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The event was organized by Central Library and Teen Advisory Group. Guest poets from the League of Canadian Poets -- Mississauga’s Peter Jailall and Toronto haiku specialist Sheila Hyland --hosted the event. Original poetry from the performers follows…..

The Asylum Walls Hana Shafi	Why Me? Sarosh Zaidi; Dark Ace, The Blackbird; DFFots; Da Angel (D.A	A Girl Named Poetry Veronica Yao
Pennies Past Infinity Vinojeith Varathan		“Untitled” Scott Marshall

THE ASYLUM WALLS

The asylum walls began to scream, and left my ears to shatter
And as they told me it was not real, I knew that did not matter
Real enough, in a whisper, I know my own delusions
A thousand times, wandering my mind in this desolate seclusion
The doctors run, the bars now rattle, mad patients move barbaric
Sedate me now, secure the binds, before I get hysteric
And even though you hear at night, my sad and whimpering pleas
It was only me, sly, tricking you, for I love my insanity
The state of distortion is better then this dark and dreary place
A hallucination is better then staring upon your heartless face
Dancing so bewitched, in this beautiful place of mine
For if you glimpse at wonderland, you will not leave it behind
And what is wrong with sheer nonsense, if it’s tragically bittersweet
This surreal world of mine it seems, the only source of peace
The white-coated men can criticize
But wait in time they will subside
The truth will make the sane abstract
The insanity is a cold hard fact
The night does scream
And bursts the seam
As light shines through, this sacred dream
My eyes don’t fade amongst the tears
The darkness is the least of fears
Closer and closer the glass is shattering
The doctor mad, the blood is splattering
I cant wait to be free
This dark place waves goodbye to me
Down an unfamiliar path, I will dare
To go without knowing , I don’t care
Beware my friend of their false charm
you think the sane can do no harm
If peace shall come from my undeserved pain
Let freedom speak to the beautifully insane

Hana Shafi

Why Me?

I heard the thunder roar before this silence followed
I saw the lightning strike before my heart hollowed
My eyes were wet with tears like rain flooding the sea
And a question kept coming, “Why was this happening to me?”

She had left me so long ago, I can't say exactly when
Was it May, June or July? I was too careless then
Though we were only friends, I needed her still
The need for a defense to enhance the burning skill

I started writing poetry to express the feelings I had
Cause there were too many times when I'd be really sad
I was close to my poetry like body to a soul
The words were alive and I had no control

One of those lonely nights when I was doing poetry
A pleasing thought came across to me
It seemed to me as if she was a gentle dove
That's when I realized that I was finally in love

And then the night she finally talked to me
I suddenly realized, fear was becoming a reality
I needed all my courage and help from above
To somehow tell her that I was desperately in love

Tell her I did and she seemed shocked to hear this
Of all they could be, it was I who would miss
I accepted this fate as a part of my untold destiny
And was so joyful by realizing this was reality

Days went by when we would just talk to each other
Nights kept coming when I would just think of her
My love had grown stronger than any could believe
The love for her no could come to deceive

Another one of those nightmares came back to me
When I finally learned that I could never be
Anywhere close to her because of what I did
The raging secret of the dark that I always hid

I tried to tell her of this just so I could feel better
So I came to decide that I'll send her a letter
But when she read it, she told someone to say
She won't talk to me because she was scared away

I again hear the thunder roar and the silence would follow
I see the lightning strike and my heart begins to hollow
My eyes are again wet with tears like rain flooding the sea
And that same question keeps coming, “Why was this happening to me?”

By: Sarosh Zaidi; Dark Ace, The Blackbird;
DFFots; Da Angel (D.A)
For: Curlesta; Anna; Piral
Time/Date: 4:07 PM/ April 11, 2009
Place: Henrietta, Rochester, New York

A Girl Named Poetry

She walks the path of stanzas,
and overuses the privilege of
rhythmic speech.

She’s conflicting desire
and metaphorical irony.
She’s controversial and agreeable,
Direct, and yet she boggles your mind.

She’s quoting what she thinks should change.

She revels in the roses (are red) and violets (are blue),
and wonders why that’s so.
(Flowers are overrated.)

