lately i've been overwhelmed
bathing in the idea of potential
i exist in my head
and i live in my dreams.
i feel your smile on my neck
and your whisper makes me shiver
music that travels up my spine
and buzzes through my limbs
but it isn't real yet
your glow breaks through everything i see
and i'm floating on a crystal current
i want so much and i see it all
but i'm trapped
i'm unable to move
i'm forced to sit here and pretend
to hope
i can't wait
but i'm also afraid

and i'm the dumb one that said
you weren't dumb
and you were the intelligent
one that said hello,
may as well enjoy the rocky
mountains with mt. rushmore
shave; to keep it all under wraps
of a hollywood movie that
never made it from scripts.
yeah you asked to be treated as dumb,
and i asked to be treated as a wizard,
evidently both of us became middle class
debates on parenting:
white man's neck muscles became
black girl's hypnotic celluloid hip arsenal,
and i faked a combo of each in comparison:
while rolling a wine barrel
up a steep hill for a laughing horse
in exchange for three magic kidneys
that were categorised
as baked bean & ******, oh lawd the giant
came from the heights,
with the magic goose ******* out golden
swastikas rather than eggs of date printed 1933,
holocaust unknown khaki shirts prior the schwarzhemd
recycled for marble marrow statues,
like gold carat plating of statues with beneath
only cheap metal... but then the atomic authenticity
measuring cylinder in u-turn to provoke
such animate extension into theory of inanimate things
that animate things provoked inanimate things to ask
whether the one promise be worth blind acceptance
or eyed destruction via logic itemising in coupling
of two base words - after all neither psyche or logic are
acidic words... they're base words... but coupling two
base words leaves an aftermath of acidic reactionaries
more prone than the singleton word **** that's acidic.

for you are too encompassing to ignore,
too statuesque to mute with the strings of my guitar,
& so i find the only way to repel you,
is to write of you.
is to sit in the eye of your storm
and allow the thick blanket of your skin
to unfold into me,
as i attempt to describe this experience to a t,
so that your uninvited presence becomes familiar.

and
you
        --  treacherous muse --
can become
my ally,  

so that when you eventually roll around again,
which you normally tend to do at the
crisp start of a burgeoning evening,
i can welcome you
with my open arms
and an empty chair,
and we can
use our sharpened vocabulary
to battle
over the
meaning
of stillness.

you've danced on the sun and
conversed with the stars and
the universe knows you better
than your mother does, but
the earth knows what you feel like and
the ocean has kissed your skin and
the dirt remembers your fingerprints;

they say that home is where the heart is,
but you're torn between who knows
your body and who knows
your mind

how does it feel
when someone loves every
little
piece
of you?
even the broken parts.