What's such a pretty girl doing with a stranger between her thighs and a camera in her face? What demons in her closet has she failed to embrace? What led her to this hallway of ******* that has her life hindered this way? doesn't she know that she's only a phase meant to fade away from the industry she's chosen?
As these thoughts enter my head, my lust always stays frozen. It leaves me wondering where my life is headed, hell, if she ran out of options what the hell is it gonna be like for me? I can't go into the adultery industry, so what will become of me? I hate to say it, but it made me sad laying there with a hand in my pants and my brain in high gear. There are no simple solutions for me in life, and I started to understand that.

Maybe you weren't the one to hold my heart, but you sure had a firm grasp on it when you pulled away from me. Guess the warmth of it wasn't enough to heat your frozen soul.

I gotta learn to forget the bad you caused, cuz it always puts my mind in a frenzy. Never loved and lusted at the same time and you showed me that I had never felt any emotion like you could bring. The emotional charge associated with abandonment. *******

I remember how your hands felt the last time they were in mine. They felt comfortable. They felt warm and they fit like the pieces of a puzzle. Why didn't you let them stay there?

Girls like you value the struggle as a means of bringing interest into their personal lives. They adore ghetto mentality and think that hood ****** are the only good men. Girls like you are so ******* backwards. Why am I addicted to girls like you? I hate that I loved you. I hate that I lusted you. I can't believe i wasted my time teaching a girl like you what intimacy was even after you. I guess the teacher could never learn the lesson in this case.

Tell me why there is so much hate in the world these days but every religion claims it teaches love. Tell me why people hate black people or why parents are ******* or why we spend 14 years at school institutions for free but have to pay thousands a year for a college education. tell me how the caged bird got that way. My curiosity is burning hotter than the sun on the burnt skin of my ancestors wiped out by conquistadors and brought across an ocean of blood tears against the tide of their will.
What am I doing here? Where did I come from and where am I going? Why wasn't i born into a rich white family? Why do I have to watch my mother struggle with lips sewn shut because we don't struggle as bad as other families? Why is money even a standard of living when it's just a piece of ******* paper? See, I'm convinced that this world ain't ****.

My mind is a void. I don’t know where it came from.
All I know is that I fall in it everyday

She explained it to me, told me all that she could about it and how she hated it.
Tears were in her eyes as she explained the pain she felt from the heartbreaking.
Her nose nearly ran and she sniffled as she cried in my arms, nuzzled under my chin, her shaking form nearly as cold as ice.
Her heart was once her own, her love was once brought only to the those who she deemed worthy, but that one person, that one human, made her empirical mind crash to the ground, ****** on by the rains of gloating hypocrisy. She is a shell and a mind of active saddened anger.
But she always forgets
that I know it better than she does

There are so many ways I want you, so many ways I lust you
Yet there are so many reasons of why it is I can not claim to love you.
My eager reluctance keeps me from claiming love.

White rose petals litter the floor around me
Moving so slowly like ripples in the ocean
A body lay in the middle of the tide
Thick and dark like chocolate against the white petals
Open for a love I desire to give.
I lie down and grip at the hips, tugging it towards me,
Quickly adjusting my form to fit
And we lock eyes.
Thus is the feeling of love I had been wishing
Thus is the feeling I lust when we’re kissing.

But when our lips lock, our loves don’t, I feel we are two souls forced into an intertwine.
I lust you, oh how I lust you, but that lust is perpetually sans its love.

Conscience-confusing creature of contemplation, your body is driving me mad.
Lover without love, you are my sweetheart, but you remind me of love we never had.

Love is like a drug that I can never over-dose on
But for some reason I keep getting the worst batch

I consider myself to be an indefinite factor in life
So I plan to stay
But I want to borrow your heart for the rest of time.
I hope that that's okay.

