she will move him with her mystique
sweet smile, **** scene
eyes that beckon a nearby need
will have him walking soon,
moving with a certain rhythm
a desire to taste her situation
he can’t call it anything else
until perhaps she offers him more,
yet, he waits, trepidation
he needs to let her make the choice,
he won’t find himself in a coveted posture
if haste breaks their eye contact.
Intense now her gaze rules his mind,
that has quickly shut off except to feel his unraveling
passion’s gasp for more, a need,
to walk inside her world
her vacancy she needs to have a …
new notion to perhaps caress her state of mind.
Always cautious
he can’t really ever decide
whether she wants him,
or simply would like to play him,
until she’s suddenly bored,
outside the lair,
he stands hopeful,
yet anticipates a certain …
confusion.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
I hit her again last night, it just happened, I didn't think about it, I just did it,
I watched her body bounce off the stove and her head just missed the granite countertop,
she watched us from between the doorway and I didn't have a clue she was there
watching her mom crumple on the floor while blood streamed from her nose.
I looked at her lay on the ground out cold, and wondered if I'd really killed her this time.
I knew some part of her was dead, but that was a long time ago ....
I guess I had just regained physical control.
~
Is that all it really is when we think about the physical abuse of another,
are we fighting for control in the only sickest manner that we know?
Why else such evil outcome upon the one we love,
what makes it right to hurt the closest part of our lives
to strike down upon that soul that we seem to count upon.
Is that really using them for the support they were first meant to be?
What about them? In all the callous delivery of pain and suffering,
why do the victims have to remain the most confused,
or are they really, perhaps they're not, perhaps they are simply
the victims they are meant to be, and society clouds that reality
by placing labels upon reasons and judgments upon excuse.
~
Yet still all the advertisements plead for the protection of the abused,
they ask us to open our eyes, to think again, to seek help,
they plead for the end to ihe injustice, and suggest the conversation
begin, rather than the blank stare of rage without any rationale within.
How do we explain damaging the vulnerable nature of the one we love;
where do we depend upon the solace of beating up our children?
~
I was 18 the day I was struck down by my brother's fist
because I had openly verbally abused my parents and he chose
to put me on the ground in a lesson he would later admit to me.
I remember at the time being shocked but understanding
he was protecting my parents from my own ignorance,
but the difference in him and our abusive society,
the distinction of his actions that shocking afternoon,
is he had no other choice, I had removed all options.
I needed to be slapped down like the dog I was at that moment.
~
But we are not a society of dogs, animals of lower intelligence.
We are human children whose values are gained by the closed fist
we are the confused that are drawn to believe we are wrong
for whatever other reason would we be so physically slammed
by the ones we love, or those that once loved us as they suggested.
Perhaps that is the real confusion when that love seems to be lost.
It is not the needed moment of physical authority, far different than
the veiled angry, usurped result of inner turmoil and hypocrisy.
~
The public service announcements asking us to listen are not enough
Instead we really need to breathe in the beauty and elegance of those
whose lives we choose to stunt based upon our own inability to reason,
for otherwise their rules are designed to be read aloud by our closed fists alone.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
When I drink
faded images appear,
silent, moving, attractive
filtered visions.
When I drink
that settled need,
gnawing reality
quiet departs
leaving little love.
When I drink,
you certainly cannot
know me the way,
I know I'm sick.
When I drink,
the fog I seek
envelops my soul,
blurs drawn energy
settles incessant.
When I drink
I will destroy
all that I love,
all that we believe
that new image of me.
When I drink,
I'll falter often,
while asking solace,
you'll hate me again.
When I drink ... I will die
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
We are a fickle bunch that states a need,
A patterned life might only true succeed.
We dance in storms, rather grumble toward peace
Yet every chance we have we seek release,
The pain, oh, the misery of lost time
Fantasy today tomorrow’s spent dime.
However long tradition’s eyes remain
We ought certain know acknowledgement’s reign
Priceless, shattered within our selfish realm
Will become fodder feeds the restless helm.
