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Jo Schmo Sep 2017
The Artsy Black Girl

She weaves fabric through her fingers; mere cloths of Nothing.

From It, creation comes.

You watch her inhale energies that drip like liquid gold in shimmering puddles
Below her,
You wait to exhale.

You did not know you were not breathing.

You did not see you were so engulfed.

She knew that you would be.

And, so, w flowers in her hair and bells on her hips,
She tips her waist in rhythmic twists
and turns
and whisssspers this:
"I hope you can withstand it."

Tantric, isnt she?

Eve genes are her makeup.
From her, you came.

Artsy Black Girl
dances spells around you
To music her melanin makes

And you..?
You stare
And wish upon stars within galaxies she manifested,
that you could be like her-
The Artsy Black Girl.

And she knew that you would.

From gods she descended;
W an all knowing mind, she pretended to know nothing
W intentions of blinding you

Jo Schmo Sep 2017
date me. im a poet.
open yourself to my intrusion; i want to write about you.
lace these blue inked lines with pieces of you in metered rhymes and poetic prose; i wish to write about you.
will you... give me something to pen about you today?
i long to squeeze lemons of you onto a page and watch the edges curl around your bitter wetness; containing you w fail..
because you cant be held
i long only to gaze at the glory of you framed in the pages of my journal
and pray this time i dont lose it in transition.

so.. again.. date me.
im a poet.
i beg of you, baby..
let me write about you?

i wont promise a collection of pretty poems
blossoming words of flattery.
i will adore you in word play;
showcasing your fault lines in all their rapture;
encouraging the world to be just as you are
when they read you spread across my pages they will want to write about you, too.
You think, maybe.. we could all write about you?

Youre a vibe of indescribable musing
and if i could just..
place you w all your rough edges on to these smooth lines,
I could encourage someone to read today..
even if its just you who's eyes glide across my words drinking yourself in becoming full off the high that you are.

certainly, then.. youll see how poectic ive colored you.
surely, youll demand that i write about you.
youll beg me to date you.
in response,
i'll pile high journals on journals in front of you
and youll see
all this time,
all along...
ive BEEN writing about you.
Jo Schmo Jun 2015
There is beauty in the End;
Beauty in a conglomerate of
Failed fairy tales we
Once thought would make up
Our life's happy trails.
Virtue hangs purposefully
On quivering lips
and racing heartbeats
that foretells a demise-
There's MEANING in the End.
Wipe your tears.
Dry your eyes.
These are means to every End.
So enjoy that Last Kiss
and mourn not the story that it concludes
But await the one that it begins.
For like I said,
There is Beauty in the End
Jo Schmo Jun 2015
She feeds off my dedication
Lives off my Love.
Don't dare tell her how I feel
because that becomes a Power.
It is nolonger my choice to her.
She grabs ahold and hikes it above her head-
Taunting me;
Teasing me;
Daring me.
I reach for it-
Maddened with the authority I gave her.
Strickened with the will to ignore
Unable to adhere.

My eyes water
My tongue swells.
My mind dictates
My body lays ignorant to its wisdoms.
I know what I can do.
I know what I should do.
I know what I would do-
If only I didn't ...
Love her.

"You ain't goin nowhere," she says.

I want to scream, "Oooh yes the **** I am!"
My head just dips in that "youre so right" kind of way
The Vulture struts away- Proud.
Jo Schmo Jun 2015
He exchanges women for the pain

That remains

Lodged in his brain

From trying to maintain

An image of a person that he never was

So because

This image eludes him

He chooses to confuse them

With promises of more than he intends to provide

Doesn't let them know straight up and they don't seem to recognize

That their sole purpose in his life is to cause the pain to subside

And he hides

His cries for freedom between their meaty thighs

And tries

To lick, and pump, kiss and bump, touch and ****** so much

That he gains their trust

While they lose their souls

Because he can't free his own

Their screams  and moans

Are the only home in which he can feel great

So he makes

as many of them

Reach that place

Where all they can speak is his name

Because maybe if he hears it enough he will figure out who he is.....
- Tamika Murphy
Jo Schmo Jun 2015
I wish I could have stayed in bed all day today,
Writing poems about entertwining fingers and tangled legs;
About lips that never moisten themselves; About tickles that, abruptly, turn into
caresses and lingering touches.
I would have written about cuddles and tight ******* embraces that didnt require that "thing" they like to do most;
About kisses that make you yearn for nothing less than a lifetime supply of Them.
I, simply, wish I'd have just stayed in my room
In my bed and
Penned all morning about the complex simplicities of coexisting with Desire.
I'd have written about how Competition was welcomed with unfurled arms, kissed and un-coated at the door.
I'd have written about how it was welcomed as a third party to the bed;
how we would vye for its approval and battle for 1st place as Best Giver of Love.

..But, instead, I'll just write a poem about the poem id have written had I just stayed in bed today.

— The End —