.
Seated next to me, on my right, was a man
with a horrible stench,
his sudden movements
made me flinch.

Standing up by the door, a man who was
wearing a trench coat and holding a briefcase.
Sitting down near him, an older man
with two sneakers and only one lace.

Against the subway driver’s door
on a sign which read, PLEASE DON’T LEAN ON ,
was a middle aged lady
who had all green on.

Down the way was a man
who had more holes in his face
than Cornbread from A Bronx Tale,
next to him, a woman who had on blue jeans
along with a sweatshirt that read, Yale.

There was a homeless man in the corner
mumbling, “Is this how life is supposed to be?”
Across from him, a woman

who had eight bags full of groceries.
One bag was filled with cans of beer,
I wondered how they didn’t tear?

Next to them, a young girl with black boots
fishnet stockings, a mini skirt and pink hair.
Directly across from her was an older man
who couldn’t help but stare.
I could hear him thinking,
“Normal people are becoming very rare.”

To my left, a hugely heavy man
who had trouble breathing,
and next to him was a gentleman
who had a burger and fries that he was eating.

The train had horrible brakes
and every time it tried to slow down
it sounded like people screaming.
A man passed out holding a bottle in a brown bag,
I wondered if he was dreaming?

We made it outside the tunnel,
hard to see the river because it was late in the evening.
It stopped at the next destination,
half the people on the train got up and began leaving.

The train descended back into the tunnel,
the lights flickered.
It was so loud that when someone had to talk


they leaned over, kissed the persons ear and whispered.

Across from me, a teenager with his headphones on,
I could hear the words the artist was singing,
an old school classic by Dr. Dre,
Keep Your Heads Ringing.

Next to him, a business man
who was checking his palm pilot
for some important appointment,
half of the people on the train made good money
and half collected unemployment.
The train stopped suddenly,
three people who were standing almost fell over,
half of the people on the train were drunk
and the other half were sober.

On the T there are
all these different characters I see,
as I sit waiting for my stop,
I wonder, who’s watching me?



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Nature’s Message By Jasen Sousa

Nature’s Message


Nature has a story to tell,
listen to the message being told.
The land we live on is neither Heaven nor Hell,
secret scripts are not always written in bold.
Whispers in the wind, pay attention,
people have many things to say, most of which is bad news.
Nature tells of truth ordinary humans forget to mention,
we search for answers and walk over clues.
Tears fall from the sky, making the ground wet,
the sun’s smile appears to dry the rain,
a drop falls from our eyes when we are upset,
a loved one comforts to minimize pain.
Listen to leaves on a windy day, they beg for your appreciation,
they are cheering, giving you a standing ovation.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

A Beautiful Young Girl By Jasen Sousa

A Beautiful Young Girl


What’s wrong with this world
when a beautiful young girl dreams to be dead?
A lifeless body drained of pain,
the only image that plays in her head.

What’s wrong with this world
when a beautiful young girl contemplates prostitution?
Not because of pleasure, but because she is broke
and this is the only job that is somewhat of a solution.

What’s wrong with this world
when a beautiful young girl with piles of potential is a drug addict?
Her friends tell her she can sell drugs for them, but she
just gets high off her own supply and will never be able to kick her habit.

What’s wrong with this world
when a beautiful young girl has a beautiful young girl of her own?
She hires dealers and addicts to watch her child when she’s not home,
it’s either that or have her daughter be all alone.

What’s wrong with this world
when a beautiful young girl has no one to help her, only to hurt her?
She has people running to her with their problems,
but when she is in her time of need everyone seems to desert her.

What’s wrong with this world
when a beautiful young girl cries for help and no one responds?
There are thousands of these beautiful young girls
and not one of them feels like they belong.

What’s wrong with this world
when a beautiful young girl can barely even breathe?
Told me she has hurt so much
she no longer knows how it feels to grieve.

What’s wrong with this world
when a beautiful young girl gets sexually abused by her dad?
He calls her names like slut, loser, tramp, bitch.
Is she supposed to go out into the world and not feel sad?

