Humble Mouths

Raw Perspectives! Wordplay from active minds and humble mouths.

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.

Man

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

World saviors commend. Revolutionaries contend.

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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.

Muse

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

more.

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

Stored

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

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.

Overcast

image

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.

Overcast

Bread Ties

image

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.
Right?
Wrong.
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.
The knot is compassion, no matter how it seems because I threw my whole life at it and I’ll pay double to breathe.
Beams of pressure, relative to the mass of my weight under the stature of my stress.
Never thought I’d be aloft on a rope with Depression bouncing on my shoulders like a crazy 3 yr-old, thighs locked around my throat.
He gloats and 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…
Trying to displace enough air to lift my future out of this noose.
My hands go stiff, pre embalmed no more blood to claw at the hemp strands. 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; white…

But it was born black?

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

Templates

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.

#freedom

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.
#freedom

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.

Baggage

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 wet 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 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.

“Who do we think we are…”

John Legend sings, “Who do we think we are…?” Bellowing in another room.

And I fall into concern for self,
Considering all the notches on my belt.
Are these the stories that define my life?
Money I’ve blown, material I own, failing health.
Masking my emotions in a masquerade of career choices and stealth.

And does it all… All fall down?
Because putting it back together seems like a long shot now.
Roadblocks; where failure meets determination and fresh Kung Pao,
White wines and OJ for group toasts now.
Pro-whatever meetings and prayers to excel on the DOW.
It’s just a tiny piece of my soul for a huge fortune of gold, I’m doing better than Judas, but kisses plant equally cold.

The music is still blaring like a concert in the distance, “Who do we think we are…?” Says John Legend.
Clowns like Heath Ledger?
I’m all in the red with ambitions of swiping my name off the ledger.
In the sincerest attempts of becoming a #BOSS

Lost aspect of self, I’m a bigger man though my frame doesn’t agree,
Loss my way on the path to Jesus, traded that for African monarchy.
Bones buried before the bible knew ink,
Before historians knew slave master’s drove their religion into our drinks, and into our kids, then courtesy of whips, now courtesy of “the fix.”

“Who do we think we are?”

A people?

**** A piece inspired by John Legend ft. Rick Ross “Who do we think we are?”

Keep Me, Please…

Swooooshhhhhedddd me right off my feet,
Used to stand on my own now “Staircase to Heaven” is on repeat,
Guess I’m all into you like fillings for pastries,
Maybe we should go back to making…. bā-bies.
Baby I’ve only known you for like 6.
Enough years to add a ring, a home, a child, a proposal, some tears and smiles, joint accounts and new last names with the deserved prefix… Mrs.

You deserve FRS, Type S, S Class, SRT, GS; all acronyms for the best.
Best to do this right and do the whole ceremony with the dress.
Soon as we can afford it, get ready to snap it and refresh. Pin it on your desktop,
Plaster them on your walls,
“Memories don’t live like people do….” says Buju.
And I’m into working hard to make magic happen like voodoo.

2 strands of hair belonging to a rich man,
Pinch of fairy dust,
Legs of 6 money spiders…. etc.

So you or these kids never have to do,
Anything in life short of what you want to do.
The options have never been open so all I need is an option 2.
My life’s mission is taking a global position on being next to you.
Who knew, we’d see these days with the potential of taking this further?
I’ve admitted to being in love but I also am guilty of wanting to be in to you…. #hipthrustdeep
Everything I’ve thrown back couldn’t be for keeps, but I found you and everything I’ve become is only so you’ll keep; me.

So keep me please, begging was always cool if you listen to old school,
RnB, let’s redevelop romance like RND.
View it in super hi-def, Samsung; LG.
Wear it in sin like trading Tru Religion for LRG.
Add some wattage to our lifestyle, NRG.
Stand at the pinnacle of divorce plotting a coup, anarchy, hierarchy.
Anything in bloody murder for you to keep me, please…
I even wrote this on my knees, I’m lying but I thought about it and that’s at least worth points for me.
I love you.

Love IQ

What’s your romance SAT score?
Do you top the 5% of cuddlers, kissers, huggers; with chivalry unheard of before?
When you draft professional works of art from stray sheets of loose leaf does it reminisce Basqiat of love letters or the Chopin of oaths?
Do you boast after you’ve expanded you’re significant other’s coronary like bowls of overheated oats?

