Humble Mouths

Raw Perspectives! Wordplay from active minds and humble mouths.

I Have a Dream Two (Revised)

What you thinking… I was in this for the pimping?
My people been dressed in fine shackles with rusted ruby blots ever since the beginning.
Women slowly thinning,
Dying from the seed of Caucasian defection,
There’s no spray for rape… No Lysol disinfections.
Sold to an opposite people by their own reflection.
So in the dearest sense it’s Black history all year I could give a fuck less about a re-election.
In need of Harajuku Barbie socks to bandaid all the blood stains.
Sure the World’s seen her share of pain.
Every race known to man been made a slave in the game.
“Niggas” say they got it hard…
But they keep shovels in hand, working hard; digging their own graves.

It’s truly not about black and white but sickeningly deeper.
Just don’t tell me there’s no more racism when I greet white people here in the south receiving the cold reception of no responses… How am I my brother’s keeper?
And on Sunday, some say amen, singing hymns while praying the hills I climbed to this pseudo-equality only become STEEPER.

It’s true. It’s black history for me everyday, is true.
I’m just trying to say Martin had a dream; I have one TWO…

I don’t know what it’s like to be told to move to the back,
Or the taken aback of watching crosses burn,
The stench of recapture camps; fresh flesh [crackle, pop and snap]
Single file prod and brand lines…

But I was passed the task of being aware of Dr. King’s words and so I share these with you:

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering.

Social Craze

I don’t know where my mind is.

It’s as out of touch as I am.

We don’t often do the kind things.

They’re as out of reach as we are.

Closer than ever with the swipe of a finger.

Emotions bedridden, flagrant depression lingers.

Transformation of feel, mangled and manifested into .gif reels.

Misrepresentation of real; it’s lacking sincerity and compassion. It tastes of lemon peels, fresh garlic, ginger…

Bitter as f*#!

My honest me isn’t rooted in honesty, it’s dressed and filtered fresh for my Facebook Stories.

Honestly, I only social the best of me, because publicly,

on-is-tea – translates to all the “friends” I have waiting for me to fail so they can talk about me.

Are they really,

Friends then?

Who was I to befriend them?

Clicking away at the follow back and friend request emblems.

My payback for infrequent post transmissions is less likes,

My salary for lack of humor and limited shock value is less hearts.

So I decline in the same position that I recline, aiming to feed them all, praying it offers me a rewind.

Sharing cynical comedy, mortal brutality, adultery, dismissed loyalty all the shit my Morals label enemy.

Because see,

I don’t know where my mind is.

It’s as out of touch as I am.

I don’t often do the kind thing.

It’s as out of reach as I am.


We notice all the hoopla and intentional misdirection.

Repurpose all the “putas” invert them in said direction.

Red connections, are relationships no longer valid.

Dead confections, are lust situations no longer valid.

Give validity to me I’m living amongst the living.

Oops! I never needed that so kill it amongst the killing.


Lukewarm embraces as we enter the room.

Reused smiles lacking affection, dressed over hatred way beyond its bloom.

Is it my color? Oh, how colorful art thou?

Zoom. I gotta get every pixel on in.

I gotta magnify a square inch of melanin.

Media amplifies, Expedia advertised

You look like I look but three-fifths of you is lies.

I don’t see color sir, but pardon my Jesus’ eyes,

Blue waters for all us, But you there step aside!

Red blood spilled by all us but yours not red as mines.

Because I’m a red state, I am the white Confederate.

The X on my flag knows not Malcolm… fucking degenerates.

Freedom of whatever I decide so says all my delegates.

Please lets not talk about this, race is delicate.

Please lets not talk about racism so delicate.

Necks go pop, swivel, still in the tourniquet.

How little is Little Kimble to have a him journey kit?

Can’t even spell negro but those niggers, kill em quick?

Racism isn’t inherited you invented that shit.

Kill a nigger, kill a nigger like Bieber sung that shit.

I know it’s uncomfortable to discuss bruh??? But imagine living the shit.

This wasn’t back in ancient America, Bieber’s not really that old.

Its hasn’t been long enough for the desegregated water fountains to get that cold.

Check box for African-American. I can’t fit that mold.

I love black and Africa but why not just American? Aren’t Americans whole?

Or maybe Africa isn’t. Maybe being black isn’t.