What’s wrong with this world
when a beautiful young girl can’t even afford any groceries?
What’s wrong with this world?
I know this is not how it is supposed to be.

What’s wrong with this world
when a beautiful young girl can’t see because she has tears in her eyes?
No one cares about this beautiful young girl while she is alive
and no one will care about this beautiful young girl when she dies.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

Rosary Beads that Bleed By Jasen Sousa

Rosary Beads that Bleed


The life I lost, the divine sign of the cross.
In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen,
the pointless pain of slain men,
blood pours out of my pen.

Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.

Our Father let my art make it to heaven so my brethren know where they’re heading,
hallowed be your name, but we are wondering why you still haven’t came?
Give us this day our daily bread, if you can hear me please heal my horror filled head
and give birth to the dead, so the living won’t die in vain.

Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.

It drips from my hands, blood mixed in with sand,
the same sand where Jesus left sacrificial steps.
Hail Mary full of grace, saying a prayer with blood smeared on my face.
Holy Mary mother of God in my final hour, blowing my last beautiful breaths.

Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.

Glory be to the Father, a prayer to make life a little less harder.
My physical future will not carry on much farther, my written word with no end,
it was bad back then, I pray for it not to be that bad again,
my brain, my mind, my soul, my spirit rise into the heavens and blend.

Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.

Every word I spell, hoping they save me from a fiery hell,
save me from my sins, how much longer will it hurt me?
This feeling doesn’t seem to be healing, an angel ailing,
I beg you master, for your mercy!

Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.

Hail Holy Queen as I drag you inside my dark dream.
Those who have said early goodbye’s, I am stuck with their sighs,
forever stuck in my mind beyond the end of time.
My conscience forever echoing a city’s cries.

Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.

Out of my eye falls a tear, the after rosary prayer.
To the begotten son from the forgotten one, I beg for a response.
The message I heed as blood drips from my fingers and continues to bleed,
a holy bloody rosary that forever haunts.

Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.

Joyful, luminous, sorrowful, glorious, I write, then I recite.
In between my legs a cup of my own blood.
Falling from the church ceiling, blood covered stained glass leaves.
A prayer hoping to gain the Lord’s love.

Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)

The Perfect Present By Jasen Sousa

The Perfect Present


It sat under a tree, a present no one bothered to see.
It was the holiday season and for some reason, this gift was not perfectly wrapped.
Its’ ribbon was torn, bent and broken, the present did not take on a beautiful form.
It wasn’t decorated with holiday hues, no reds, no greens, the present was solid black.

Kids swiped pretty presents away, the ugly present was left to stay,
lingering until it was the only present left.
Under a beautiful tree’s gleam was the portrait of a present that looked so mean.
No one realized it contained one of the greatest secrets ever kept.

The lights on the tree dimmed, gone was the glow of the last child’s grin,
he believed the best gifts were taken.
What was on his wish list, in this little beaten up box could never exist.
Boy was he mistaken!

The gorgeous gifts were gone, a lonely child stood wondering what went wrong?
A Christmas song disappeared as the child looked to the heavens and stared.
He undid the ribbon, opening the only present which was never given.
He cheered! Amazed at what appeared!

A little dark box that when opened showed the world’s light, it changed the boy’s life.
The lonely child and the lonely present now share a special bond.
What was in the box? Never to tell the secret, so special a gift, the child will forever keep it.
A present that will last long after another Christmas has come and gone.

This peculiar looking present is patient, wrapped up and waiting
for all of us to find.
We must look past the nonsense if we wish to see its wonderful contents
and open the perfect present everyone else has left behind.



Taken From
Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa
17-24
©
Comprised of works from:
Life, Weather (First Collection of Poems Written At Age 17) (Not In College)
A Thought and A Tear for Every Day of The Year: A Poetic Diary (Written Between ages 18-19) (Stint at Suffolk University)
Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
Almost Forever (Written During Early Twenties) (Bay State College)
A Mosaic of My Mind (Written at Age 24) (Beginning Emerson College)
 
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