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Maame Yebaoh Feb 2016
Oxblood lips. A slit in the center. A distraught film. Shattered pieces that mimic her wounds. She cries for sorrow and weeps in the name of agony. Flashback. High voltage. Dawn's dew left a Seoul night in the hands of mischief. He watched her golden legs in his dingy shirt. She danced in a tunnel of head lights. His eyes. Oh, God, his realm of roses. A spectrum so broad- no force could obtain. 70s misfit. Shaggy rugs. A cheap bottle of Merlot. Kaleidoscope kisses. Craved like a hieroglyphic. He was her warrior. Plummeting grains of virtue into a dust oriented dollars and thirty one cents. I saw the light bulb touch the birch-wood floral. I could feel a thick metallic wind roar. Breaking the depths. A rugged man with a festive beard. His cheeks of stained silicone lipstick. He had shipped off his soul. He was a white man with a grip of steel. "Who put cookies in the watering bucket?" A naive response. "A wicked man with a lustful cavity." Erosion.Despair.Angst. Thin braids housed a blooming mind. Paint chips splattered the table top, plastering it. Morning.Good morning to luxury. What a splendid contrast. A lantern lit van took the highway by 65 miles. And all the while he never looked back.
Maame Yebaoh Feb 2016
Yearn for a forgiving touch
For I crave you on this day
Can you address me yes?
Maame Yebaoh Feb 2016
We house intimate thoughts built upon contrasting poles. Echos of raging laughter; scratching against crystalline memories. Halted ache. Stagnant sorrow. I lay awake. The dimensions of my head sinks into the pillow like a solvent. Dissolving. A chemical combustion. As time lapses depression becomes me. Self-implicated torture. We negate apologies for a decadent virtue.
Maame Yebaoh Feb 2016
Let my body be your obstacle
Whisper- Ignite
Steer my conscious mind
May the stars alignment navigate you
And make cumbersome love
under the lavender tree
Maame Yebaoh Feb 2016
Cut- Raw
Up, over, down
What I want, you.
Is an understatement
You are a rose, petals so
Brittle, non-flourishment
Our feelings are a draw-bridge
An essence. A spark.
The most hyper-active form of devastation
Blades of confessions
Timid rejections
My imagination lingers
Victim, you are not
Nor a cob-web in a bed of lies
But a strike of cyan sensation
What is your depth?
Sharpen your arrow to hunt
words that went

— The End —