Suppose I was Afro-European, or Afro-Japanese but oddly enough those aren’t check boxes…

Storefront Confrontation

The phantasm of sarcasm.

Like back spasms not orgasms

Organic protoplasm!

I just added that for artistic effect.

Like, how she totes her finger and whips her neck.

Who’s she?

I don’t know, but I feel very obligated to clarify that I mean no disrespect.

Consider, I freely dish respect.

Served cold or hot, all dependent on how you reciprocate the next.

Hold up I wanna rhyme something with “reciprocate.”

Anticipate my conglomerate/

as they equivocate on the current state…

That last line was corny, I said to self.

Her finger is still up as if meaning to suggest a point.

So I look up and she does as well; odd how that always works.

But my sly remark only came after her lack of manners so what’s with all this defensive, treat me like a lady, handle me like a queen bullshit?!

What?!? They don’t teach ladies and queens how to show gratitude for men or kings holding doors any more?

Seems as if chivalry isn’t the only thing that’s dead.

She swelled, preparing her counter. The “but” interjection to my rant bubbling to the top of her annoyance’s limits…

But my sarcasm intercepted the moment with something that sounded like “but if I said b*tch, I’d be disrespectful-wrong though right?”

Bad choice of words for another perfect moment. Deep inside my intellect I was mostly leaning towards something more like “Ma’am, a thank you would’ve sufficed.”

Too late, your boy was ice. She needed to know that I needed her to know that the next time someone holds the door and you forget your manners. Don’t be shocked if they ask you to follow them back outside faking an emergency just to shut the fucking door on your ass and walk away.

Case and point.

Finger goes down, she calls me a bitch, turns around on her heels and heads back into the store.

Dear FB

I woke up today and saw you had my notifications patiently waiting; pending contact with the outside world. Faults privy to edits and overzealous dressings. Truths overlooked, lost way down in the timeline feed. Humor, widely needed but always politically distasteful, even the images. “Friends,” caught within the entanglement of the acceptance rate euphoria. “Groups,” built with visions of greatness yet open access can render them into petty drama clubs. Privacy, necessary for some similarity to the old virtual world we unplug temporarily to go act humane in, earth.

I communicate more in Faceland than I do on earth. I laugh in Faceland and experience a wide range of other emotions all without contorting a single facial muscle. I make friends in Faceland and build sound relationships. The people here know me well. I have a page for everyone of my personas.

FB, I thank you for giving us a world where we can all be our “real” selves, contrary to earth. People here get to be real racist, real sexist, real bigots, really envious, really jealous, real important, real funny, real popular, real whatever… I mean, I never thought I’d have a whole other life where the entire concept of my day is guided by my post reactions and its truly awesome. My pictures are more flawless and my perspective is absolute reality. If you have seen my timeline, you’ll know that since I moved to Faceland I have never had a bad day, ever. Plus its frowned upon and no one cares (delete that person if you’ve friended one). Its really a wonderful world! Thank you so very much.


User 2016-1615520

Young Girls, Do Grow to be Queens

Young girls do grow to be Queens.

They sprout from all the good stuff that compose dreams.

Even if they’ve been through the stuff that compost greens.

Some do doctorates and some do seams,

Some do algebraic and some do any means.

Young girls, do grow to be Queens.

Daddy called her princess, mommy showed her phenomenal.

Grandpa told her invest, grandma said “Even if it’s nominal.”

Brothers can teach a lot and act ass-tronomical.

Sisters can hold hair for despair or comicals.

Young, girls do grow to be Queens.

Treat them as such and catch a ton of blessings.

Feature as first crush and lay immortal in her message.

Intuitively equipped with divine perspectives.

Get on her bad side and fear her verbs- nouns-adjectives.

Titling girls as Queens is not subjective, objective is, to call it as is.

And not be limited to just Bad Bitch

Encourage them from sprouts they’ll surpass average.

Look at success rates, no wonder half, half rich.

Monetizing on paths some men couldn’t graph past shit.

So they brag bad shit or play grab-grab shit

No esteem for the Queen on her grab bag shit.

Love young girls and they will grow to be Queens.

Balancing Acts

Pendulum swings heavy as fk…

To and fro, and the weights shift as they always do.

I jump out, best dressed in my “nothing less than my very very best” fresh flesh.

