Outside my window the morning sky is pink
like your blushing skin
flushing down your guilt
somewhere underneath your bravery
it will eat you from within

and I can't stop thinking about
your fingers locked inside my mouth
to lock my voice away
I'm still not sure
if I wanted you to stay
because I wanted you,
or because I liked the way you
filled the space around me

Distorted words, and

The common misconception

Of glamorous fiends,

Help to destroy the sanity

Of hopelessly subtle, old kings.

-

Dastardly provoked

To implore, or deceive, the

Faint of heart—cowards—

To commit themselves to war;

To attempt courage for once.

-

Yet, not one of them

Is capable of such strength.

In today’s battle,

One man here, is simply just

Another broken, dead boy.

-

Scream “Hallelujah!”

They do, but it comes as a

Whisper. They whisper,

Because they are afraid of

Their own voices; the noise scares them.

-

Circumstance may have

That those faint of heart—cowards—

Cannot see their chance;

This inexhaustible resource.

They know not their own power.

-

Brother: Please humor

The condemned souls in this town,

For they are no more

A concern for the Killers,

And Invaders moving through here.

-

The rippling muscles

Of defeat swarm this dead town,

And those who stood by

Were consumed by the vultures,

And the wolves who haunt the woods.

-

Those who could not stand

And confront the oppressors,

Because their voice was

Inaudible and weak, were

Burned at the stake, like Bruno.

-

               Yet, these plebes, could not look Him in the eyes because their guilt weighed their chins down.

-

Wickedly the cruel,

Conquering enemy will

Capture the souls of

The less fortunate who hide

In their own puny shadows.

-

Yet, even when the

Strong make their stand, and fight

Those wicked demons,

Their victory is in vain,

Because the cities still burn.

She, living in Baltimore,
had not spoken to her Mississippi
sun-burnt father in seven years.

He was a farmer,
she wanted a boutique.

There were the phone-calls,
at least in the beginning,
but then they too dried up
like clay pots cracking under a solar flare.

Her scars were still there at least,
she reckoned,
and those were enough to
disconnect any phone line.

But there is still a gnawing
at her insides, an impregnation
of her nose hairs,
a waltzing of her taste buds.

She picks up the pay-phone,
breathing heavier now,
sobbing as if the dial tone could touch her.

She knows that some fields
just can't stay fallow
forever.

I can count on my left hand
how many boys have had a taste of my lips
I can count on them like I can my pinky in a bar fight
Clipped nails like flightless birds
Nothing to scratch my initials into their flesh
Because most nights
I didn’t belong there

I can count on my right hand
The number of boys that I’ve slept with
Some naked and others fully clothed with the lights on
I used to be afraid of the dark
Until I had too many secrets to hide in the shadows
Sometimes I’d beg them not to look at me
Because my scars were always illuminating stories
I didn’t want to tell
Sometimes I’d beg them to leave me
Because my stories were too long
To begin to tell
Sometimes
I didn’t want to be there
At all

I can count with my eyes closed
The number of times I’ve cried in front of someone
Because of a boy
My eyes have to be closed
Or I won’t let myself remember it
Sometimes I don’t
And I tell myself I have never cried
For such a silly reason
As a boy

I can count on my hips
The number of times I’ve felt like nothing
While lying in a place I didn’t want to be
And counting the sounds a darkened room
Until the sun washed my eyes open
And told me it was better to forget
So I forgot
But every time I lie awake
I remember you like taste of your palm
Against my mouth
And I really
Really
don’t want to

I can count the seconds
Before I fall asleep
Strategically within the first few thousands
So as not to keep listening to the sounds my room makes
Incase our windows creak at the same time of night
I might burst out of the blankets
And run until the sidewalk catches up to me
Or I might lie there
And pretend not to hear it

I can count with my heartbeats
The number of times
I pretended not to hear myself

I can count on my eyelashes
The seconds I spent with my eyes closed

I can count on my body
The number of panic attacks I’ve had

I can count on
Myself
To never speak to you again

It was the beginning of the summer
And life was darker than the underside of frightened eyelids
I told you I needed someone to depend on
You told me to count on you

and I’m sorry that I ever did.

I often sit back and wonder
How the world got this way
Who decided to corrupt it?
Who invented war?
Why we are programmed to hate?
To ****?

Why do we let our demons have full reign?
And why does no one stop it?

Imagine a world of peace.
Can you?
Because I can't.
Not anymore.
Not like this.

It's passed the point of no return.
And everyone is aware.
And no one is stopping it.

