I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.

So tell me what was she to you? Was she your escape from the pain and the reality you called life. Was she the person you turned to when your hormones ran wild. She was a good girl, faithful, yet you had no intentions of making her your wife. You made it clear that wanted her body, but where in the sequence of your wants was her mind? Tell me, does your heart race and thoughts excite when you captivate the depths of her mind, or is that just when your deep in between her thighs? Did you ever stop to realise, she tried loving you with her pieces of shattered heart. Could you see that behind her smile was scars. Perhaps you were just blind or the shades that covered your eyes were to dark for you to realise. Didn't you see your future when you looked into her eyes. Couldn't you see that her love for you was filled with loyalty, did you ever see the real me? I mean HER. Did you ever see the real HER !

People judge her cause her knees have hit the floor more times to please a man that she barely even knows, than being knelt down in prayer praising a God who's works are knows. The insides of her palms know drugs, better than they've ever known prayer. She proclaims her love to men that she means nothing too, more times that she's told her own mother that she loves her. She holds on to men tighter than she's ever hugged her daughter. Reciting rap lyrics like its nothing, ask her to recite the 'our father' and she"s stuttering. Truth is.. she had to grow up too quick. Always fallen the victim to someone else opinions, truth is she just always fallen.

walk side streets
   alone - headphones.
zones of melody
   channeling canals
deeper than all
   the billboards basted
by bad barters.
  
   must’ve been mistaken.
although their dressed
  up, they’re simmering
thin - acetaminophen.
  finished, drugged bugs
cling strings holding
   last lines of defense.

I've never met Guru(s)
but I have felt him in
part 2, I went "down
the back streets" like
A New Reality indeed.

Not many Starr's in the
Gang shine as bright as
Them. Thankfully that
They introduced Premier's,
If not, I would be stuck here
For years- call it whack- but
Don't forget... this poem's a
A swagger jack. But, hopefully,
I'll reach the "State of Clarity."