All the images tormenting my shackled mind tortured my creativity, black tears dripping like ink blotting the crisp white of new loose-leaf notes. My blood as blue as navy because I've been left sickeningly forever breathless. Day after night after night after day I would withstand an anguish that was more spiritual than physical, punching walls as if to escape their stone guard as my soul was wrenched like the hands of the anxious. you robbed me the chance to be something to somebody, an impact cutting deeper than the wrists of the suicidal attempting to escape the world of woe they rest their weary heads in. Hammer upon hammer banging on their skulls as the rage of fear and hope of escape taunt their wildered minds.
But they remain mother nature's lost children. And like them, I remain the solemn dot in the world's gorgeous hue of gold known as defective. As I'll never be the same shade again after  shade blackens my sight and darkens my colorful spirit. Help us if you can, we've been color-blinded in a colorful world.
How could you. You've placed me in this conflagration and led me astray farther into the fire. How could you. You've given me the strength to strangle my pride and yet you slit my throat and render everything I fought for useless. How could you? Sneak your way past the sentries securing my heart simply to steal it and crush it in front of my earnest eyes? How dare you?!
I've met the devil before. it looked nicer than I thought, five-foot six with pretty brown Dimples, and tasted like wine and cranberry sauce. Lips more lush than a botanical garden and eyes more addictive than ***** poppies. Be wary when you kindle this fire. For it is inevitable that those who play with fire get burned by it.

My head clouds with old memories that I can’t shake. I can’t express, but expression still shows.
What is it that’s making my head flow the way it is? It’s stinging me to the point of aching my heart. The past is crowding me now and I can’t escape the initial feelings of hurt that I placed on myself. I’m aching in every way, burning in every heat, and crying in every tissue.
There was love in the poet, now there is none.
There was life in this being, now he is empty. What’s the matter with me? What’s happening to my heart?
There’s a rising power in my body in the form of emotion. I can’t control it, but I can draw from it like energy. It’s Built so high that nothing will stop its escape but escape itself.
But I can’t let it out.
I can’t let an entity become my reality. I deserve to be free of this emotion and be an open book for somebody who shall fill my pages with love and trust.
I deserve redemption and deserve the prosperity that comes with it.
But I don’t have it.
So I must stay content with myself, poem after poem of false emotion. Day after day of fake feelings. Hour after hour of missing love. And now the lonely has returned.
Stronger than it ever was before. I can see it every time I close my eyes. I miss the past, so I live in it. It’s true, my past is my reality, my future is omnipresent.
I am a weeping willow in the middle of the botanical garden, sad, life-drained, sick looking. But I am just as beautiful as any other plant in the garden, in fact, maybe more so. But I just want a heart who wants mine. Please, god, stop this maddening emptiness in me. I feel like clawing out the sockets in the walls as the rain breaks the roof and pours onto my raging body.
The thirst has returned. That feeling of needing something so much that it seems essential. I am starved of lust and lacking the healthy love that comes with it.
I need Love.

I have no secret agenda. And for that, people feel bad for me.
I’m still in my gentleman’s valence, and for that, women feel sad for me.
I don’t keep grave secrets lest a grave robber dig up my past and show the skeletons as if they were fresh details rather than a forcefully faded memory.
I wear my glasses, freshly cleaned for better sight, and yet I still can’t see.
I can’t see what everybody else sees. To me, I see a nice guy, a guy that’s lucky to have someone who's lucky to have him. And I don’t flaunt this…………. But apparently I’m oblivious of my own visage.
Apparently I’m a creature of pure evil and disgust for the better things of life.
Apparently I’m perverse when I smile at people and apparently I’m old fashion for opening doors for people.
But in all my aspects of supposed incompleteness, I recognize those that judge me as confused souls just the same as me. For one who shows no respect shalt not receive any, and yet I still don’t receive any.
I can’t stand the feeling of love lost, and yet I feel it every day. I feel the emptiness crowding around me as if I were in a trash compactor. Why is it that nice guys finish last when we started the race? Why is it that If I show no respect, I get more respect from the people I wish to earn it from?
Why do women like fuckboi rather than knowledgeable counterpart? Why am I alone in a world where I know for a fact there is someone who thinks like me?
Why do I even care what anyone thinks? Why am I still looking for a love that I’ve professed not to care about? Why is it that even under my circumstances, I could care less about what’s to do about any and every one of my flaws, giving the same belief that love accepts all flaws?
I tell myself to stop sometimes so that I can look at myself, but even when I look in the mirror, I see broken shards of glass appear at my imperfections. And for that, I know what the meaning of change should imply to me.

