You tuck your
sweet tongue
undermine
and together
we play tug of war
Do it for
the Art in you
for bringing
something to life
from the
utter despair
out from the void
of nothing
to the lives of
those who wonder

Do it for
the death bed
knowing one day
you'll leave this place
a cold and distant body
you could tune in more
from chaos of the
every day human

Finally, it's never
been done before
the absolute trip
of who you are
Be the you
you have to be
for the multitudes in need
of your unique art
Be yourself...you are so valueable
We are in a sad state
no news needed
Just look to the sky
watch the fires burn
that never wane
The smoke left
To choke us in our sleep

We are out of
control burning
Wrestling with karma
The boogie man
is bleeding
He's human, after all
You can tell by
all his dirty vices
while letting the good
go nonchalantly astray...
  Jul 31 Tanisha Jackland
Lora Lee
when we are in love
we are raw red hearts
bleeding
exposed to the flesh
of the night air
in crisp, sharp breaths
ventricles open wide
as its beats paint
the stars crimson,
skylit rubies
baring all
peeled back touch
of cells like
the muck of our guts
spilled out yet
       somehow contained

My insides are
braided, like veins
pumping life into universes
receiving the tender fire
of your jeweled, earthy words
rising to meet each kiss
like an abulation

I am
boiling cherry broth
in this heat-licked ice
that melts upon the tongue
in salted frenzy,
delightful

Wash over me
Hold me in cupped hands,
                       gently
Take me by the tips of
my soul's hips,
                  firmly
for I am at risk
of being pulled into
the sweeping monsoon
of
     your
forever
There is something
holy about you
wild as the flowers
growing in a mad
scheme of colors

You plummeted
from the sky  
the forbidden fruit
dark and ripe already

afterwards,
a lone man even
offered to wash
your feet

then
left you a single kiss
as a sacrament
on your cheek
Holy men...
When I die
I like to imagine
that I'll become
some sort of brilliant
luminous thing
fluttering my way
thru the ether
like it was my home
My real home that
I've finally reached
after being a black woman
wounded in America
Note to self: Never forget to love yourself first. It's all you got.
I was six, then—
six or seven—
on a swing set in
September, and
I’m beginning to
remember
how alone I was
that day:

the clouds were dull
eraser shavings,
the wind a hollow
“Hallelujah.”
I pumped my legs, and
at the apex,
I gained an angel-eye
perspective:

the jaws of autumn
clenched their teeth in-
to my sternum,
popped a hole and
stole the summer from
my bloodline,
left a chill inside
my soul;

I’m taking all of this
for granted.
I spell disaster
with my left hand,
I sign “Messiah” with
my right;

and in the arrogance of
twenties, I think
the loneliness has left me,
I think we all don’t
grow up empty,
I think the future
could be bright.
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