When I lay in bed
Body tired, lights off
But mind on
I write words in my head.

They rarely rhyme
Or have any real basis,
Ragged lines
Slipping in time.

Emotions and feelings
Jumbled and digressed
Blurred memories
Torn into segments
Of little, poorly formed
Ellipses.

And I have the nerve
To call myself a poet.
Because when the words form
They resonate
Within me.

They make me feel everything
And nothing.
And sometimes,
When you read the scattered formation
Of my
Deepest
Darkest
Brightest
Most hurtful thoughts

They spark something within you
And you can begin to feel your
Deepest
Darkest
Brightest
Most hurtful thoughts
And you too, become a poet

Words are ****** to a poet
When we run out it makes our blood shiver
Our hands tremble and our lips tremor
A muse becomes an addiction
I miss the high of loving you
I crave the way you made me feel
The cravings dig a hole inside me
Allowing the emptiness to win
It's like my bones are bleeding and my veins are freezing
As I sit with a pen in hand and a paper made of sand

I wish that emotions captured in a sentence or two
Could chase away the withdrawal of being away from you

I'm a great poet
I'm number  one i consider  no duet
I say this with no regret
You will hear my name forever. Dont you forget

"But let me tune you the live about life's simulation,
that assimilates one's worth. Poetry's code isn't of ones
and zeroes, but of all lines and words"
Says the wit of a coloured oan wanting to chuff the girls

It's all about the honeys, and maybe some sweet
success of hustling for a little extra money

Taking a stand on every stanza, I grew up to different standards
Unlike the hood rapper clutching the 48 hammer,
I was taught in my hood how to hold a 48 spanner
I have my odds in odes; every heavy breath in each
coma—not so common
Given the stereotype of dealing and robbing
To steal your stereo if the right type,
and best to drive with caution

A dark skinned coloured
fitting in with the blacks by appearance
Accents do tend to change ears intently hearing
Whites think I'm that way out of a private school fashion
But I did at times hang out with the wrong crowd,
at times on weekends smoking **** and relaxing

And yes I'm actually coloured; to those of you asking
Hit you with a "hey what's up, what's happening"
Don't mind me asking questions with this sort of coloured accent
"Yoo what's the story," we start our conversations
in the morning. A different kind of breed Godsent

I don't force how I speak
But if it disturbs the peace
I'll change my tone of speech
And find solace in writing another poetry piece

                                            @the Coloured poet

I love her,
I love her like the sea returns to the shore and I love her because her breath on my skin feels like a heart beat on the outside of my body.
I love her because her smile gives the sun competition for lighting up the room.
I love her because her voice soothes me like liquid gold entering my ears.
I love her because she buys me flowers which bring me sunshine everytime I look at them.
I love her.
I love her because her red hair entwined in me is the perfect way to wake up.
I love her like the way that my heart races when my eyes lock on hers.
I love her like seeing things that remind me of her when I'm shopping and then crying because of it.
I love her when we connect on a song and it becomes a part of our story.
I love her because we fit together well like our bodies were meant to feel and touch the way they do.
I love her because she dries my tears and holds me when I am upset, making me feel safe and at peace.
I love her like we are the perfect equation, like 1+1=2 and me plus you=us.
I love her.

lots of thoughts,
but only has few words.

oh to be an illiterate writer,
a poet in silence.

Cuddle me in your arms,
Keep me warm
Cuddle me with your legs
Keep me hard
Cuddle me with your ***
Keep me going