Split the words open.
Cut them in pieces.
Let the guts spill
and the blood spurt out.
Get it on your hands
And face;
Get that wild glint in your eyes –
The one that makes people nervous;
Bellow to the heavens as you stitch old ideas back together,
Laughing hysterically
“It’s alive!”

Lavender and sage drift in waves of smoke
soft and subtle like your ebony hair flowing
through my fingers as my lips brushed yours.

Blood rushes to my cheeks and I gasp still-
fever overcoming shock as you touch me,
siren on land waiting for the tide to come in.

Once a hesitant explorer, meekly tracing your
beckoning curves and scars I now salivate-
wet with hunger to devour you inch by inch.

But we are little more than bleached bones,
memories grinding into dust with one foul move
blown away in the wind to feed new life.

Crepe myrtle blooms, pink like the blush of fever
roots growing from the broken bones and spirit
but drinks from the lingering passion of past lovers.

Your footsteps are the creeping of violets throughout
the garden, yet I can feel your touch on the air as it rains,
your memory like the wood smoke from across the street.

I lick my lips, apology and sin, at the tip of my tongue.

the grandfather of slavery
wage labor
is an abusive relationship
domestic demise of humanism
I cannot tolerate or stand my light skin
I want to lay in the blazing sun
until I am burnt beyond recognition
a raging fire that catches anyone near
I cannot stand that white people
think I fit in
just to end up realizing I do not
I want to fight my way out
with language and brute force
until whiteness realizes
clearly
in a broken impotent rage
that it does not fit in
not in the world of the future
not in the world of ethnicities
having passionate ***
as its desperation of indulgence
greed
guilt
and brutality fade back to evolution
sustainability throws it aside
I am the medium
the vessel
the glory
of nature

I had to let go the sweetest love, and let it rotates again
Because the journey to love is a journey to one’s self,
Your highest, most sacred and loving self(quote)

While my broad rim hat were shielding the sun from my face
Who was shielding the hearts of sin?
Your smile, my laughter, your presence and your calm demeanor
Somehow the calmness worries me,

But, I must do bear in mind that some roses bloom independently
and some struggles through the concrete to survive
this morning I am struggling with the thoughts of emptying my suitcase
Too many memories, too many smiles and most of them
Came from, you, I never wanted my vacation to end
But once again the journey to love is a journey to one’s self

Where do we stand, after the darkest hour’s commute
and the fall season arrives in my part of the world
without warning?

The black birds will stop singing by midsummer,
and our love will fade from view, low blow , low blow
to our  lonely hearts,
I am not too big to sit here and cry....
another step back  from happiness once more.

Confusion
Oh, for the love of the younger me
Torn between feelings for my teenager lovers
Protecting my heart from the lying *******
I ran from their clutches and I spread my wings

Somehow, one of them gets to follow me
On the devil playground call modern directory
Gazing into my life day after, day after day
making it seem like getting older make us restless and hopeless. .

Oh, for the love of the younger me
Torn between my feelings for my teenager lovers
Still running and protecting my heart from their lies
Those lying ******* from my youth

Meow power does exist.

She had just finish smoking the ****,
Then she decided to write a poem about smoking the joint
Or was it before she wrote the poem, or after she smoke the ****
Was the poem triggered by the ****, or did the **** triggered a write?
Does it matter now, after she rolled the **** into written words and smoke her ideas.
  

Al Cash once wrote that
*My soul absorbs you, my mind inhales your essence, and you confirm my life.” *
She usually took an aspirin after a terrible headache
But thinking out loud now she should have taken the aspirin before the headache
Or before she smoke the ****, that lead to the write
That eventually brought about the poem, which causes a migraine
Now her body reacts to the Drunken Sailor Syndrome
So once again never swallow a spider to **** a fly: just purge.

Never write a poem while smoking the ****,
Poetry is life natural high, an untimely wave that never
Cease to amaze us.