I have sons spread around the world
birthed by different girls
foundation built in my arms.
recognition of the need of men
of the Love of a woman,
for a woman to guide his heart,
to open his eyes to his start.
she whispered,
the power of the son.
he is of she, penetrates the sea
and births anew.
she the prototype, the official
original, the womb.
woman, her scent alarms the masses.
and we scream now.
we scream and we cry
we live in angst in our homes,
our men are concerned.
yet our pheromones sense things,
weather and other perturbations.
mothers voice in the heart of her children,
daughters tend to stay closer to home.
women, we hear the call!
as we quiet our longing drawl,
the pull we feel to somewhere, we know not of
a place beyond the beauty of our eyes,
we know,
we remember,
our requirements as a creator.
ours, the power of the reflection
of the full moon,
the trees dance in the monthly celebration,
though in the desert, I've seen a few
who,
when the moon is too full,
too reflective of its presence,
they fold to hide from the light.
knowing whats best for themselves, I trust.
I just can't help but to choose to stand
with Her.
stand in Her light, my mouth
opens for the gift.
the thirst quenched.
head tilted back, think of
the men of the world.
if I could just hug them.
as Ms Badu claims
I bet you LOVE can make it better …
I bet too.
I bet I can heal you.
open your heart, peal the bitter,
drain the water, raise the alter.
praise the lover, embrace as a Mother.
pour into the builder, the sender.
release his true endeavors.
release the tension in his body,
helping him to know
mind over matter.
plugging him into the true
creative power
of his *** his gift of Love,
of his body penetrating another.
what his self is communicating,
what his seed is sprouting.
he needs our healing.
his heart is calling, and he's stomping around
like a little boy! I have sons, they stomp around…
they need mommys love,
mommys extra love.
she, calls us to her sons.
new normals, open our hearts
health always to follow.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 4:12 AM UTC
I have sons spread around the world
birthed by different girls
foundation built in my arms.
recognition of the need of men
of the Love of a woman,
for a woman to guide his heart,
to open his eyes to his start.
she whispered,
the power of the son.
he is of she, penetrates the sea
and births anew.
she the prototype, the official
original, the womb.
woman, her scent alarms the masses.
and we scream now.
we scream and we cry
we live in angst in our homes,
our men are concerned.
yet our pheromones sense things,
weather and other perturbations.
mothers voice in the heart of her children,
daughters tend to stay closer to home.
women, we hear the call!
as we quiet our longing drawl,
the pull we feel to somewhere, we know not of
a place beyond the beauty of our eyes,
we know,
we remember,
our requirements as a creator.
ours, the power of the reflection
of the full moon,
the trees dance in the monthly celebration,
though in the desert, I've seen a few
who,
when the moon is too full,
too reflective of its presence,
they fold to hide from the light.
knowing whats best for themselves, I trust.
I just can't help but to choose to stand
with Her.
stand in Her light, my mouth
opens for the gift.
the thirst quenched.
head tilted back, think of
the men of the world.
if I could just hug them.
as Ms Badu claims
I bet you LOVE can make it better …
I bet too.
I bet I can heal you.
open your heart, peal the bitter,
drain the water, raise the alter.
praise the lover, embrace as a Mother.
pour into the builder, the sender.
release his true endeavors.
release the tension in his body,
helping him to know
mind over matter.
plugging him into the true
creative power
of his *** his gift of Love,
of his body penetrating another.
what his self is communicating,
what his seed is sprouting.
he needs our healing.
his heart is calling, and he's stomping around
like a little boy! I have sons, they stomp around…
they need mommys love,
mommys extra love.
she, calls us to her sons.
new normals, open our hearts
health always to follow.
