Discouraged, I silently wait-
Anticipate the cultivation
of a new surrogate
slowly weighing down
the corporate weights

Generations have died

We need not new worshipers-
Though we preach and preach
of new ways of life

The articulation of a stealthy
misguided population
Rooted deviously within our realm

Subliminal dis-figuration
is cognitively calloused
Deeply punctured inside
the root of our thickly stems-

This, the way of the world

The capital effect
Leaves one hungry, starving-
and dastardly thirsting for more

A consumerist mind-set
Correlates abruptly
with this generation of
"non-thoughtful thinkers"

Consumption of supply
Regurgitating of demand

Are we senseless-
Or just sensible
in cultivating this disheveled war
on our possessions
possessing the rights of man?

Are we grasping at this
misconceived dream
That we can live long and dream
the dreams we feel we're destined
to achieve?

We are the result of the
reality we create and strive
to be

Don't be a commercial-
Be your own documentary
© 2014 Christina Jackson

Have I lost you-
Am I incomparable
to another loving soul?

Please, lover of mine-
Where did you go?

This death is seeding
itself, in my garden-
and I haven't half
a mind to reap what I sow

Please, lover of mine-
Where have you gone?

Rest is dwindling into
deprivation
Evading my lofty sense
of observation

Do you love another so-
Where did you go?

I need you-
I must know.
© 2014 Christina Jackson

I would love nothing more
than to wake up next to you,
and see the first smile
part from your sultry morning lips
Sleepy eyes staring back at me
As you gently wrap your warm arms
around my curvaceous naked hips

I would love nothing more;
than to never be awaken from
this unattainable dream
I've been living in
© 2014 Christina Jackson

His eyes; I peer into an abyssal mystery
Of sweet love, but no, not sweet misery

He's an orchid, blooming inside of my heart
She sits and counts. pondering upon
how many days until he'll finally part

Oh love; I'm tangled up in you
Heavily intoxicated
Drunk
On just the very thought of you
© 2014 Christina Jackson

The utter lack of words
That no longer flow freely from my tips

Astounds me

For the very fact that I can never shut my rambling lips

I find myself questioning what is it that I have to give?

Cause if you asked to pay rent to live,
inside of this head
Every month would be free
I would ask nothing of you to give

For you would live amongst riddles,
and secret coded messages
I have been trying to decode like latitude
and longitudinal grids

Nothing; if not now or ever
Would make the least bit of sense
© 2013 Christina Jackson