Somewhere in the sockets of ours skulls
we ache to be buried in a coffin that leaves us room
to kiss, and when your six foot schoolboy frame is
six feet below the soil, our bones will make love but
our skeletons will not know it as intimate.
We will be found with ink stains inside the
dents in our pelvises or somewhere between our wishbones.
Tell me how you want to go and I will nod calmly and slip
a will beneath your tongue with my lips, then
let the smoke of fires and recurrences
Don’t let funerals scare you,
they are more for the living anyway and
when you feel that the ropes around your wrists
are tightening and the ropes within your wrists
are loosening, we'll count to 3.
I've always wondered how I'd go,
And sharing the toxins seems less
Scary then swallowing them on my own.
I'm a seeker,
that's what the ink blots say.
I look for patterns
in the cracks on the sidewalk.
I read my bible in the dark corners
trying to find purpose,
hiding my shame.
I look inside trash cans
for left overs
and disregarded secrets.
and I try to find a mystery
in the smiles.
Maybe an untold story
that was never good enough
to tell over a late night dinner.
Like the time you killed
and after all these years
you still feel guilty.
Or the time you put
change inside of a pizza box
before you threw it out
just in case someone rummaging
through the trash found it.
And the irony hurts
because life has a terrible sense of humor.
I hold the crucifix in my left hand
The hand that's been mutilated
Nerve damage done
It rests easy in this hand
peacefully in this hand
"it's not your fault."
"it's not your fault."
Yes it is
Yes it is
As You sleep soundly
I have a profound longing
To hear your voice
But I'll stay silent
Allowing You to have
Your beautiful violet dreams
It is the color of the power inside You
The fire that drives You
Your strength and stamina
Make Your spirit bleed
Radiant indigo ink
I need it to sink into my skin
With cleansing rejuvenation
I will be baptized by Your beauty and
Blessed by Your holy heart
You are my profound prophet
You sing me scripture
Every time You speak
You are my divine deity
I lay at Your feet
Praying I deserve to feel
Your loving heat
Your clairvoyance purifies me
With Your open oracle spirit
Spouting moonshine mysteries
In magical mountain memories
Dancing through Your mind and
Coming alive inside your eyes
For all to see the
Blessing of life free of disguise
Inside you is
The value of so much:
The heart I hold so dear.
The soul that stands beside me.
Destroying my fear and
As I watch it disappear
I thank the Earth for
Helping you find me
We both revolve around the same world
I am the sun shining in adoration
You are the magnificent moon
Making sure I am safe
I am the warmth to guide You home
While You roam nights alone
I hope You know
I'm always going to be here when day breaks
I worship Your grace
Because the kind lines of Your face
Have proven to me
You are worthy of it
Your being allows the ocean to move
So I want to crash into it
Burning out but covered in
Anything You have touched
Except I won't
Because I know You need me
An inferno aflame
For my full moon baby
bindi's grace the top of her mocha forehead.
wrist draped with bangles. African soul.
style so Afrocentric
afro so black panther
fist high in the air she is black pride. she embraces the motherland with open arms and is proud of her heritage. music notes hidden in the blacks of her eye. she is music. hiphop and r&b.
tupac's lyrics ingraved on her tongue. words of left eye instilled in her brain.
music gives her life.
voice of an angel yet she stays mute. black ink at her fingertips and a notebook always at her side. she is a lyrisit. she is sassy. press the wrong button and she's gone for a moment but will soon comeback to earth. a beautiful quiet vibrant soul she is indeed. stubborn and mean at times but still as sweet as the refreshing taste of lemonade on a hot summers day.
she is Africa. she is India. she is Haiti. she is black pride. she is music. she is poetry. she is wonderful. she is comical. she is lovely. she is classy.
she is my big sister. O.R.
I've spent years
(in a skewed totality)
placed just so,
back to back.
With a devil's hand
and an ink jet black-
I label each box
It's easier that way-
with every last one
blocked off like this.
For then I can know
who's what where
no one can move
from their labels-
though they may try.
But it's tiring you see,
keeping everyone so-
they surprise me, step outside,
I watch them all grow.
That's the thing with us humans-
we don't say the same-
we've got good sides and bad sides
and sides in between-
Forcing labels and boxes
only slows us down-
open eyes, clear hearts,
turns each new day 'round.
A practical mind opened up by the complexity of human character.
Feeling dr suess-y, can you feel it ?