Not exactly self but the disguise of the day.


Hair cut, nails cut, beard groomed, shirt tucked just as the world recommends.

World saviors commend. Revolutionaries contend.

Love is No More

Choose love?!

Now that’s some ridiculous shit.

How or why would I choose love over self?

Over code or over wealth?

Death to love, pike it and display it for the neighbors.

Air it out like piss ridden bedding and call the naysayers haters.

All that first love romance is really just inflated lust.

Add a little powdered sugar with a dash of erotic dust.

Let’s be real for a minute.

Love was the guy that chased Chastity around for something shy of 15 years. He never made any headway because after all that waiting and passing up on Promiscuity and Infidelity.

Bar Muse

Great service often begins on a barstool and with a smile

But where do we meet our muses?

Is it the same place we discover our uses?

How exact is our certainty,

How precise are we?

Certainly we have our issues.

Certainly we do:

Attract opposites and attract catastrophe.

Subtract from all earthly abstracts in our impotent attempts of achieving true communication via conversational mastery.

Mostly we fail at serving each other worthy nouns. Like the titles of King or Queen, Brother or Sister, Elder or teacher.

Ever more the choice of adjectives are weak. Lacking of substance and undertone. No beauty, no passion. We purposely describe one another as lowly, useless; bleaker.

Seeking after outward praise and attention without accurately depicting others’ struggles, the successes, the verbs…

The motherfucking verbs keep reality!

But still we could uplift each other as the “S” carries her apostrophes.

And challenge incoming questions with bold exclamations capable enough of silencing conundrums or existential queries.

Aren’t similes and metaphors like exotic flings with ground loving angels disguised as people.


I don’t wish to read your mind, if only we could reason


I’ve met a muse a time or two, people I could believe in.


bodies I could touch through their psyches and translate mixed emotions into bar tap feelings.

“Penny for your thoughts?” She inquires.

Semper Fi is no Lullaby

I do not know how many of them slept as they should.

When boots are on the ground how could…

They not worry about loss, worry about cost, fatigued with responsibility

The wavering endurance of surviving lefts and rights,

Pushing on to maintain our ideals, our suppositions of ethics and morals, our cornucopia of races, religion, gender, politics no matter how skewed, racist, sexist and childish they are amongst our neighbors.

Semper Fi is no lullaby.

Neither are the hoorahs that exclaim from the ranks,

Neither are the badass sergeants and petty officers that run things,

“Officers are for offices anyway right?” (Joking)

Leaders, lead beside and in front.

Many of each have died to afford us 10 Britannica collections worth of freedoms we aren’t even grateful for.

Imagine the life of occupation

Yea, Semper Fi is no lullaby but some will sleep better tonight. Some know the battles fought; won and lost.

Some know the duty, the watchstanding, the 12s, the trenches, the general quarters, battlefields, folding Old Glory, half masts, 21 gun salutes, purple hearts, weeping spouses, bereaved children, successing bloodlines…

Semper Fi is no lullaby but tonight…

I’ll sleep better because of your faith.

Thank you


Mama’s got a way about her.

Never ever been the type to concern herself with what you say about her.

She doesn’t earn enough to be rich,

But everything she has are byproducts of her working fists.

Some mothers didn’t wanna be:

Mothers, makers, providers, huggers, Mrs. Wipe-the-tears-away, confidants, best friends, muses, teachers, heros…

Mama’s got a way about her.

Never ever been the type to concern herself with what you say about her.

She’ll pull 2 doubles saving up for the trouble,

It’s better to be prepared than unprepared in the struggle.

Some mothers didn’t wanna be:

Responsible, reasonable, reliable, reassuring, reachers, road maps, rescuers…

Mama’s got a way about her.

Never ever been the type to concern herself with what you say about her.

So her kids brought their own in the world and give her all the praises for their graces and being their worlds.

It’s unfortunate that in black communities mothers too often raise their children alone. Thank you to the mothers that embody the true representation of motherhood. We love you.



Gray… greatest ceiling cover ever to shelter you, me, your brother,  mother and grandmothers.
Fathers is running farther,  anticipating the storming.
The precipitation atop the perspiration can remedy the burning…
Of lost love or love lost.

