My eyes don't lie
My eyes don't lie
Check it
The mirror shows my reflection
My brain processes the image
I  question
Should I accept it
The color spectrum says I'm brown
Society says I'm   black
But truth be told I'm lighter than that
Look my skin tone
Scraps off when I cut my shin bone
I see white meat than blood flows
Huh? What if I healed like Wolverine
Would you accept or call me weird
Eye sight is dear oh my eyes don't lie
They just see lies for what they are, lies
A man is not a lady , a woman is not a guy
God guides my sight I see the lies even if disguised.

Masochism is my favorite way to love; I adore deeply the one that is eager to leave me in the dust for his superficial passions. I cry infinitely as the rain over the Pacific, but it does not storm. It only blinds me with stinging tears that make a shore invisible. I had you wrapped around my finger, and you slipped off like an oversized ring, falling between the spaces of a gutter to travel sewers of risk; rank with the smell of doubt and returning loneliness. I travel these sewers barefoot with your risks up to my ankles, searching for you, my ring, dress hiked up to run as if you hadn't already seen such exposed leg. But only I splash. My lover is elusive. When he trembles in anger, he comes to me; when I tremble, he only flees. He does not understand his debts. I do, only I don't wish that he pay. My kindness is self-mutulation, for I know he will not appreciate my generosity. I think of him while he daydreams of riches and soaks in his wanderlust. I am simply a piece, a fragment, a speck of dust swimming among many in a ray of sunlight. I am not something he truly wishes to strive for. This murders me, and smashes my already broken heart into smaller, sharper pieces that seem harmless, but develop greater capacity to cut flesh.

Society, the embodiment of human securities
Is in reality the stark confirmation  
Of a conglomerate of screaming insecurities
Begging….its leaders….fervent introspection

Bending logic is an art perfected by all
Regardless of creed class or stature
No wonder the walk is seemingly a hard laboured crawl
Culminating into deep exposed…psychological sutures

**Beings are bedevilled by a roving myopia
Craving a farfetched grandiose utopia
That’s why a bespectacled cynicism
Is ironically of essence…to neutralise a deep rooted parochialism

Marijuanna is great makes it good,
eats your brain tords the end insane.
you dont grow even though you know.
Its hard to spit and, Its hard to quit.
gets you hungry,
eat, puff, chew,
          lets get high and off we flew.
I can do this i Dont care,
I'll be different want to stare?
lets be bold,
when were cold,
we'll just light up
             bought and sold,
who has my back,
        who the **** needs the crack?.
I lack my money thats ***** funny,
                    bought a sack sold yur sisters bunny,
ahhh now I'm out ,
  **** I'll give you a try,
snort, smoke, shoot,

never toot ya the boot...
your hand just took me oh hard so shook me,
so Im hear depended my gear,
I need that lift,
  ya satins gift,
rock and roll,
I'm a beaty troll,
           your things i stole,
                  lost out control
                       You'd have my back?
I really need you,
                I left them all,
family friends put up a wall,
           I am bound now all around I just ask no more a hit.
         Hey you there you got the "$hit"





Hey its true tell me about it!


Jesse   *Mckush

carrying Kalashnikovs on their backs,
the rebel mules have panic in their eyes
and resting at the back?
fear filled pupils that dilate
with every corpse seen vacating itself
of tissue and blood,
smell the perfume of gun barrels
and those lonely enough to be culled,
picked off by a trained eye
and a government lie and
a man laid down in an apartment block out of sight up high.

civilian fathers laying spread on the back of a flatbed,
cinderblock walls that offer no protection but that of protecting the dead,
sharpen another knife for another internet viral video of another guy without a head
and finally, cat walk model rebels wearing beaded shrapnel necklaces, gorgeous and chrome red.

and they’ll try give them away around,
a daily sound of the everyday
so they can have a price that they can pay
for the ordinary,
for the sane,
for America’s definition of the lame.