Oh, she can be sweet, or bitter.
She smiles, when inside,
she’s practically suicidal.
She cries black ink, and
breathes imagination to the
extremity.

And when she smiles, her paper path
seems just a little lighter to the touch.
(This girl is so clich�.)

By: Veronica Yao

Pennies Past Infinity

All I want to say is that they don’t really care about us,
in a global society, where we lose grip of the priority
of acting as children trying to find a father figure to trust ,
in a global society, where misguided lust
bleeds from our eyes,
into a puddle of optical illusions that transfigures the sky,
bonding our very atomic egos into a chemical reaction ,
that instantaneously rids our sight of compassion,
while we seemingly continue to expand the universal fraction,
of THEIR anguish,
As we all blindly forget the prospective symbol of the dove,
concentrate the feelings of hate to dilute the flavor of love,
while we all put on our own bloody gloves,
that fit to our brain waves, like
like a glove,
from our frequent helpless hesitation,
we all hold fourth party to the murder of a nation ,
BUT, as we all watch the water evaporate from the stove,
only we are responsible for the first degree murder of our globe,
and Unlike super Mario on the NES,
we have the option to save and track our progress,
but we hold back the option of holding our hands out to be shown,
for they are held far back into our own personal safe zones,
because when I look to the deprived continents of the world,
I can only see a reflection in every boy and girl,
Because our problems are their problems,
but their problems aren’t our problems,
so there really isn’t a reason to solve them ,
LEST WE FORGET, Ms, Aids, overcooked grenades, guerilla warfare, wages unfair, death, deceit, immoral deceit, dropped bombs, genocide, homicide, murder, cancer, embarrassment, harassment, the governmental congress wanting to digress when we talk about someone else’s problems, hate, ignorance, (different voice) can you spare 10 cents, nothing makes sense, violence,

The loss of the first and fifth sense,
but most importantly, the sixth sense,
love, compassion,
Regardless of your religion,
whether Jesus or the Bodhisattva,
Our navels all speak the same tongue ties Morse code,
that travel through our veins to the road,
less traveled,
Everything we do to follow this road right,
is a reflection of the vivid painting they call life,
but it seems as though are brushes have grown dull and faint ,
we are caught up with what it to our side that we forget our right hands paints,
we do not see our hands dip our brushes into black ,
and commit a seizure upon paper assaulting on canvas an attack,
the vivid painting does not seem so vivid any more,
the poor children from underprivileged countries seemingly drip off the canvas,
Quarantined from the rest,
Just call it Excess – life
they look up from their spot on the floor ,
and ask what about us?
and for them I say
My penny is change,
it may go to the pocket of the corrupt,
but how many pennies can the corrupt hold,
Before there pants fall from the weight of truth revealing their shame,
Those who hold no compassion,
come pass and shun those who do,
unable to walk in a another individuals shoes,
because those who we truly need to sympathize for surely,
see shoes as a luxury,
I tell you this,
The world will never cease until we live in perfect harmony,
unpack that suitcase unless you want to wait past infinity,
forever we remain stingy with our unlucky pennies.

Vinojeith Varathan

“Untitled”
By Scott Marshall

The earnest reply of these tiny
Explosions in the sky,
The bridge lowered,
Stretched across his idea
Born into the highs,
Riddling the cosmos.
Agnostic paraphernalia, or a
Spiritual phenomena, creator
Of this sight?
Quiet resonance, quieter influence.
As for why, the world we
Familiarize, appears out of reach
of even the smallest thimble.
A stimulant, repressive, self-impressed
Concentration of people,
Account for these ongoing episodes,
Sitting and watching a spectator sport,
The digestion of material slogans,
Even after the indigestion it creates,
Yet we are not nocturnal,
To crane our neck upwards,
But to upgrade our commercialization skills.
“Father, lemme climb the ladder,
I have a dream I wanna capture,
I just prayed to the golden arrow;”
It is pestilence how narrow we are.
We breath methane,
And exasperate the truth so much,
Our throats swell up with lies.
And consumers tile up the night.
And pavement deepens the marketer’s plight.
For the namesake of the constellations,
The stars must defeat these metaphorical knives.
I fear she will bleed and no one
Will see her die.