How many dictators and righteous men the same been gutted under the slate skies to even slates and battle plains?
Enough to pain.
I just know the sun is hidden,  this fact is proven.
Until I call Ruben, a service member serving in Cali until September.
He said it’s right as rain.
Disconnecting mobile minutes in lieu of that last cool
-breeze that blows before the thunderous pellets drip-drop.

Drop drip,
Drip drip,
Sons die like drops drip for throwing sets and claiming crip.
More lay in red pools dueling over stripes and culture chips,  for saying blood.

Gun on floor,  face on deck,  hog tied with pig legs prying weight on backs for carrying weight, the irony.
Rain falls and absolves whatever hate hasn’t dissolved,
Drains clog as it falls, First 48,
it won’t be solved.

Storm gauges everywhere will serve a purpose.
The bayous can’t hold this much pasta sauce, thicker than roux too.
As red as Texas is Houston feels so black.
I see cops and men that resemble their uniforms give dap.
Ponchos and gone-brellas kiting in the wind.


Bread Ties


It would be infinitely better if we could twist the obvious together,
Keep the bread safe you know?

A little of your metal, a little of my plastic,
The security, safety and nostalgic.
Dodge the mold, stifle the tragic.
Everything secure: wheat, white, pita, Cuban rolls, Multigrain, and kaiser.
That’s God, us, money, transportation, luxury, food, hope and appetizers.

I prefer the twist tie over the plastic clip.
Like you prefer sandwiches with the crusts clipped.
I love wheat because fiber supports recovery from slips,
Because falls are all white when the impact hits.

We first need to get all the excess air out so we don’t become inflated with the ideas of others.
Bakeries smell better than bread shops,
Cakes, tarts, donuts and bear claws… muffins, cupcakes and cake pops.

So similarly we should look around and observe, then on the contrary sit on the shelf with loaves of similar yeast, dough, grain and packaging.
After all sourdoughs hate to see us frenching, sweet on each other like donuts and circling our cream like bagels that gets them all flaky like croissants.

It would be infinitely better if we could twist the obvious together,
Keep the bread safe you know?
Like bread ties…

****unedited picture source: Bread Ties ***

Black in White

OK so…
Picture a neck and it’s attached to a rope
All the strands and fibers are the opposite of hope.

And there is a noose. INSIDE this noose is man who used to live outside this noose.

And there is a knot.
The knot is compassion, because no matter how it seems, I’ll throw my whole life at it and pay double that just to breathe.
Beams of pressure, relative to the mass of my weight under the stature of my stress or under the stress of my stature.

Never thought I’d be aloft on a rope with Depression bouncing on my shoulders like a crazy 23 yr-old with her thighs locked around my throat.

I cringe at the smell of a** at the back of my neck is revolting.
Tears fall out the pockets of my soul onto my cheeks.
Fear waves anxiously at me from a neighboring tree.
I kick, I kick, I swim. He waves frantically excited.

Me now trying to displace enough air to lift my future out of this knot, out of this noose.
My hands go stiff, pre embalmed no more blood to claw at these hemp strands.

They will not come loose, they sink into my respiratory… my pulmonary, my spirituality and stop.

My tears subside and the viewing smiles lose their place in convulsions.
Pale faces, same faces that made aged faces sing amazing graces because of disgraces and segregated races boy I bet you wouldn’t wanna trade places!

This tree, almost companion less now knows me best and all of my carbon traces.
My pupils black and filled with death, face drained of light, left in fright, world once greens and reds and beautiful blues of all vertical shades and horizontal hues is only; now…. white…

But it was born black. I was born black.

***This is a direct response to the countless lives altered by the perpetuated hate of racism or religion. #coexist ***


The most insidious thing I’ve faced is living in the presence of the people I have hurt;  is that then death to the people who have been hurt?
Witness the templates I’ve presented to you’re viewing pleasure.

Stable, ambitious, legendary…
Great husband,  better father,  stellar man. Pleasantries.

When the refined sugar had dissolved the plain clothed resolves
The selfishness bubbles over,
The inconsiderate actions of a self-centered soldier.
Laying in trench, entrenched in the bodies I’ve bagged as baggage.
The doors all revolve around me like dollars do around whores.
Bitter as biting into big ass radishes.
Reality is exactly what the challenge is.