1. Put a sad song on repeat. Some people will tell you to play a favorite, but you should always use a sad song. One so painful that it breaks your heart in pieces with every itinerant chord change. One whose words slide sharper than the six fresh blades stashed under your dirty socks across flushed and anxious skin. One you only remember on nights like this. You want a song that sneaks on trembling legs, unstretched and untested, into your thoughts to leave muddy footprints on everything it can reach. Let the bass line become a heartbeat; inhale to it. Exhale to the kick drums, and moan to the guitars. These are the nights you won’t remember, the songs you won’t remember; but when you do, you’ll know.
2. Snap a rubber band against your skin. Leave welts, because that’s really all you want. Watch the inflammation evolve and fade. The rosy lines of discontent will eventually dissolve back into their pale, ivory stasis, and you will be no worse for the wear. Keep one on your wrist day and night, like a shackle—a rubber band that is. You will depend on it one day, wound up in its elastic tension, a knot stretched to breaking, and you will snap. Snapsnapsnap. And you will revel in the marks you leave as they fade from your memory.
3. Go for a walk or a jog. Run. Feel the cool of the breeze as it dries the sweat to a tacky layer of salt on your forehead. Feel the stitch form swiftly in your side and imagine a knife. It slips between the bones of your ribcage. It twists, knicking calcium splinters into your chest cavity. Keep running and never stop. As your knees cry out and crumple to the sidewalk, your breath will come in short gasps of agony, and you will feel everything and nothing at once.
4. Scream into a pillow. Let your lungs bleed venom and misery into tear-stained feathers and compression-resistant fiberfill. All the secrets you’ve whispered through the years will whisper back and muffle your anguish. Breathe. Soak in the regurgitated carbon dioxide and know it is yours. Feel it burn as feather fronds slip through thin cotton mesh and into your nasal cavities. Catch your breath deep in your chest and scream again. You’ll lose your voice one of these days.
5. Spend hours absorbed in art—draw, paint. Scratch endless lines into paper with the implement of your choice. Crosshatch ink into pliant wooden fibers until it bleeds through to the other side or even the next page. Splash an image of the object of your frustrations on a wall-sized canvas. Spend hours inking over those delicate fibers and indelicate features with dusty charcoal and night-black Krylon. Paint yourself until your smile no longer cracks, but flexes with the heat of your skin. They will love you now, an ever-grinning Mona Lisa.
6. Call a friend on the telephone and make uncomfortable small-talk. Ask them how their day was, even though you saw them twice. When they sigh it was fine and ask how you are, reply with the same lie as always. Oh, I’m alright; a little tired, but okay. Eventually, you might even believe it when the words tumble instinctively from your lips, and then you’ll be fine too.
7. Draw a butterfly on your wrist and name it for someone who would be sad if you relapsed. Color your butterfly; make it your friend. Remember that it’s temporary, that it will eventually wash off in the sink or shower, but while it’s visible you cannot kill it. To slice off its wings would be murder; to scorch cigarette marks into its thorax, cruel. You wouldn’t hurt an innocent butterfly, would you? Someday you’ll name that butterfly after yourself, and then you will be free.
8. Slip an ice cube into the crook of your elbow. Let it melt; from the sharp sting of frost to the slow itch of evaporating wet. Watch it disintegrate and know you are warm. You radiate, even if it is only enough to coax water from an ice cube. But you are warm and alive, and that is enough. Let that knowledge numb you. Remember when you were small and hurt your ankle falling down the stairs. When your mother found a decades-old bag of peas in the basement freezer for you to wear, thinking it would numb the ache of a tiny sprain. The bag dripped into your socks and squished in your shoes, but the cold made it feel new again (eventually). Watch the ice and feel the cold as the liquid slides down your sleeve. You will melt it and it will melt you.
Fashion this as liquor to give spirit to a song in write.
Seen seldom to weigh words at play in search,
sewn expensive for time spent in trust and recite.
Penciling not for profit so rhythmic this may show.
Find in the presence to open and reflect our woes.
Only prescription for uncommon those in write.
A same those who compose.
This on display is the compromise
of sheltered dreams ~ and the soul,
of rhythm in gentle prose.
This is the allure of the jewel of life.
Sent as promise a same a wish.
Stem those genes and make heavy this vision ~
and prayers in might.
These are our rays made ink,
to weigh the pressures of waves
constant in cycle, to detract from nature’s
Heavenly sight. Lost we shall dream
and ever so patiently grow old but in heart live bold.
