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Sinister ministers deliver scriptures per
Illicit missions to present religious works for intrinsic worth
Men amended an "Amen" to end to the verse
Then apprehended the script they knew Kemet had written first

I’m in the blemish my kin is a part of the sin it hurts
Given my hair and skin were both considered dirt since the birth
It’s printed in their gospel I’ve been getting worse since the curse
It’s vivid plagiarism for the villain to get the perks
the truth
I almost wrote you a love poem
...but I don't love you.

Your crayola stained lies turned my blue skies to gray
so how could I be happy when there's no sunshine today?
No sunshine today turned to no sunshine to this date
so to this day I'm embodied in the darkness that you made.

I almost wrote you a love poem
but instead I wrote a riddle.

I repose homely in dark spaces
because I've adapted to the dark.
I'm engulfed in darkness
But I'm that gleaming light from afar.

Answer is,
I'm a Star.

Consensus:
Your devious dark deeds attempted to deviate
my direction and detach me from the light leaving me in darkness
but I empowered myself,
debunking your detrimental ways
and becoming the light you tried so hard to take from me.

I almost wrote you a love poem
and if I did,
it'd say I love you.
...but this isn't a love poem!
and the only I love yous I recall,
are the lies you told me
and the truths you told him.

I almost wrote you a love poem,
...and if I did,
If I did write you a love poem..
I bet I'd have nailed it!
...but you ******* it all up
and now,
who's really the fool?

I almost  wrote you a love poem,
and if I did,
it  would have went a little something like
...idk

*because loving you is something I never want to do.
Let's engender a love like an elastic.

Let's create a love where when we're plagued and bombarded with complications,
we still spontaneously recommence our conventional shape,
like an elastic.

Let's create a durable love;
a love where lies and opinions shock us as a whole
but our love is an insulator,
so we remain unaffected
by the lies that lie in the lightning.

Let's create a love where Cupid's arrows no longer have an effect on us because just how in love can two people possibly be?

Let's create a love where roses are over-rated
and who really cares about a violet's true nature when we all know violets are violet and not blue?

I want that elastic love,
whereas we're oblivious to our boundaries and we're too paranoid to test them out because we just may pop.

I want that colorful elastic love;
not that basic black love...
Although I do like the idea of  that black never cracks kinda love.

I want that John Legend give me all of you love,
that you still want my kisses even though I got the flu kinda love.

I want that stick together like glue kinda love,
that walk into a crowded room and all I see is you kinda love.

I want that dream about me and you wake up wet kinda love,
that pet your kitty *** I'm your vet kinda love.

I want that chocolate love...
mixed with some of that mathematical love...
that 1+1= me and you kinda love,
that your skin + my skin= melted chocolate kinda love,
that whisper in your ear and you snicker kinda love,
that make your body parts quiver and purr like a kit-kat kinda love;
...not that slim shady kinda love
but that sweet tooth M&M; kinda love.

I want love and I want you...

I want the tough polymeric substances connecting out hearts to communicate.

Vibe with a ***** one time.
This is an edit of one of my very first poems.I performed this a few weeks ago but I'm just getting time to type and post it, please enjoy and share.
Black girl roots.
Black girl magic, stemming from their black girl roots.
From their magical skin, full lips and hips, beautiful roots of their hair
Is the genetic anatomy of a black female that incomprehensible?
Full lips on display lined with collagen filled comments,
the peanut gallery of social media filled with distasteful outrage by the same things they inject to achieve yet,
riots on social media streets over the distasteful cultural misappropriation of all that is black yet,
It's distasteful to live somewhere, to live here, beautiful islands bathed in sun and filled with black people that aren't even conscious of their background...that aren't conscious of their 'blackness'.
To be so ashamed of their blackness. Their very roots.

Ashamed of their roots.  What a time to be ignorant Trevor.
Black History Month is now, yet there’s a rampage to eradicate the very aesthetics of blackness rather than appreciate them.
Dear colonialized principal of C.R. Walker High School, quit.
Dr. Claudius Roland Walker, the school’s namesake, built a hotel for blacks who were being discriminated against and
I imagine he would build a coffin for your revulsion of all things black,  
We’ve moved past your self-hate and the disdain you have for your very roots.
Black hair is beautiful and can never be unkempt. Let me say that again.
Black hair is beautiful and can never be unkempt.
Black hair is a statement that you and nobody that inhabits
this dying planet has the authority to deem untidy or inappropriate.
It took our ancestors far too long to comb through fields of complications
the root being wearing their natural hair and through natural hair movements
to have some nescient minded leader deem it disheveled.
Our roots have permitted our black skin magic, we absorb the rays of the sun,
magicians, and for my final trick, watch my skin glow like gold
dripping like wet paint onto a canvas of unfinished art
left behind by our old souls.