So I lay templates out like sanctified hands,
Wasted years and overly procrastinated plans,
Every year is an unfortunate toast, a reminder that the last year was abandoned, never mind the ambition,  never mind my intent or my Perception’s position.
The truth is even a failure,  a war inside to face the facts like lack of devotion to one’s own pledged religion. 

I have officially ran out of templates

Wire taps

If there was a thing I could have, especially for a Christmas list… it’d be a wire tap on you.
I’d plant the microphone on your mind so I can hear what your thinking all the time and as elementary or infantile as it sounds, I’d need only blow wind across your head and be effortlessly blowing your mind. 

If there was a thing I could ask for on father’s day and you said “baby no price limit it’s yours”
I’d buy my ass a wire tap for your mind and eat your thought process H’orderves.
I’d be up on your fashion craves, the in style foundations,  shadows, nail polishes and lipstick shades.
Savory your weight loss plans and remedies, sampling your pedicures and favoring your pedigree.

If there was a thing that I could get with that veteran’s day special at Best Buy,  I’d wire tap your spinal tap so I could feel your worries and pop your snaps.
Know when my words are laced in sarcasm,  take em back and cut them up play them back in 4k for you dressed and etched in Fantasia the Phantasm.
Wipe your tears before they mount, kiss every inch of those magnificent lips before they pucker… before they pout, before they frown,  in between our shouts, the in between inaudible is our mouths.

If I could exchange Thanksgiving feast for a selfish desire,  I’d trade up my PS4 for a tap and eBay the wire. I’d get into your Note 3 and text you kissy emojis when you need them most,  call your phone to say absolutely nothing, you know like to hear you breathe because that’s what counts the most.
I’d flip mines off when your thinking I wish he was noticing me.  The novice in me is missing all the things my wire tap would see.

And simply… whether, stretch, or plains or farms, or vast valleys and wide seas; I’d always have a piece of you right here with me.

Bad for you

The whole world with some kids in it and the double deck home, picket fence with the clothing line with sheets pinned to it, doctorate in something financially secure just to secure your sense of security… that’s just the superficial!
Officially she only wanted me but I came complete with baggage and frequent flyer weeks, selfish in the flesh and lacking the complete comprehension of loyal-T.

I’ve got tea bags and brains and she just deserves royal-T.
This is the part that writers call “soliloquy.”
It’s important to understand that it’s not impossible to wed, impregnate and confide in someone but still give so little… me.
Trying to find my God shovel to plant this seed worthy of being rooted in… HE.
Because without divine intervention like Jesus hands on the wheel this love is more like obituar-y!

I’m so bad for you like ruined your life and stressed the rags on you.
You just wanna smile,  I just wanna give time and possibly bless the tags on you.
Treat you with more respect than meat,  do more than grab on you.
Go gambit with our daughter,  gambling over who should have the bigger half of you!
Deliver speeches at the symposiums, key notes,  I can brag on you.

All about:
How the Lord made me from HIM and you from me then put you in front of my reach,
I got proverbs that grow something strong like you, preach!
Hope the natural flavors of love don’t fade with juice, peach.
Impeached the constant variable in attempt to make romance the constant constable.

But with all my good, great, greater than wishful intentions I seem to only bring bad for you.


How long have I loathed to pen things that pop off pamphlets, notepads, Facebook walls and twitter feeds like stallion erections… [pause]
He used to be poet, he used to craft bars out of Dos Equis because he is anything but the ordinary selection.
He is confident in his skill, not so sure about freewill,  very mistaken about refills and highly susceptible to expression.

Lean on It

If I ever needed something… shoulder to lean on it.
I been on it but life, it’s clever it’s demonic.
Rain just hits my window I’m crying I lean on it.
Lean until I fall through, like picture no screens on it.
Picture a man walking but there isn’t a scene on it.

No picture to rewind to, no dvr, tivo… no re-running.

Dreams might be deferred but I just can’t dream on it.
Not when my son’s mom blocks my shoulder so he can’t lean on it.
Young boy less than 10 like Similac with cream on it.
Promise the kid’s got the brains just needs the self esteem on it.
I had him less than 20 like a peach with fuzz for real on it.
Promise I lacked brains just needed the reality check with the “real” on it.
I used to have a vision but now I need high beams on it.
So used to a rocky road but never saw the fog and trees on it,
Forest fallen by the wayside and with the lumberjacks who leaned on it.

Now I am lost, fatigued and hopeless,
Lack of faith for fuel and driven with stress.
My game is off, my aim is a mess.
Too much pressure in responsibility, by similarity of “s”
Too selfish for Love when my words about her have been known to be blessed.
Confused and abused, in tune with failure; I know how to carve a new beginning and it involves detailers.
I can lean on this knife, while holding it over my gripes.
Lean until the blades cuts through the layers of life.
*exaggeration, deception, lies, hopes, embarrassment, insecurity and mediocrity.
I’ll lean now, all the way on it.
I did…

But the layers were too strong like couldn’t cut the seams on it.
Hidden seems like:
My wife and kids,  the ribs,  the hopes,  my Lord had too much steel on it.

My God has bigger shoulders than mines,  enough to lean on if…

I ever needed something

Gracing the Groom

I should thank the heavens for you!
So I have and so I will… continue.
I should bankroll the Reverend for you,
We deserve an excuse to abuse the power of matrimony until the sacrifices go over the balcony.
Throwbacks in these Sacony like jumping over the balcony.

Didn’t we use to have close combat conversations inside our comforter bunkers?
Can’t we do that again? Can’t we share chores to calypso and old skool reggae again?

I should thank the angels for you!
So I have and so I will… continue.
I should bribe the deacon and choir to sing love to us too.
Ask God for Moses’ rod to hold me upright, I’ll need every speck of strength laying these hands on you.

Didn’t we use to trade you picking my ingrown hairs for me giving you massages?
Can’t we do that again? Can’t we play UNO and Dominoes again?

I should thank Jesus for you!
So I have and so I will… continue.
It was written in Mark “Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.”
With ambush, or deceit, or lies, or with hate.
I never knew that “one” applied to us too.
It was also written in Ephesians to “Be completely humble and gentle; Be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make every effort to keep the unity of the spirit through the bond of peace.”

Didn’t we use to hangout together?
Can’t we do that again? Can’t we drive to Corpus again?

I should thank you for being you!
So if I haven’t enough I will do it more… and continue.
My bride, you’ve graced the groom,
It’s nearing the time we deserve the traditional “jump the broom.”
Blonde highlight and orange dress to room,
Our evenings now pale in comparison to 2010-2011 like string beans to kale.
My aura on you has faded your glow from omnipresent, to a flickering fail.
If you could live me all over where would you want to score today on the zero to ten scale?
I’ve got some better days for you, we just need to pack, commute, board, and sail.
I’m grateful and thankful to have you.

Arm’s Length

We met out of reach, two people transiting the information highway.
Focused on each other in attempt of passing by.
Curiosity pleaded the “hi” and “hellos” after confirming with both your and my feminine fellow that you were and I was simply okay.
A ritual common for social networks.

Fast forward to the point at which love becomes a net worth and kisses makes the neck work,
I mean hugs and “I love yous” made the smile reflex hurt.
Cheeks shouldn’t be held to high for so long.
But then I covered reality with a blanket of chivalry, misguidance doesn’t know romance.
All along, I was playing strings for you to dance to the same annoying tunes I hated.
Goddess you are and I applied you to a situation degrading.
Delegated nothing but diluted love and meat shavings.
When you do deserve all of that carnivorous fantasy I write about, gloat about, words that pick you up and throw hope about.

You’re in need of a shoulder, a hug, a comforter dressed as an embrace, an ear with taste, a friend, a “so much more”…
I’ve been neither, but a provider;
Of space, waste displaced, contorted faces and bogus slates.
Flipped that foundation over and founded a new but it was too late for you.
You were already beyond arm’s length.

Tile High

Ever felt like you were standing on the proverbial “mountain top?”
I have…

Felt like I had it all or was on my way to getting it.
Bittersweet notes played in the wind, whenever I entered the room I felt the losing minds hate because all I did was win.
That was the motivational call and I was answering it.
Semi-deep people are less entertaining than shallow minds, grinning in the marsh pits talking shit, on borrowed time.
Bittersweet melodies play out the loudspeakers, whenever I grace the stage I felt people lose their minds because all I did was rim.

