Forgotten traces of a pencil – I’ve been built
by words; public reputation is the means of
being good at your own public relations.
As love’s repetition is loving those you’ve
fallen in love with, off the pages of life rather
than the scripts of perfected fiction.

And to believe your love is perfect is to rival
God's – where you become your own judge;
biased as much, for the flesh desires to feed
only itself; the flesh isn’t the perfection of love.

For everyday of life is the day for all equal dogs,
moral or uncouth,  posterity rests its favour –
Still a dog must know not to bite the hand that
feeds it; as it seeks the hand’s favour – wouldn’t
we all like to find favour in the hands of our Creator,

What are dogs to their Creator?

Funny how it’s hard to explain the feeling of LOVE –
But easier explaining the loneliness; we don’t miss
As much, until we’re missing that familiar touch
Its not about the crush, it’s that rush – that hopeful
Romantics picture of them one day finding LOVE.

Where some are heart led, an ***** of compound LOVE–
In love sickness, we could be a lead compound, hoping
For the promise to treat such a disease; searching for LOVE
Is always easy said then done, and when we've gone
Through our hardships we say, “I’m so done with LOVE!”

But LOVE is never done with you, give it another round,
And you’ll start smiling that you’ve found the One
LOVE is a marathon of going round, and round, until
You can run this race of life with someone you truly,

LOVE, LOVE, LOVE - and their LOVE you want!

I went outside, and met a black queen that ruled over all of my
thoughts – hoping she wasn’t a bad dream. But she'd still love me
despite my arrogance; my pivoting thoughts that swing along my
many moods swings. Fair enough; she’d understand me better,
knowing I wasn’t treated fair enough, under the same sun that
makes her skin fair as much.

Still is there a woman of your dreams when you barely feel awake;
the grass is always greener from a distance, but your eyes can never
catch the green of their snakes. And whenever I tell a short girl
a good short joke, she looks at me to keep it brief – but if I said it in
short: a laugh from a girl, is a guy’s idea of knowing he can get a
taste of those lips. But wouldn’t we love to dream in sweet relief,
while I find it less attainable when someone has me losing sleep.

Please give me my peace that comes with my piece: a piece of mind,
a piece of spark to a piece of love. But when I met the queen, I never
thought it would come with love – but she never felt a spark, paying
no mind to me. We were just two strangers in town, walking on two
different paths, who happened to glance at each other, only once!

Cast forth a handful of these pro seeds;
a promise of potential – hoping the value of
them, proceeds the muck that clings to your spirit.
The filth of your mind you must strain per sieve;
being wise to carry a filter, for all the shadows that
your mind will perceive.

As I'm learning the art of resilience;
refusing to fret whenever life wears me down
– like a flower dressed by the whims of the seasons;
whether you like it out, life is full of these changes.
So gather a bouquet of flowers on top of your head,
to remind you of such a nature, and don them as
a regal crown.

Weeping oneself to sleep – by these muddy
tears, and their questions of worth.

As the relentless sands of time erode a soul;
it's all too simple to feel like grains of river sand,
drawn by the currents of life, and banking on your
dreams; yearning for our stream of tears to lead
us to a flood of many successes.

For in those moments, we are but the weeping
sandman’s tears, drifting into the embrace of our
dreams, lost in the wet lament of our tears –

One day, we shall master the art of swimming!

The pen –
is an extension of my body, held by my hand, as it
beats with my heartbeat; it's my very breath between
words, the intentions of my structuring, the brush to
my thoughts, the paint of my imagination.

The pen –
is the mic to my voice, the scope of my eyes, the chorus
to my soul, the bass to my heart, the shadow of my skin,
painted by the night, and why my pen chooses to be black!

It is bold, it is wild, it is persuasive, it manipulates words
to invoke change, it is controversial, it is understood by
few, yet it speaks to all.

The pen is an extension of my body –  for we are One!

My soul feels too short for love –
but there’s a tall glass of it, I’m hoping
fills the thirst of my heart’s empty cup
But if there’s a map to someone’s thoughts
…here I am, navigating!

While the hills of their eyes are always
these dreams like mountaintops
Though rising to your peak is so scary –
where the bottom always looks you up,
And I know we’re all still searching for those
pieces of ourselves.

Even when sometimes there’s a mix of
doubt in my cup – it’s so hard to doubt the
fact that you sometimes really love to doubt
yourself… most days I have to empty myself,
to refill up on worth in this cup.