V Pravde.

In truth.

Just watch me,

And I’ll tell you the truth in a silent dance.

My toes scrape the floors,

Concrete pressed by my hands.

Cracking the wood,

I left my homeland,

Came to a field where the animals pranced.

A start down below,

The water above,

A world turned round from my known and loved.

Red curtains, white lights,

Once more I shine bright.

Screwed into your seat

As your daughter, takes flight.

High up above, I hung from the beams.

A balance I broke,

When I yearned for the screams.

From past and the present,

My rock was now sinking.

A river I found,

And the glasses were chinking.

An orchard by name,

A new stage, by the sight.

We danced through the trees,

And felt the beginning of right.

On this day, November 6, 2012, let us, the people, choose Progression. Let us reclaim. “O, let America be America Again- The land that never has been yet- And yet must be- The land where every man is free, The land that’s mine- The poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, Me- Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, Whose plow in the rain, Must bring back out mighty dream again. Sure, call me any ugly name you choose- The steel of freedom does not stain From those who live like Leeches on the peoples lives, We must take back our land again, America! O, Yes, I say it plain. America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath America will be! An every-living seed, Its dream Lies deep in the heart of me. We, the people, must redeem our land, The mines, the plants, the rivers, The mountains and the endless plain- All, all the stretch of these great green states- And make America again!” Langston Hughes

On this day, November 6, 2012, let us, the people, choose Progression. Let us reclaim.

“O, let America be America Again-

The land that never has been yet-

And yet must be-

The land where every man is free,

The land that’s mine-

The poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, Me-

Who made America,

Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,

Whose hand at the foundry,

Whose plow in the rain,

Must bring back out mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose-

The steel of freedom does not stain

From those who live like

Leeches on the peoples lives,

We must take back our land again,

America!

O, Yes, I say it plain.

America never was America to me,

And yet I swear this oath

America will be!

An every-living seed,

Its dream

Lies deep in the heart of me.

We, the people, must redeem our land,

The mines, the plants, the rivers,

The mountains and the endless plain-

All, all the stretch of these great green states-

And make America again!”

Langston Hughes

workdaily: its been awhile Makes life feel beautiful.

workdaily:

its been awhile

Makes life feel beautiful.

The Sun and the Moon.  It’s a strange thing, Those nights when you can’t sleep. What’s so heavy on your mind, That makes the slivers in your bones creak? You could close the window, Incase it’s too strong of a breeze— But you know that’s not it. So, you risk the wind, and feel room Fill with the emptiness. Tangible calm, A deliberate ease. Naked on the sheets, A moan. An attempt to enjoy, And not to self loathe. You keep quiet, though the house is empty. Screaming makes it worse, You’re voice reminds you you’re alone. In the hush of the trees, In your shadowed room, You stare at the carpet. Covered with dust, Stamped on in gloom. The roofs look pale, Before they look bright. A warning to the windows To prepare for the light. You crawl out of bed, And sit on the sill, The glorious god climbs over the hill. A chariot comes close, His sparks touch your skin, Your glow and his glare Start their cycles again.  By Claire Jamison

The Sun and the Moon.

 It’s a strange thing,

Those nights when you can’t sleep.

What’s so heavy on your mind,

That makes the slivers in your bones creak?

You could close the window,

Incase it’s too strong of a breeze—

But you know that’s not it.

So, you risk the wind, and feel room

Fill with the emptiness.

Tangible calm,

A deliberate ease.

Naked on the sheets,

A moan.

An attempt to enjoy,

And not to self loathe.

You keep quiet, though the house is empty.

Screaming makes it worse,

You’re voice reminds you you’re alone.

In the hush of the trees,

In your shadowed room,

You stare at the carpet.

Covered with dust,

Stamped on in gloom.

The roofs look pale,

Before they look bright.

A warning to the windows

To prepare for the light.

You crawl out of bed,

And sit on the sill,

The glorious god climbs over the hill.

A chariot comes close,

His sparks touch your skin,

Your glow and his glare

Start their cycles again.

 By Claire Jamison

Apologizing for crying Is apologizing for being human. Man, woman, child, or adult— We’re a species capable of feeling, and sharing an experience. Do not swim along with the popular belief that we are a culture of computed emotions. Do not let our generation be drowned out. Be real. Be you. Respect yourself and encourage positive progression of humanity. Renegade races, a generation of curiosity filled faces. Cultures, switching places. Keep asking questions, but don’t settle for an answer. Always learning, always inspired. Keep your ears, eyes, taste, smell, and touch open. Embrace the sense of fear as you would a newborn child, welcome every waking second into this earth. by Claire Jamison  PHOTO BY IVAN FORDE

Apologizing for crying
Is apologizing for being human.
Man, woman, child, or adult—
We’re a species capable of feeling, and sharing an experience.
Do not swim along with the popular belief that we are a culture of computed emotions.
Do not let our generation be drowned out.
Be real.
Be you.
Respect yourself and encourage positive progression of humanity.
Renegade races, a generation of curiosity filled faces.
Cultures, switching places.
Keep asking questions, but don’t settle for an answer.
Always learning, always inspired.
Keep your ears, eyes, taste, smell, and touch open.
Embrace the sense of fear as you would a newborn child, welcome every waking second into this earth.


by Claire Jamison  PHOTO BY IVAN FORDE

(Source: workdaily)

Do you think I know what I’m doing when it comes to sound production?

No? You are right! I do not know what I am doing. I am so incredibly open to your criticism, advice, collaborative ideas, etc. The only reason I am posting these poems and songs and photos is because I am scared to. When I am scared to do something, I know it’s important enough for me to just say “fuck it” and do it anyways. So, please, come forth you lovely people. Help me grow.

Music by Marc R. on his album Aestas. Song titled “Destruction.”

Poem by Claire Jamison