I find more joy in getting on Facebook to see what happened "On This Day." It's a gamble I'd rather, the familiar no matters. Could be a photo tag with somebody no longer a "friend." A beautiful piece of me I decided to share. Afrocentric stellar art. Depression markers. Funny meme. Punny me. Beats scrolling the news feed, being a lurk, seeing the same personalities at work, letting me in but not all the way. The beauty of Facebook. It's like a new relationship. You learn somebody. Their mannerisms. What they find socially palatable. Soulfully compatible. Well, you think you learn somebody.  Then your spirits meet below the surface and you pretend you don't see each other. It's easier to deal. Easier to bare. Mmm. Distractions, righ?  They're everywhere. This day, I chose not to bother with Facebook and commanded what would happen on this day. It's the gamble I'd now rather, actively choosing to simply live happier.

Insecurity doesn't have to creep
When you've given it a key
It just welcomes itself
Sometimes you get lucky
And it knocks
The facade of security
It's what keeps us from changing the locks

The ones who speak the language of sarcasm with wit as sharp as  knives used to free our minds from the entanglement of conformity -Conforming me?
Where does my kind dwell?
The ones with ****** thoughts,
and I don't just mean misogynist thots.
Naa, I mean the females who demand respect from the demeaning males that demand ***. Friendzoned the void of rejection or rather acceptance that a woman can be born free of obligation. We must hide our minds behind our behinds or ******* because ******* give off that ripple effect for the whistles. The hand...

The Babe
The Beauty
The Beast
Which one are you?
Which one are me?

The Babe
Ignoring texts after texts of subpar conversation prefixed
With dry "hey" 's or "how are you?"
And occasionally the simple "Wyd? [insert emoji]"
Which seems to relay a level of mediocrity in the ability to sustain an exchange of thoughts. Consistently anyways. But you know what they say.
"I just want to be your friend" Come on. For pretend obviously. Because if it was for real, it would be quite easy to see I'm well aware of where the evidence of this centered on self motif is horribly discarded in texts. Selfishness masked as mendacious selflessness. The ignorance. The Babe.

The Beauty.
The Beast.

Which one are you?
Which one are me?

The Beauty.
Girl next door. Classy cutie. Undermined time after time for her subtle nature. Settling for the flesh. Dressed in pure excellence. You know, beautiful skin. Lips. ****. Thighs. Shoulder shrug to show content. Or complacency rather. With the fact that knowing names doesn't matter. Or even knowing simple dislikes in spite often physical affection. But that's the beauty of keeping it superficial. it's not really a soulful connection. Just a collision of two vessels. The Beauty.

The Beast.

Which one are you?
Which one are me?

The Beast. Not wasting time to show you I'm yours. See, you being mine isn't any concern of mine because well, when you know your worth you don't wait to be told you're worthy. You go for what's yours without mercy. And I'm not just saying this as if
You don't have a choice
But you know a go getter gon get it.
and you are somebody I'm trying to get it with. Because see, I'm not just trying to grow, I'm trying to flourish. Nor am I trying to be tamed. Just let me be the Beast, that sees the Beauty in you, Babe.

You're a hypochondriac,
feigning symptoms of Love.  
With me as the placebo,  
and self-indulgence the experimental drug.