The artist paints yellow, pink and red
roses on her canvas,
glints of blue at the edges
dripping and spilling.
Something for spring, she says.
She gently smiles,
her hand rubbing
the swelling curve
of her belly,
just a black shirt and ragged blue jeans
covering another kind of canvas.
Underneath
something else entirely
waits to bloom.

National Poetry Month Day 25

I miss my friends
The squad goals that never end
Four personalities well meshed
Inspiring artistic trends
And devouring all life has

The white is black
Salinas is back
To life inside this sack
Of flesh and bones fully intact
A beautiful heart where nothing lacks

Colombia is crazy
Pops niggas and makes them hazy
Disrespect her she'll beat you endlessly
But her heart of gold so full of love
Her home a place of rest for me

Gerlt! the artist
Intellectual and passionate
The alien prodigy
Ambitious creator
Bringing art to reality

Jon the weirdo
Forrest sex freako
Fifty shades of foolishness
Open minded to all people
No empathy for you though

Squad Kronicles
Taking on new challenges
Unmasking new ideas
Reaching new levels
Aliens amongst normal peoples

JM 4/29/17

I miss my friends and wanted to write a little something about them
Yozhik 14h

She's oh so fragile.
Her pores clogged with forever,
Eyes filled with whatever
she forgot to cry
yesterday.
Scars upon her skin
Call her broken--lets say
She'll need a lot of concealer

personifacation powder
Maskara of metaphor
alliteration lip liner
(you won't be sorry for the
litote lipstick either)
blush to cover the real one -- oh the irony
scintillating in symbolism
Pain stands
now pretty
now someone to notice.

with one hand you paint me
with the other, you hold
in your hand a wine glass
-- a sweet vintage from old

and later, as paint dries
you hold me instead,
both hands on my hips
-- the paint is all that's left

one night stand with an artist

Firefly dances liven the night
Painting their artwork with flickering light.
The chatter of crickets beneath the trees
The whistle of leaves that sway in the breeze
The croak of the frog resounds over all
From the damp soil around the grass tall
The songs of the darkness master a tune
And play their instruments by the light of the moon

I was broke as usual it's okay I understood that far easier than I ever did being well off.

Long as there was a bottle and a room I could crash in I was good.
I never cared to gamble.
I lived my life that was a gamble enough

My money i preferred to be wasted upon myself not given to a fixed game played by overpaid children.

The only sport I ever loved was fighting.
I understood you against another.
In life its always you against the world.

I loved to fight even when you lose you know you've lived
I had stepped between those ropes often.

Paid the the price for a simple mistake and been knocked flat on my ass for it.
Boxing is a human chess match very few men have what it takes to go toe to toe with another.

Anyone can fall down it takes a man or mental patient to keep getting back up.
I had paid my dues broken bones multiple concussions between that and all the booze poured into my skull you think I would be braindead by now.

Some would tell you I already wad.
And those people would be like most full of shit speaking things they know nothing about.

Critics come in all forms.
Don't worry over there opinions nobody ever worth a shit sat on the sidelines.

I had nothing to show for my years.
I could barely get moving some days.
But when the drinks hit me right and some young shit called me out i still had that spark that fueled the fire.

Never take shit from.anyone no matter how tuff they seem.
Anyone can get caught anyone can bleed.

Remember kids its not what you can dish out.
Its how much you can take and keep going that makes you tuff.

I wore my scars like tattoo's.
Everyone of them had a story.
I never believed in luck.

I just kept going no matter what stood before me.

If I depended on luck in my life.
I would be up shit creek for the rest of my existence.

Never stay down no matter how easy it seems.

Oftentimes,
At Poetry Open Mics,
I hear some STRANGE presentations.
This is how
They typically go:
"FUCK Poetry!"
"I HATE Poetry!"
"I don't even know"
"Why you continue to listen"
"To me"
"Recite this poem?"
"Are you too polite to leave"
"Because you want to show"
"That you're cultured?"
"Are you trying to prove to me"
"That you're tolerant?"
"Open-Minded?"
"Liberal/Progressive Types?"
"Well, to HELL with all That!"
"I'm not reciting this poem"
"To make you feel good about yourselves."
"I'm reciting it to make you feel like CRAP!"
"To make you doubt yourselves"
"And everything else,"
"But you're still listening to me."
"Why?"
"Do you have a irresistible urge"
"To listen to the ravings of a Madman?"
"A Kook?"
"Do you feel"
"Relatively sane in comparison?"
"Well, now,"
"I've run out of things to say."

You can
        Lean on me
  And let our broken pieces slide against each other
    And together, we will make a beautiful fucking mosaic

Her dark coffee-roasted eyes opened into a world that vessels magnificence, it wasn’t the other humans that created on her an impact of difference. She grew up to love the wind, seas and butterflies, she caught the moonbeams when she closed her eyes. She isolated herself from the ones that commanded words to be spoken, no one listened, and without a single word she left the locks broken. What she felt with the intensity of solitude, filled her with meanings that multiplied in magnitude. How could she explain the pure lightning in her veins, she wore a pendant of the world map on her chains. She was made to do incredible things you can tell, surviving within four walls was never her place to dwell. Things weren’t handed to her and that’s what made her wonderful, street by street she discovered what it meant to be powerful.

Mocking her tattoos, “art belongs on the wall”:
the ones she built around was her masterpiece and never let them fall. In the end its the things that kill you that make you feel alive, sitting on the edge of earth on a swing, she lived until 1hundred and five. Time taught the darling, of things that were loved bitter and sour, she travelled through the countries and living by the hour.

She wore a wing on her wrist, to her acquaintances she didn’t exist. She loved cities that made her feel like home, even on the bad days they embraced her and she never felt alone. Her lust for travel was deeply-chained, friending soils that didn’t constrain. She passed through it all like a ship in its form; Beautifully broken, this is how the sky felt after a storm.

Her dark coffee-roasted eyes opened into a world that vessels magnificence, it wasn’t the other humans that created on her an impact of difference. She grew up to love the wind, seas and butterflies, she caught the moonbeams when she closed her eyes. She isolated herself from the ones that commanded words to be spoken, no one listened, and without a single word she left the locks broken. What she felt with the intensity of solitude, filled her with meanings that multiplied in magnitude. How could she explain the pure lightning in her veins, she wore a pendant of the world map on her chains. She was made to do incredible things you can tell, surviving within four walls was never her place to dwell. Things weren’t handed to her and that’s what made her wonderful, street by street she discovered what it meant to be powerful.

Mocking her tattoos, “art belongs on the wall”:
the ones she built around was her masterpiece and never let them fall. In the end its the things that kill you that make you feel alive, sitting on the edge of earth on a swing, she lived until 1hundred and five. Time taught the darling, of things that were loved bitter and sour, she travelled through the countries and living by the hour.

She wore a wing on her wrist, to her acquaintances she didn’t exist. She loved cities that made her feel like home, even on the bad days they embraced her and she never felt alone. Her lust for travel was deeply-chained, friending soils that didn’t constrain. She passed through it all like a ship in its form; Beautifully broken, this is how the sky felt after a storm.

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