By the love in my heart, I never meant to do you any wrong.
In all my meaning, I intended to curb your appetite for love to the best of my intentions. Only, the hunger for it in your heart was so voracious that, even if I were to have been around enough for it to have made a difference, I couldn’t have sated you. And I humble myself to that fact.
By the heat of my body, I never meant to miss you. I thought what was past was past and that I could escape it by running. But I’m out of gas on an abandoned highway and your memory stuck behind me, willing to show its presence but not to pass me.
By the chill in my soul, I never meant to abandon you. Sure, you brought out the worst in me, skipping classes, cursing more, using every knot of energy to find different ways to connect to you, but you also brought out the best, for if it wasn’t for you, I never would’ve figured out how pivotal human love was to me. I still crave it to this day like junkies and needles.
But I can’t feed.
Let’s admit it, I say everytime that I won’t find someone like you and that I’d stop trying, but I always do and then treat them the same way I treated you- with contentment, but a sense of caution, not too close to be intimate but not far enough to be distant. And then I leave. It’s my schedule, my signature of leaving a trail of confused and broken hearts behind as if I were smashing glasses.
I’m sorry for the pains that I might’ve caused you… You all, for there’s more than one in the works whenever I’m foreman.
Brianna, Sarah, Katrina, Sade, Erykah, all of those who I believed I left confused if not alone. I was unclear of intentions because I didn’t know what my intentions even were, I was winging it like birds on their migrations. And now I’m stuck in a reminiscent past like tires stuck in muddy earth.
Am I allowed to feel such empty emotions? Am I allowed to feel apologetic even if nothing was deemed wrong? Wronging all of those who come to me like grading papers, but still in the field looking for a future counterpart, my next meal as if I’m a vulture.
And for that, I can never forgive myself enough to rise over it.

Not long after the birth of a poet, the death of a love was decided. It wasn't on purpose, it was the cycle of wash rinse and repeat
Trapped in a never ending circle. Thought, pressure, decision and all over again.
Today marks the day of deletion for me, the day a worthy lover was found and the day us two embarked on a journey to twist the arms of time and make our own futures...... today also marks the day of which I regret our meet.
Once was enough, twice was offensive, but three times hurts enough to render me dying.
It's not the fact of what you did, it's the fact that we can't share that connection. It's the fact that I feel too much to make that move or ask for that photo. I thought it was what I always jump to assume.
Love.
But I'm not making that mistake anymore. From here, I'm straight on the offense, no longer shall my soul be forced to put up with the abuse of the poetess who chooses her words like a shark chooses the perfect sized prey.
I'm Done from here on out.

My fists hunger to lunge at love and destroy it the way it destroyed my starving soul.
How Could you be so cruel, love?
How could you go against your feelings for me?

It’s true that I’m a beginner in most ways. But I learn fast if taught right.
Never had to fake for rich people, but I can learn. Never told a lover I love them, but I can learn. Never had ***, but I can learn.
It’s the experience.
Now I get it. It’s not a question of quality or quantity, merely question of experience in a world of inexperience.
But how can one learn
If none will teach?