Aren’t you, overdue for some full fled… f…. intercourse off the course of these regular minds, mind track.
Adapt or dismount, life offers no trials just error and it is the be it all discount.
Attack opportunity with gracious tact.
All I ever wanted was to be cleverly mounted on that mother fu….. obscenity deleted, mountaintop.
Free of humanity and the presentation of humanity’s slop.
Cropping people out of my life and Photoshopping new ones into it, template locked.
I owed you nothing less than cops killing young boys and nothing more than racial dimensions.
Peak was never obtainable because after the journey up, I’ll journey back down, less I die up there with no change.
I’ve got no place where the oxygen thins and there are lifeless things… there is no change up there.


What makes my baggage any less than the next, man?
I’m curious like who started the culture of maid of honor and, the best man.
I always thought of myself as the, best man.
But it so appears that my most sacred fears have coined me as a, less man.
Yes man, and no matter how fresh I think my freshness can…

I can’t change that I came with this kid,
Or that this baby mama drama collectively is a package deal.
Hate is stuck to the ribs when family can’t love your love the way you love and seal.
The contradiction to concealer is all the tears it reveals,
Streaks down her soul when I know I need her.
Breaking down her soul like hands laid from a preacher.

Can’t absolve and enumerate my past life, there is no exclusion from the past life so fuck the illusion.
My only savior of adjustment worth the savour is the fast life and all its accelerated flavors; conclusion.

The Miss

How do we miss each other so much?
I don’t mean like longing to see your significant other or a crush.
I mean, like passing our perspectives of each other right by, like a brush.
And close is never enough like enough can always use more.

I need more of you after you’re my wife and we’re already married type shit.
Heavy conversations like which God should we believe in after we’ve spent the beginning of this asking Jesus to forgive our sins type shit.
We grow, in the same household but sooooo differently type shit.
Like twins in segregation.
I miss your every move, your every mood misjudged, your steps over anticipated, your promises under anticipated, your kindness under appreciated, your embraces disassociated and this is all so lovely to the audience but to us it’s so damn complicated.

We the type that get the likes on Facebook but get the hate at home.
I’m the type to tell you all of this in a poem but can’t find the verbs to fuck nouns into making my mouth describe this accurately with adjectives.
That type of shit…

But how do we become closer, magnets?
How do we kiss deeper, lips, tongues, baguettes?
How do we listen harder, death metal?
How do we hold hands longer, Timex?
How do we love more?

No examples is the true example, no one’s perfect is the grail to hail, relationship preamble, elderly couples are just a sample. 63 years in the mix and can’t remember if she prefers omelets over scrambled.

So the pieces we miss, we fill in like cavity fillings, it’s not a flush fit but at least hope gets to sit in.
Next to fluoride and missing you isn’t the same as it used to be… you expect me to hold you before you slip by and love you like you weren’t mines. Then remember things like they are mines like you hate putting gas in the car.
I hate putting gas in this car too!
This one that drives hope, because I take us no where blaring the music like we’re going somewhere.

With the sincerest expectations we arrive at 334 Promise Street
Proclaiming that we’ll never bypass each other the way we used to as we weep.

Entry 1

How the fuck do I see you for you when all I’ve been taught about subliminal and direct is that your ass is 50 and your face is 30… percentages of respect.
Obviously you’ve been attending the same class because you’ve tummy tucked, face lifted, ass implanted and then decided to seek respect.
I thought it started with self???

Esteem (slot unchecked)

I’m not making it any easier am I?
When I compare you to them;
All the ones that frequent these procedures for a piece if any of social accep…. -tance.
Same goes for your perspective of me right?

I’m not a baller or a rapper so I’m definitely a trapper right?
Never mind the degree or the master’s I’m chasing, the training I’ve completed or the criticism I’m taking.
Because that’s what this education is “criticism.”
Well you’ll probably accept me for even less if I’ve managed to accrue enough funds to tattoo my neck, arms, legs, back, face and chest.
But then what’s left beneath the ink to see?
Definitely not me.

It would mean the world if my version of you started with conversation and conversions of hue before the sex and address changes.
I didn’t see your face before your ass or breast and you’re pretty so none of that might matter at best.
No wonder I’m barely 30 with these two and you. High debt accompanied by cholesterol and stress, no wonder we got a high ass death….

Ratio, don’t allow me to go racial because 80 percent of the time I did it to myself.
The other 20 percent was them and you.
Any other scenarios are indefinitely unimportant just like my ranking on the facial ladder.
You’re 5 times likelier to be hired over a man and this is the foundation of division… do the maths.

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