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Naomi Zabasajja Jul 2014
Let me ask the question that I've wondered for what seems like centuries.
Let me know.
What exactly is the ******* point?
What drives you to turn emotional "love"
Into physical "love"?
I have been constantly dissatisfied.
Endlessly unamused.
Forever jaded.
To the point that I can't imagine the notion of this ******* being even minutely beautiful.
Or even worthy of being the median of which love is concocted.
**** it.
I don't want to understand.
  Jul 2014 Naomi Zabasajja
Take your seat
Your love gifted me thousand buckets of memories all are smeared with tears
Drink the caffeine-tears I shed for you
I want to know the feelings of lacerating me that you nourish in your heart,
I am trapped in your love
Like a fly trapped in a spider’s web
If you are not a picaroon, if you are not a sorceress,
If you are not a heart breaker, if you are not the heart snatcher
If you are not the birth giver of my poetry, if you are not my chimera
Reason of my all phantasm, if you are not an oath breaker
Then you are not my woman.
For you my poems are the best caffeine that you might ever have….
Love should be a warm embrace

My embrace chokes my lovers

They leave, terrified and running

A love too much

A love too strong

I can't help my grip

Too eager and too alone

I keep my heart to myself for a while

Hoping for someone with a love like my own
Naomi Zabasajja Jul 2014
Let's hear it.
Let's embrace the ugly.
I mean, considering it ugly is an opinion.
I'm sorry, I just breathe really loud when I get excited.
I feel like I'm waiting for something.
Something I've anticipated for.
Prayed for.
Cried for.
I think God is smiling at me.
Whether it's out of pride or mockery, I do not know.
But I am loving it.
I can feel my happiness behind my tongue.
I can smell my eagerness.
Some say it's a weakness.
But I am loving it.
At around 4 am, I heard thunder clap.
Ha, God has such a funny laugh.
I told Him I was excited for whatever he had in tow.
It started to rain.
Tears of joy.
I remained thankful even though nothing came.
I asked God for a sign that would indicate my luckiness.
I didn't see a thing.
So I kneeled down and said thank you.
Naomi Zabasajja Jul 2014
He nearly ripped my throat out just to prove his point.
The bleeding thumbs of an angry boy can be tasted on my tongue at 11 pm.
His desire lies in between his toes and his malice in between his teeth.
He screams to a God he'll never praise and kisses a father he'll never love.
The sound of the air blowing between my teeth, however, shut him the **** up.
I have a project for you.
It involves you losing your victimizing nature.
Dropping your entitlement.
Opening your baby browns.
And listening.
Your sweat will never taste sweet until you love yourself like you loved her.
Your legs will stumble on their insecurities until you dance in your impurities.
Your vengeance is futile and will only make you avoided.
I can scream too.
You want to scream?
Scream with me.
But don't say I didn't help you.
Don't say I didn't try.
Don't act like the blisters and welts on your tan skin are from my fire.
You want blood?
I got plenty.
I'll jump rope with your esophagus.
Play dress up in your epidermis.
Understand your motives and thoughts better than Lauryn Hill.
But you can't assume anymore.
You can't believe that I fall to my knees because you make me weak.
That's not the case.
I don't need you like you need me.
Oh, please.
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