No matter how distant we are,
you’re always so close to my heart

I hear voices in my head that guide my actions. I'm not crazy, I just like knowing somebody agrees with me.
Around the age of 10, these voices came to me in an attempt to make me forget about all my struggles. They were there through the thin of my lips to the thick of my Gluteus and stayed ever-present through the first feelings the spark of love.
And once that spark was extinguished and I began to shame my body, my voices calmed me and quelled the rising need to escape the gloom. They told jokes. And I laughed heartily, kissing my palm and placing it to my forehead as an offer of complete infatuation with the voices.
But it didn't remain that way. We began to argue in my mind, shifting my action into chaos as I began to realize that my brain had become a cave harboring a snake like a zoo. So I stopped listening.
I didn't want to hear them anymore, I wanted them to shut up.
But they never did.
At times, they would get very quiet just to yell at a rate to leave ringing in my ears, and I would cry at their pains.
By mid-puberty, I had grown accustomed to these shouts. I had even learned to ignore them. And most of the loud voices began to disappear.
But One remained, a single cage to my canary. A bite to my jugular and a constant reminder of the sickness I claimed in my mind.
He only came around when I was upset, and he’d always etch me into actions so regrettable that he didn’t realize affected him as well.
He wanted me to die.
For years I combatted him, cursing him into a withdrawal but then speaking up a weakness that would inspire his powerful words and presence again. Oh how mighty his power over me was.
His very voice sent chills through my spine and blood rushing through my veins. His tone turned my blackened skinned the color of used, sopping wet coffee grinds. The bite present in every consonant he uttered made my ears pop with unease as if the pressure grew under my eyelids.
He was my demon.
After my second attempt at love had fizzled he had been the one to tell me to slash that tire. He was the reason I bit Jamea’s lip and drew the taste of rich blood to my tongue hungrily as if vampiric. He was the reason I spent so many nights up crying in fear as I would chant “What’s happening” or “what am I doing”… or “why am I still here”
His counsel became sadistically acceptable, nearly sexually desired to me as the depth of his voice boomed with close proximity to my heart. I could feel the warmth of my body grip the chill of the air and I’d chuckle like a school girl.
This became my reality, a bubble of sadism sautéed with fear and drenched in disgust. He would addict me to the taste of blood, the color of death. He would introduce me to the feeling of pain and the emotion of anguish.
And I began to love it. I would press pen tips to my skin and draw the sweet nectar of my essence.

Of course, no one understands me. They say I need help.
Maybe they’re right
But every time my mind becomes aware of the hold from him, he soothes me with box cutters and cuddles in the warmth of my skin’s openings.
I’m in love with his deception and his truth. I love the life he has given me and never again will I complain when I hear
the voices

A good world is what we live in, but a racist country is what we are. Let’s admit it. Racism is the American way, it’s found itself in more than one faction of life.
Black children slaughtered in the streets by those supposedly trying to protect them: Police, others, “concerned citizens”, all there as an enemy to a people meant for peace.
And it’s remained that way for decades. Decades? Try centuries. Why for America not change her ways? Why for such a lost people be judged and labeled for their not knowing any better?
Why is it that a black boy in a school can be picked out of the crowd like cherries in a fruit cocktail, and be subjected to such redundant behavior? Why is it that dark isn’t seen as beautiful? Why is it that we catch hell like ***** in a baseball glove? And why won’t this world change?
My people, the good people, have been led astray, taking away our little progress and turning it against us like a machine of war. My people, the black people, have been taught the art of self hate from their former slave masters, we have been taught that the darker the uglier but the lighter the better, as it still shows to this day, and this mindset disgusts me.
And when I close my eyes, I see nothing but the faces of those killed, far too many to name, and yet even after years and years, no justice wrought and no tears spared from the eyes of family members. And yet the injustice continues where murderous policemen still roam the streets like hyenas looking for a fresh **** in a ghetto where nothing but torment already can be made.
Where is my peace?
Where is my brother’s peace?
Where is my sister’s?
Where are the leaders of my people with the same skin-tone, why are those available already sold out? Why am I being used even when I don’t know it? Why am I living in a hell made by a people whose whole purpose was to torment my ancestors.
Times have changed, customs accepted and new stereotypes made. Now anyone can say “*****” and it not seem racist because it’s the thing now. I’m sorry, my brotha, I had no idea such a thing could trend. Now ****** foreplay is considered dance, dry-******* your nuts off is considered a “trap dance” and this supposed trap is exactly what it’s called. But yet we don’t complain? Rise up, my black brothers, arise my young sisters. For we are at war with a beast of our own creation, and that beast is seeking to obtain our inner guts as a fulfilling meal if we don’t do anything about it.
Rest in peace, my fallen comrades, for as this war progresses, I will soon join you beyond the stars of the mind and under the ground of those who stomp to battle against a foe who challenges us all.
Washington 10.10.15

I get it, we all have demons, but why is it that yours only taunt me?
Why is it that you have to insist on being difficult with me when I’m completely open with you?
Why is it that you always say that I do something, but that same thing you say I do is being done?
Honestly, you’re just wasting your pride.

