We desire the things that will destroy us in the end
It's funny how we protect those who hurt us I think it's because we think there constantly trying to change that imperfection we have with in us how ironic
They told me it would be fun I wouldn't ever forget the feeling, this feeling, they said I'd be cool if I did it, and how I feel cool the cold night air as soft as cotton when it touches my skin but as sharp as knives as the cool cuts to the bone I can see every thing clear as day as if the sun was at my back showing me a new perspective I think that's why I can see the stars shiny behind the thick clouds. I can almost hear them whisper their singing heavenly tunes with the rushing river playing percussion with the river rocks which drummed and the claps of the rips which match every color I've ever seen even the new ones in front of me
i feel like i could fly and belive me i tried every time i landed the grass under my bare cold feet were having tickle fights with my toes there rugged wet tips almost like a dogs tounge licked and my soles they were winning, I the meekest of the meek was now the king of all I Survey and as I watched my kingdom of color, shape and sound they started to take shape of my "friends" all laughing with tears in there eyes I thought it was another one of my renditions of how I perceive things them seemed so real I could almost feel their breaths as they laughed even more hysterically their laughter seemed to shack me to my core so I called out to ask what was the joke
the sky spits at me with great disgust I want to ask why but I could not hear my self over the now screams of my "friends" they matched the screams of banshies and nails on a chalk board I mixture of millions of off pitch piano keys I was In pain a pain I had never experienced before it was every were on my body no fixed place no origin site but raw utter pain I held with all my might it still was no competition for there screeches, I wanted so much to rip off my ears but befor I could for a brief moment i felt at peace one with all and all in me then every thing went black no songs now vivid colors no feeling of anything just darkness then when I woke I saw a bright light took me a second to realize I was back to normal the sun was up but it did not greet me the grass was cool but it didn't fight I felt lonely I check my phone for any massages,
"how was it""do you want more" I thought about all the hell I went through all the pain I felt then I remembered that feeling I wanted to feel it again no I needed to feel it again so with out a second thought I answered "yes" it's funny how we want what will destroy us in the end it's just human nature
A bad trip.
We are naught
But a black hole,
Sucking in the earth
Of our eyes-
The soul somewhere-
Your freckles are stars
Joined together by the creases of your skin
Your birth marks are the unknown galaxies
Untouched and mysterious.
You are my moon
My whole life revolves around you.
We are distant constellations
Far away but still edging closer
Closing the black hole
Sucking us both apart.
Your whole body
Is an unexplored universe
That i wish to travel to some day
And explore it's every surface.
How will we,
ever carry on?
To where we've gone,
But we're almost home.
We kept on running,
They must have known,
Just where we've gone,
But we're running on our own.
are fast on our track,
They keep on longing,
just to attack,
It's far to late,
just to go back,
so keep on running,
cause' the night is black.
Her eyes are small bite pieces of chocolate and I want to call her eye candy but I have stopped objectifying women because I found a woman who is sweet as she is strong.
She grazes my earlobe back and forth until I smile. We are in her bed, tired from lovemaking, happy from lovemaking, indulgent from lovemaking.
Her forehead is touching my cheekbone and her legs have tangled my leg and I hope they stay that way forever.
Her cream colored blanket keeps us warm and secure from the bitter cold of a December Sunday.
She traces her thumb over my lower lip and I tremble with satisfaction. Her hand slips under the blanket and inside my black slacks. She grabs a hold of my penis.
She pushes my head toward her face so that my eyes lock on to her eyes. Those small bite pieces of chocolate melting my soul, making me quiver a pleasure that is immeasurable and nuanced.
black boy, black boy,
we shot you --
in your small, shiny black shoes;
your tidy school uniform
white boy, white boy,
we will not shoot you --
in your big, broken black shoes;
your untidy school-form
instead, we will not teach you
white boy, we will not teach you:
English is for black schools --
the jacarandas of Pretoria are dying;
the mimosas in the bushveld
have taken the Acacia tree's name
and beneath the the soil,
the roots of South Africa are still
growing, exactly the same?
Sister Scholastica left the refectory after lunch; made her way to the grounds for the twice-daily recreation period. She had been one of the twelve nuns to be chosen to have their feet washed by the abbess later that day. Some were too old, some too young, she imagined, looking for a quiet spot to wander; take in the scenery; meditate on her day and the following days to come of Easter. A chaffinch flew near by; a blackbird alighted on the ground and then flew off again. She paused. Maundy Thursday. Her sister Margaret had died on a Thursday. She remembered the day her sister was found in her cot by her mother; heard the screams; the rushing of both about her; her father’s harsh words; both shouting; her being pushed aside; wondering what had happened; no one saying until the small coffin was taken out of the house for the funeral and off to the church which she was not allowed to attend. Mother was never the same afterwards. The days of lucidity grew less and less; madness crept over her like a dark spider spinning its web tightly. She sighed. Walked on through the grounds passed the stature of Our Lady green with moss and neglect. The sun warmed. Say your prayers, mother had said, always say your prayers. Mother’s dark eyes lined with bags through lack of sleep, peered at her especially when the madness held her like a bewitched lover. Poor Margaret, poor sister, only said baby sounds, off into the night. One of the nuns passed her with a gentle nod and a smile. Sister Mary. She saw her once holding the hand of another sister, late evening after Compline, along the cloister in the shadows. Father fumed at the creeping madness; Mother’s spewing words; the language foul. She stopped; looked at the apple orchard. Le repas saint: le corps et le sang de Christ, Sister Catherine said to her that morning after mass, the holy meal, the body and blood of Christ, Sister Scholastica translated in her mind as she paused by the old summerhouse. Francis, who once claimed to have loved her, wanted only to copulate; left her for some other a year later. A bell rang from the church. Sighed, Time not hers. She fingered her rosary, a thousand prayers on each bead, each bead through her finger and thumb. Her father beat her when her mother’s rosary broke in her hands; the room was cold and dark. Pray often, Mother said, in moments of lucidity. Time to return. The voice of God in the bells. She turned; walked back towards the convent, her rosary swinging gently in her hand, her eyes taking in the church tower high above the trees; a soft cool breeze kissing her cheek like Francis did once, long long ago before Christ called and made her a bride; clothed her in black as if in mourning for the sinful world she’d left behind.
In the early hours
when yesterday recedes into today
and dreams begin to slip away
The still black of night fades
into bluesilver as distant drums
lay rhythm for the marching sun
deep within the black shirt
are chamelion hands making mocks
when they should've been
digit deep in a bowling ball
or around the handle of a sauce pan
or on the arm of the couch...
sometimes they'd be cupped
amplifying yells around the mouth,
sourcing the tooth obsession along with a slew of other medical problems,
another bushel of bullshit for the stew in the pot
maybe her foreign claws
could rub the knots out of your shoulders
but she is suspected of dropping the world,
and, as with many other things,
would garner your reluctance
to hold risk for,
your red hot fear of hatred
your red hot fucking hatred
those shoulders hold your house
those shoulders hold your experience
your lack thereof, your anxiety
your fucking hatred
your black shirt
Pool of blood turns sticky
Icky thick tick picked off and tossed aside
carve a pumpkin-
black teeth grow
a textured ridge
bridge the gap between what I mean and what is seen.
I think of you in your blue room
With all the pieces contrary
love isn't real but imaginary.