I just want to stop it.
Stop it cold.

Why **** when you can create?
Why hate what you can hold dear?

I love every dead citizen,
Of all the countries,
I'm too terrified to visit.

But even more,
I love the man pulling the trigger,
Who has to live with the guilt,
For the rest of his life.
Fighting a war he doesn't believe in,
For a country,
That won't ever love him back.

Now tell me,
Was your military discount,
Worth the blood of thousands?
Was it?

How do you sleep at night?
Tell me.
Because I barely get a wink,
Knowing these people exist.

How did the world get this way?
We're just all products of fear.
A school is just a factory.
There is no education anymore.
And I'm tired of living this lie.

Pull the wool back over my eyes.
I'd rather sleep
With the rest of a thousand sheep.

And turn my head to the slaughter.
Turn my head to the corrupt.

I'd rather carry on.
Not doing a **** thing to stop it.

So tell me, now.
Who is really pulling the trigger.
You or me?

*You or me?

She says,
“Speak to me in poetry.
Baby, I want to see what I look like through your eyes.”
And immediately,
Like ripping through each word Webster put in his book,
I strip my vocabulary of every cliché about love and beauty
And loosely string them together with shaking hands,
Which my hands have grown accustom to.
I want to tell her how every time she enters a room
My stomach does this funny thing where it ties itself into knots
And my heart seems to start beat-boxing
Like it grew up in the grid-locked street blocks.
But I don’t tell her this
Because if I were to let these words out of my mouth
I know that there’s a good possibility that I will look like a crazy person.
I want to tell her that I just want her to be impressed.
To look upon me with longing in her eyes
And I’d steal her breath away like that no man ever has
And keep it in a locket concealed in my buttoned-up back pocket.
But I don’t tell her this
Because, honestly, I can’t impress with they way I dress
Or my white boy dance moves,
And the only time I ever stole anything I got caught.
I want to tell her that if her toes go
Somewhere that mine can’t follow,
I’ll sacrifice my eyes to the sky
So that I can see her every day when the sun sets west.
But I don’t tell her this
Because I couldn’t hold her with my arms dressed in flames,
And truth be told, one dose of her a day isn’t enough to get me my fix.
And so we sit in that teasing mix
Of fixated eyes exchanging
A lustful desire to unlock jaws and collide our lips,
In a beautiful disarray of tongue and teeth.
And the calming restraint to let the moment linger
Just a little longer
Because in just a little longer
This moment will be perfect.
And I am silent.

And He says,
“Speak to me in poetry.
Brother, I want to see what the world looks like through your eyes.”
Time and time again I’ve humbled myself by denying the fact that
I am extraordinary
For reasons that only clear eyes can see,
Like this man,
He seems to be more fed up with the repeated routine of each and every yesterday
And envies my hope in tomorrow so he asks to borrow my insight.
I want to tell him that on those days when nothing looks familiar,
I wind up fasting;
Eating nothing but my passed down last name.
See, that’s how I meditate on my individuality,
But I don’t tell him this
Because God knows I can get starved for company
And borrow philosophies from question marks.
I want to tell him that there is beauty all around us.
It’s in every breath that’s whispered through pursed lips
And it drips down from the sky,
That’s all rain is.
But I don’t tell him this
Because sometimes even I watch the world
Through eyes filled with acid.
I want to tell him that the only thing that limits us
Is the shackles that we keep strapped down
For safety’s sake
But if we want, we could break free and run towards better days
With our heartbeats pounding in our ears.
But I don’t tell him this
Because maybe we are just two people
Who have nothing more to offer than sparks
In a world taken with fire.
And so I retire my voice
Since I don’t want to make a liar of myself,
I’m no street corner gospel
False profiteer
Selling twisted rapture to any lonely ear
Willing to empty their pockets out of desperation.
And I am silent.

She says,
“Speak to me in poetry.
Baby, I want to see what I look like through your eyes.”
And He says,
“Speak to me in poetry.
Brother, I want to see what the world looks like through your eyes.”
And They say,
“Speak to me in poetry,
We want to see what life looks like through your eyes.”
But since my tongue is tongue tied
And I currently don’t mind going blind for a little while
The only thing I can think to do
Is smile and hand them my glasses.

Back and forth,
side-to-side;
moving in constant motion,
trying to decide.
"Well," I think,
"Which way to go?"
Go?

Grass flutters in the wind,
water droplets sparkle and glimmer
in the sunlight;
"Well," I say,
"I think I'll stay right here."