Rugs were in Persia mathematically
correct and with an Indian craft
colorful, Heaven sent. Only captured in
a metaphor this day, so men do master,
so simple this way. Simple this as to
measure the years past, shudder away
tears, for the river purifies our passions
commandeered. So culture our gardens
to prosper and replenish, in the green
untamed, and natural in wonder,
Today we thimble a sew for tomorrow,
for our craft is spared only to simple ~
ness of editing, not journeyed journals
to an ever-changing composition
Perhaps unfamiliar this vest, this
life. Sample the living, in books that
inspire. Dismal I think the desire to
purify a pen in this heavy practice, a
dance an art. Time lends a flavor,
marinating appealing to a fashion so
Always calm to prolong righteous
reason, modern making, yet captured
still as storytelling. Uncommon to cues,
but refreshing at leisure, is now a
computer who makes simple what once
was wasted time. Measures made in
this art are laborious, the passion is for
the pen, reel it in as your tool, rations
will in turn ~ give as a well to nature
and sow, the seed of the write.
Refinement ~ un-forsaken, notes of
detail, must reinvent and inscribe in
ink. The bank of intuition lay tender as
our diction. Replenish in the soil of our
native grounds to seed another tool, the
luxury of our lingo. For inspirations
may befriend or become uncharted if
left in the cold. Sold but without a
surrender to all integrity, we will call
for many souls to ship and receive what
Forefathers intended. In over our
heads, over watering our behaviors,
half unknowingly over diluting our
mental treasures, is this the liquor of
life, all too fancy in measure but it was
the tea of rebellion ~ and so I toast ~
to a drink tonight.
Inherent as memories of a generation
now surely within time, we will fill the
promise within crafted lines, and file
away ~ many promises ~ many
revisions, many times. In spoil we shall
not surrender our bounty of honesty and
wisdom, so gray in years we
mend. Dent our self-serving self ~
respect, make and justify the wheel in
role common. Like a beard in keep,
intention is relevant. Surely women
refine makeup as to show beauty in
character. Thus what we intend to
refine is an endeavor to unwrinkled and
celebrate the qualities of growing
old. Time is of new defining, for the
times are naturally at all times ~ in
ritual of change.
Memories to grace the gift of sight are
the shades to carry our reflections
away. One, who trusts and so cares, lay
in the daydream of light. In a wish sent
salient, reference to eyes unveiled,
patiently as a seed shall ripen, the
flavors of life will flower in springs
day. We hanger thus shelter, the rags
made clothes, best when leather to
weather firm and tight.
Regift the promise, to harness the wind
and make words potent as those before
did without regret. Today in general we
lean and conform on the fundamentals,
too disciplined, mirror of stale
literature. Similar to wood varnished
but without the stains of life. First
revision is not for giving, only what is
taken, luxury of time. Color your copies
of the wood you talk in and pencil in
your pressures to relieve the pain,
simple ~ ness and cold feet lay sold, as
buttered bread to fill. But imperfect, so
forthcoming, wills the literature of today
finding promise in ceremony by
charting drafts and revisions to send in
message to those young in read.
This voyage is regretfully gentle as our host
made monumental any verse, so breathe
within the soul and hearts of men, to
find new styles to milk the mind of
reason. Leafs from the tree of intuition
censure the picture, sell in the filter of
Freedoms fight, not first drafts ready
Battered but purely by pace and
meager beginnings, the wave of
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will saddle and shelter the idea
profound. Don’t toss away the raisin of
a pen in hand, for we lean to easily in
bits and bytes. Promise of Heaven’s
pennies falling in rhythm will sing
tonight. Majestic in find, common in ground,
gift a find, in leisure, in time. Gather
they guard and uphold the greater good,
not to entertain but inspire. Just as
ones soul is when right. Humbled in
behaviors so chips in clever may
fall. But poker face we have
become, once centered in earnest of
essays in rent, now owners of ideas
embellished ~ in verse ~ our native
treasures. Second, we charter the raft
of ideas in mend, to conceive works so
aspiring as the poets and linguists of
historic claim. So riddled ~ so
mastered. Surely a new discontent shall
offer, in a pebble of examples met, with
practice and structure our youth will
Demand must be patient, for
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will nurture and mother our future
Leaders to a discipline in their own
right. Never forget the days of past
generations for they marveled in the
arts ~ and in rain it falls in our hands ~
to luster and defend. Poetics are too
political if not in share. Protection of
this is how Freedom was rung. The
hungry will maintain its resolve and
rightfully so. Riddled as sow ~ these
lentils, this meal, these feathers, this ink
shall fuel the fire. A dance in the
pillows of night shall brush the painting
in the autumn of one’s days. Flaccid in
so many ways. Glorified by the shadows of protection,
but only one day is stored for this
intention. Freedom is in the work
engraved beside it, within it, sharing we
celebrate it, and our Brave provide
it. Celebration comes by way of duty
and hard work, and it rises high and
early in the dawn. Yes, on the Fourth
Day of July. Food and pleasures are
gifts for price paid by our Soldiers and
Agencies who protect and defend our
freedom and intelligence, and calmly
watch over it as we carry along. All
under the calm watch of Gods
umbrella. Future dreams are blessed a
same, for all under this Flag by notion
alone, seam and dress and hence sail
with solemn truth. Trusting the winds of
reason to keep us Forever Free and on
course to replenish the soil, for those
young in years. Students in the day
dream of life are in the send to allow
their pen to charter this peaceful but
daunting Nation to one of peace and
prosperity. Willingly and calm the Lion
stares afar from American shores,
Democratic in nature and always
reinventing in this idea we call ~ the
Essence, the conviction of the write,
shall reorganize the rations for those in practice.