In the maths, is it imperative to square confusion with algorithms and does sex require obtuse angles to make the clitoris do like testicles and go firm and then dangle?
Right before orgasm does the vaginal walls go pi and then full circumference?
Is the radius of the penis as important as it’s momentum or mass?

I ask… then,
How much in tune are you with her tune? His favorite fragrance for your skin butters and perfumes?
Her sexiest undies, his most intimate words, her most profound secrets???

What’s the lat. and long. of big, huge, deep passion?

Contend to fixate my attention at your historical beginnings.
I want to divulge in your highs and winnings,
Capture your essence of there and fabricate them in your gutter lows and mediocre moment’s very trimmings.

All for the geography of you or even the history.
Mystery of love is still a mystery.
So soliloquys get in line for grammatical entrance.
The sentence slays communication and the obsession crafting timeless thoughts into the end dance.

You please my presence, so I present my intelligence acquiescence/ generations of feverish perversions pervert the mind/
Blind me with your caring persona and all its fluorescent; light.
My love IQ of you is border line failure and that’s not right.
Not because I’m uninterested but because your character is so vast.

The Children

Commission me with thigh high expectations on changing the world wouldn’t you?
They all are bright-eyed and promising, not yet awakened to the negativity surrounding them, protect them couldn’t you?

They love so hard and are born so honest.
Only to shed skin and become liars, and haters, and drunks and colonists.
Spreading infection to their peers like we did.
Raping the innocence in them, we take pleasure in their most horrific comprehension.
These kids…

Have no future beyond our dissatisfaction with ourselves.
Neglect was never a contraceptive,
We bury ourselves in the latest technology and ipads are not birth control just controlling birth.

Retinal scans and “smart” mobilization, tools to keep us tuned out of our starving nation.
Focused on baking more bread in excess, while stealing every grain of wheat from starving nations.
How can I focus on success?

When I was born into a race that doesn’t even have rights yet?

Don’t speak to me of equality because my son is not comforted with words.
Don’t lie to me of education because you lied to my wife with those words.
Don’t tell me there are reparations when there are more sanctuaries for plants and birds.
There are more clauses and laws for immigration, irrigation and none yet for black, African-American, Moorish, negro… Niggers don’t get the awards.

I’m dissatisfied and disenfranchised.
My history starts with a boat ride.
When the population, the staggering numbers does not coincide with the Triangle Trade…
In denial I took your Apple Pie crumbs but I now refuse your lemonade.

It’s filled with diabetes and my children love it.

They have no future serenading your Star Spangled Banner,
But even they have no where else to call home.

Obsession

image

I, I, I can’t seem to shake the feeling, no… the urge.
The stomach churning necessity to purge,
The climatic rise accompanied by goosebumps and hormonal spikes.
I recognize the surge of explicit pleasure when it bites my hand every time I feed it.

There’s a thing within my skin that lives to collect as much sin as it can.
Some call it demon, but I call it man.
It’s purpose is destruction and it’s plan is insatiable; it’s contribution is nothing but contraband as is bland.

It craves lust, desires gluttony. It is a sex addict, a thief, a murderer yet looks so human. Too human to be so monstrous.

It’s obsessed with pain and grief. It yearns for attention and when I cannot supply…
It demands MORE. Every strand of resistance takes fatal blows. Bad ideas become good and I do as always after the 12th hour; I give in.

*** Photo credits go to: http://www.faisalalmutar.com/2014/05/11/relationships/

What Would It Be?

If you could ask one question to the universe, God or even the most prolific person you’ve never met what would it be?
Where would you summon the words from?
Would they frame your entire character or describe a small extension of your being?

In that moment would it be your greatest experience?
Would you have the courage to vocally ask it… that thing that’s been eating at your existence?
Who would it be directed to and most definitely what about?
No regs.

But before you utter your query, that festering sore you’ve managed to cultivate into grammar and syntax;
Remember some things are not meant to be comprehended or divulged to people who have no need to know.
Even worse, sometimes certain things should not manifest themselves.

Yet still, if you could conjure one single open ended thought for someone or something else that you absolutely revere to explain; what would it be?

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