Oh my black people,
a juxtaposition of media sensationalism led by governmental lies, descendents of slave owners insisting that our black hair is something to be ashamed of,
it seems we have our heads so far up our own *****
we're getting too used to the essence of sh-t.
Then the chant goes up, the battle cry,
"This isn't the United States, there's no misogyny, there's no racism, there's no-"
Shut-up.
"Are you angry?"
No, I'm black and I'm angry!

Our mindsets rooted in the prevalence of self hatred, leaves of mighty oaks desperate to remove themselves from their very roots,
requesting emancipation from the very ones that have us enslaved,
begging to be cut loose from the European hand
consciously and subconsciously unshackling the left as we tie the right.
but where are you going?
When has a plant ever survived without its roots?
How dare we neglect the nutrients our ancestors left behind and chase the suicidal pesticide made to eradicate our total being?

Dear god if you're listening, as the cry of former sages went up I also cry,
emancipate yourselves from mental slavery and take me back to my golden home,
where I belong.
Take me back to the very roots I am taught to be ashamed of,
so that I may feel the energy of what once was.
Take me back so that I may cultivate my roots. Take me back so that I may live to tell the truth.
Just take me back.
My people deserve the truth as I find them in the lie,
smearing the proverbial “creamy crack” on hair and skin,
My people deserve more than a painted picture of Cesare Borgia Son Of Alexander Pope 6 as Jesus.
My people deserve to know that Jesus was black and that the Catholics were snakes in the grass abusing their power during their time of reign. Uh oh, the snaps got quiet.
Oh but my people deserve to know that perceived infallible Bible they see today has been edited and destroyed to hide the secrets. Why?
When mama and grammy worship pictures of “Jesus”, why wouldn’t white be right?
Jesus in the pictures mama, he’s a white man, he has straight hair, he’s the savior,
aren’t we supposed to be just like him?  
but
Little black girl with your, black girl magic and your,
magical skin, full lips and hips, beautiful roots of your hair
your crown, your skin, is beautiful. Your roots are strong.
Got excellent help from a friend named Gail on this piece.
  Oct 2015 Deontra' Demeritte
curlygirl
Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
...unless it's with me.

Dating you is anti-climatic
and I'd be ****** if I ever
succumb to a part of me
begging to be cut loose from you.

I don't want to be swallowed by
the euphoria derived from
vintage pictures and videos;
I know that the saccharine
comfort will be both
short-lived and lachrymose.

I don't want to have to
flip through your new pictures daily,
searching for remnants of the love we shared
through the new love you'd then be experiencing.

Usually,
I'd wish nothing but the best
but I want the worse for you.

My mental is too detrimental
to handle you and another.
I don't want to wake up
from constant nightmares
leaving my stomach tied in knots
you'd only see on TV.

I don't want to sit at family dinners alone
when you were suppose to be there with me.
I don't want to have to look at chocolate desserts
and remember how it's your favorite
so although I detest chocolate,
I eat it anyway to somehow
suppress the feeling of you not being there.

I don't want to watch you fall in love with another.
You carry a part of me
every time you're apart from me
and I'd rather you cheat
than to follow what seems like tradition
and leave.

I don't want to watch you fall in love with another.
I'm wearing my heart on my sleeve
and I'm down on both knees
pleading please,
oh please

I don't want to watch you fall in love
...unless it's with me.
Okay, I honestly don't know how to explain this piece. I just put my fingers on the keyboard :( Hope you guys enjoy and you can message me about anything you wish to understand about me or this piece.
;
If I had to describe myself,
I would say...

I'm not just the 50+ scars
from blood-stained razors
on my left arm;

I'm not just the countless tears
I cried when I pleaded
with your deity;

I am ";"

";" is never-ending.

I am ;
because my story doesn't end here.

I am ;
because I am forever evolving.

...so until
"."
arrives,
I am ;
This is probably my most simplistic piece but ironically one of my most inspirational once you understand the concept of the semi-colon. I got the idea from http://hellopoetry.com/takemeaway/ (Alexia Cousineau).
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