Weaknesses
My weakness is sweets, but don’t get it twisted, no food is found to weaken me. But a sweet personality can, so can a sweet smile, or a sweet touch. Basically sweet people are like sweet candies  of different cultures, and I shall be a proud cultural culinary taste-tester, moving races like NASCAR in motion.
My weakness is money. The all mighty dollar isn’t so almighty to me, but what it can do is. I long for the materialistics of life that money can bring, and the attention it can get you from supermodel brides or low-key bed warmers. I like the feeling of being wanted and tolerated regardless of what I’d do and how I’d do it.
My weakness is power, for, if I held the power of a man’s life and spared him, he’d be loyal indefinitely, and that would be enough to satisfy my needs to feel loved. I’d have a friend who felt indebt to me, and that feeling of needing to accommodate would change my view on what was real and what wasn’t.
My weakness is attire, for you see, when I walk into a room, I want to draw the eyes of those watching, hateration rising in their veins and jealousy shown on there face. I want the Black haired beauty with the short red skirt and open-toed stilettoes with the dark purple toe nails and thick hips to come my way and think lustfully of me, is it a crime to desire such reactions?
My weakness is body, for I love a girl who can take care of herself. Long hair, manicured nails, teeth that aren’t begging to be drilled, it’s a weakness I have and can’t seem to fix. But then again, why would I desire to fix it? I’m not asking for perfect like a conceited rejectionist, or wanting more than what I can give like I was lying to myself, I want someone who can keep up with themselves before even attempting to keep up with someone else.
My weakness is *** appeal, because whenever she bites her lip and looks in my eyes, I can see rockets shooting through her glass lenses and aiming at me. But once I smile back, determined face, cute features and as much appeal as I can muster, explosions happen in her body that causes goosebumps to pepper her flesh like shrapnel in a war-zone.
My weakness is skin to skin, after all, it’s my right to want to be loved, why not demonstrate it by holding hands? Why not live past the edge and on the tip of existence like birds on a powerline? I am careful enough and she’d be loving enough that no vibes of failing would even cross our way.

my generation spans miles at convenience stores, backing eachother when it comes to the video games and electronics that keep us combined in ways meaning friendship in real life, and best friends in virtual reality.
Yet my race keeps itself in a way that makes us look destined to destruct, to love each other and then spit in the face of our loved ones as if we were meaning disrespect.
Why?
Why is it that a poet can understand things in different ways than other people yet the thoughts be the same? why is it that one can be brought to tears and bring up gender as if it makes a difference?
I haven't a clue, but it makes a soul hurt, it makes thoughts begin to wonder and minds to ache in contemplation.

Winter cherries
My heart is one of warmth and color, but a rarity in all aspects.
Like winter cherries
Sweetheart swarms in sudden bursts of imagination, stopping my heart and purifying the air with each breath she takes.
Never has the silence sounded so sweet as when it comes from her.
Never has invisibility been so noticeable as when she does it.
Never will I be able to share or distribute such a purity as she has.

Her chill is so obvious that there are no boundaries to the conversations we inaugurate. We ride the waves of giggles and chuckles that we form, playful arguments made and led into deeper conversations never finished.
I love the way we converse like buddies yet everything about us speaks of distant strangers. I wonder does she feel the same.
It’s something in the way her voice shakes or the way her eyes dart through mine when she looks at me. It’s something about the way she smiles in a way that shows she’s fighting it.
It’s her personality
It’s who she is.
And I’m shocked to say that I’m being struck down by her energetic placidity.
I wonder more about her than any other possible that I’ve ever known. I think of what she’s like and how she’d treat me if she knew me more. I wonder what I look like in her mind and what I look like out of her mind as well. I wonder how much she thinks about me, if at all. And the only answer I get is that of cherries in calmed snowstorm
Stems filled with white crystals as light as air itself when alone, yet at the collected fruit they weigh tons.
Falling in slow motion as the last crisp it could bare falls to a rest on its ruby red outer shell.
Frozen in air as I walk past and see it. Only wondering how long it should stay before it succumbs to the inevitability of gravity.
And her voice cracks my concentration.
It falls.
But no noise shall it make, it shall stay as quiet as the snow itself and remain a music in my mind.
The befalling of her voice
The falling of winter cherries.