Loving you made me grow
In my life you brought glow
My love for you I'll show
Even if time is slow
Someday I hope you'll know
(Inspired by Kendrick Lamar)
Whacked or weepiness?
Sing if you know this,
Well~ yuh, yuh.
Hey, I recall when every months with zero-balance-curse,
Therefore I live my life with what I fit, but today I’m so pissed,
When everyone gets what their want; In fact, I never wish,
I choose drink mix while you choose Crème de cassis to rid live’s blemish,
Son, the richest man never get outta debt hub,
Duh, compare to you with just one luckless credit card?
So let’s be rich with heart and do something bigger than Tesla,
Do read on my blog, then write it down or by heart at least,
Zero-to-the-hero, hero-to-the-pro punk,
a person who used to be dumb, dumped in the scum junk,
now 6 figures in the bank, I still like yesterday’s punk,
If you got this in the bank, promise to be like an old punk,
my life’s better than my virile,
my future promise me how I rolled,
Hey Mount. E, wait for me to reach your highest spot,
but I’m just play cool to it, cuz you know
throw your crown.
I'm going to be honest
I want you next to me
I'm going to fade into everything
and I want you to hold the smoke
that I become
I'll condense into your tiny storm cloud
And you'll settle the lightning inside me
You'll settle me
I am distant rolling and you are the sound of streetlights through midnight mist
The rain on the pavement is comforting when I can see you glowing
- dear anybody -
Current book is about to put in safe keeping,
waiting the new book of a 365 pages,
a new beginning,
a new list of book of ages.
Plan must be planned beforehand,
claim must be claimed and –
Proof must be proved again,
do all you can, so much for what will you gain,
no more sad onomatopoeia, no more suffering in pain.
Possibilities are yet to come,
hope versus expectation – both will never promise the outcome,
A billion dollar started with a single penny,
A master once a newbie,
Walking in failure is part of recipe,
to reach a delightful biography.
TWO hands & two legs,
THOUSAND wrong steps,
AND almost time having a big mistakes,
EIGHTEEN years old’s dreams – current broken dreams closed the drape,
2018 is our sweet escape.
never apologize for the way
on your darkest of days
you may enter a phase
that feels a lot like
you are an interstellar being
these broken parts of you
are star-glowing matter
the pieces have a path
and when they do... their
new density will display
an even greater array
of the Light
embrace your fragility
it holds your Power
to t r a n s f o r m
..the same divine
ability is how a
Salt in my wound
to inconvenience you
When asking for help is my only option
Just leave me on the moon
Because I cant help but to be blue
when asking for help
is in fine print
Subtlety for you to miss
and weigh on you
When you finally do notice
I am not as strong
as you thought
Who asks for this?
To flounder for so long
How can I thank you?
For all of this
For the fight you fought
Salt in my wound
To inconvenience you
My next life I will give to you
If it is my option.
hungry desire: food for the flames.
burning fires come from starving dames.
ask for her number- she won’t give you her name.
pay for her dinner, and she might play your game.
show her your heart and you’ll hear “lame!”
empty your wallet, pay dimes for this dame.
she sleeps in the mirror, dreaming of fortune and fame.
smiling on the bed, she clings to the frame.
exhausted she lies on her back… so feed her more lies!
put your sparkling diamonds between her shiny thighs.
her passion grows more as the starry night dies,
but stars sparkle less like diamonds in pink morning skies.
she’ll pull you close, but can’t look you in the eyes.
she’ll disappear when you doze, before the sunrise.
into that golden light she fades; she won’t hear your cries.
searching for her is futile- better luck catching butterflies.
to meet her again, you have to wait for the night.
she will emerge from the shadows, in the absence of light.
her fragrance flows far, and for her company fine gentlemen fight.
roll up your sleeves, empty your pockets, and show her your might!
behold her beautiful neck, a wonderful sight!
but season it with jewels before you take a bite.
cotton clouds lift her up while you travel down- she will take flight.
watch her soar from the forest, catch her strings, fly her like a kite!
she’ll stay up through the night and watch you snore,
but when the rooster crows, she’ll dash for the door.
to one man she belongs to: the one that pays more.
she’s mad for the money, but she’s not a whore.
Someone asked me what my favorite color was recently. Its something I've thought about, actually. I don't remember what I told them, in all honesty.
In the corner of east Hartford Connecticut, there's an old church, mostly brick with tall steeple covered in off white siding. There's a basement, just around the entrance and down a short flight of steps. Really, just a hallway with a series of rooms off to each side.
The largest of these is a long rectangle, stacked high with bookshelves holding dusty volumes of varying books. The variation in shape and size makes the old lacquered shelves look disorganized, and the little dust drifts built up in the corners where the books meet the sides only add to the effect.
There's dust in the air, and you can see it swirling in the sunbeams that break through the two small windows nestled in just below the ceiling. It settles and swirls along cheap plastic tables, the tops of which are scarred and faded from years of use and disuse. Along the back there stand a few armchairs, big cushioned things with bits of stuffing sticking out from worn seams.
I used to sit in them, and think. I hated church, or, at least I had convinced myself I did. But sometimes, being alone on a cloudy day, surrounded by the years of earnest caring that had seeped into the walls, and the trashy furniture...
Even the cheap, commercial bullshit scattered here and there had gained some level of sentimental value, just by soaking in the atmosphere for so long.
And, I can remember tracing the sunbeams on cold quiet Saturdays
A mess of orange shag that had been worn to the thread, stretched over concrete, thin enough that the cold would bleed up from below and mix into the foot of air above the ground.
It was hideous, but no matter what, I can't stop thinking about that color. Dull and lifeless, but still able to catch the last rays of sun in a way I still can't describe.