This vision is the measure, and pressures will these passions,
manifested softly by pen.
Thus are fancy and cleverly written for your poetic heart.
The seed of the write is wisdom.
Undressing for simplicity is merely a token,
simply a diluted meal for the mind of reason.
Compromising style for form is seedless, a pit, un-fancy ~
sacrificing ones wit. A simple notion, a quietness of pen,
are seams without thread ~ and thus are sent in a haste.
Present your share in color ~ refresh your intuition.
For reasons that shall spill out from the heart.
Mental these thoughts sent...
With conviction, steady away miss- guided intentions ~
milk the ink of your composition, lose yourself in poetics.
Writers crave reasons to mend their sheltered words.
Monumental the blessings of your pen ~ trust it, write...
Savvy away grievances, mend your instinct,
refine your wit. Engage your readers.
Paint them fancy as promised.
Grow willingly to heavy your intelligence,
essential to your work.
Thus pen without compromise.
Deliver it until the ink runs dry...
Passion is art. Grind it to a discipline.
Reason alone ~ is the venture, not for pennies ~
not for a payout or a new home.
Fortune found ~ is in the share.
Pay enough for any writer.
So polish your send, edit away loose words ~
Clichés, a ticket to ride ~ are but a fast fix,
a passing of your intelligence.
Be fair to mind ~ be disciplined stay on edge ~
justified to the left, then write.
Diamonds are the fortune ~ not in count as coins ~
but golden as words reserved for two.
Slices of life are served here.
Quotes echoed from the friendly are the writers pay,
enchanted in rhythms, make a meal of this plate.
Cultured arts, flavored in time are dressed
and ready for marinating.
Marathon the heart ~ fine-tune your pen.
Simply hold the pen and write.
Clever, calm, true to scope of diction.
Memory strands of life are in bloom.
Shell it, drape your lingo.
Blossom to your duty.
Words shuffle for a climb off the rim of your page.
Guide them gently, an evenly pleasure them ~ sow ~ it shall grow.
Steady them away from formula blink at the mirror of repetition ~
crutch the pull of rhyme. Discipline the sharpness of your tool.
Pen your vessel to ride. on the waves of wonder and your words shall live ~
pleasure them ~ trust them ~ row to your bank ~
the poetic heart, jewels found by this promise are sent by feather ~
embrace it ~ write until the sheet is no more…
Ink, wouldn't fill my paper
into the air it leapt, turning to vapor
the words, never crept into my head
maybe, there not meant to be said
because my thoughts, have gone and hid
to be written, on this paper, they forbid.
Not one word, nor sentence, has entered my mind
the way to express, my feelings, I can not find
a mind and heart confused
my hand, to this pen, is fused
because I owe, that much as an explanation
to say I'm sorry, for the separation.
But am I truly sorry, that we are not meant to be
that you and I together, is not what I foresee
now released, from all confusion
free, from the disillusion
that I owed you, now knowing better
the pen to my hand, defuses, and I crumple this letter.
I often times forget that this life
is not someone else's dream
And I constantly find myself
tripping over things and failing to realize that
I did this to myself
I am not who they all aspired me to be
I was never the flower girl tip toeing down the carpeted aisle with a bouquet of red roses in her hands
Rather I grew up the quiet girl sitting alone
in the back corner of the church
Scribbling on her wrists with ink
and wondering how this life ever even came to be