Ah, the human condition called to believe
Error in judgment, in planning, might leave.
When then we succumb to fears that soon ran
Why then we will know, we have conquered Man
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
The way she moves,
on a dime,
toe planted and swing
supine, slender, salacious
with a passion,
she'll steal the room
and I guess that's fine,,
oh how much I desire
to sip that ...
to desire a sweep
of only her eyes.
I want her to want me,
to let me drink her ...
I can feel my hands,
slide upon her curves,
thin fabric let's me know
she can feel my eyes,
tracing her,
damp, shine, a lustre
to that naked skin,
I will delight like
a fine ...
oh my sweet dance,
move through my mind,
and let me taste you,
taste her,
dance with me,
****** my wine.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
We are
We want
We often need
We would rather be
We will always wish more
We are the same,
you and I,
though you are vastly different
with how you live inside the same world
I try to exist in with you by my side, or nearby,
or simply on my mind nowhere in sight.
I think its funny,
when I imagine
the person that you are,
standing next to me,
I often wonder,
if when you turn away,
your reaction might be the same for me,
if I were to turn away,
but I haven’t yet, well not really,
maybe in a physical way,
but the years have traveled quickly,
that being a memory,
today is wondrous
when earlier in our lives,
that same day might be
a regular day,
regular people,
in a way.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
I thought of you,
that night,
we were together,
with everyone,
watching,
I couldn’t move,
like a little kid,
I only watched your legs
move near mine,
my hand frozen,
wanting to touch you,
wanting to feel only your skin,
upon my urging fingertips.
That night,
I wanted to play with you
while everyone
discreetly knew …
I have to wonder
how many
really did realize
the many nights
we no longer thought about
our clothes,
an afterthought,
laying piled in a rush,
nearby, naked, nostalgia.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
When they were kids they threw ‘dirtballs’ in acts of war,
their way of showing the offensive and winning battles.
There was a visit that year from Northern Ireland. Belfast
was sending children to freedom’s roots, a symbolic gesture.
my the stories they told,
living in a war zone,
surviving while playing
with molotov cocktails.
we announced a dirtball fight at the construction yard
picked our teams and built our walls, stacking bundles
of clustered clay ***** nearby our home ground.
The Irish kids as we called them sort of stood nearby,
a little laughter, and perhaps
some polite mock surprise.
A reaction to the fear and cry
of one of our eyes being hit by
dirt
pain
limbs
blood
shattered glass that remained remnants
outside her bedroom window as she went
to sleep on any given day. She always
wondered whether this might be the day,
brother lost earlier,
parents always tired,
the streets a war zone
the streets a war zone.
Today, children in markets with suicide bombs,
young girls running frightened to their detonation,
This is a new generation of pain and fear,
Pakistan, Nigeria, and Paris, under the lights.
We are the reason for this,
our human personality,
we didn’t just suddenly
become a violent species.
We’ve spent centuries in vicious practice
learning just how far our evil can seek bliss.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
When on a crisp morning, her blush in daylight
speaks to me in silence, suggestive sweep
of eyes scan notice looks, smiles, select
moments for admirer to choose chance.
~
First touch is hair, fingertips enter,
while soft languor covets skin,
just this, enough to arouse eyes,
hands feel blessed teasing love.
~
lips drawn toward a meet
of anticipation, smiles become
ready form to grace each other,
eager, anxious delight begins.
~
Your taste while I look inside
sultry eyes, saying go, go
draw my hips against yours
hands slide and shoulders …
~
While now tongues play
gasps and fever arise
my need to taste all of you
begins, soft lips, just love.
~
Our bodies now connect,
I feel your ******* as we
begin to breathe in one
another’s *** – *******
~
a blouse began my passion
that now slides along my chest
feeling your ******* draw to
my waist, I’m eager, eyes close.
~
Will you please unlatch my …
yes, as zipper falls and finger-
tips touch inside sliding sweet
lips delve into a grasp of me …
~
I lean back against today’s wall.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC