Our future was built on revolution.
A mythos of courageously vanquishing the empire.
Such is the birthright of our citizens.
Our history created us in its image.

Villains seeking conciliation
must bear the title and charge
of treason.

Wielders of swords and rifles
stand immortalized in every town square.
Liberty or Death proclaims the stone and bronze
in which they are cast.

What will be the names of these great black men,
who crush the oppression of the old revolution?

It’s hard to see how you might tame a heart
Considering how we poke and **** it
Fact is watching mine is not exactly at the top of the list

I’m tempted to bring it out in public,
Into the heat or under the moon.
Fluttering to the rhythm of the earth.

Tenuous at best
This equilibrium I find myself clinging to.
Dangling from the earth by my cranium.
Watching as others, like birds must see fish,
flail about the universe,
feet bound to the firmament above us.

For us
it resembles suffocating
or haphazard design.
Unable to fathom the sensation of the skull
flopping about deleteriously.
As though hanging their brains as bait and net
to whatever hazards might glide below.

Yet, these impressions
would be invisible to the thinking mind, forgotten.
And ours pondered over as a peculiar mystery
born of some untamed imagination.

The clamor
The desire etched on her face
Her throat yearning, all the way down
Her thirst is tangible,
Her nostrils flair betraying anticipation

Give it to me
Give it to me now

Please, give me a glass of water

Gautama was conceived in the purifying water of the monsoons,
a sweetness aliting to invite the morning bell.
He came to a wealthy world, somehow impoverished,
yet bathed in the crimson light of life;
Blind and unable to shine our gaze into the void,
We complain of distance – when really
there is none between hearts.
Millennia later, the gratitude is mine,
only in the sense that I do not resist its source,
the light.

Tenuous at best
This equilibrium I find myself clinging to.
Dangling from the earth by my cranium.
Watching as others, like birds must see fish,
flail about the universe,
feet bound to the firmament above us.

For us
it resembles suffocating
or haphazard design.
Unable to fathom the sensation of the skull
flopping about deleteriously.
As though hanging their brains as bait and net
to whatever hazards might glide below.

Yet, these impressions
would be invisible to the thinking mind, forgotten.
And ours pondered over as a peculiar mystery
born of some untamed imagination.

Her irises darting, probing.
Her tastes floated and churned behind mine.
Brushed, warm, wet
lips and tongues.
We kissed until it burned,
numbed but unsated.
Fear, passion, pheromones blended
flammabley
and ignited on a fire of psychotic teen heartbreak.
Stalking, trembling, steering my soul
past it
(but always dragging it behind)