I have never met my future self, but
I bet she still has dreams. I bet she won't
hold them in a plastic bag or treat them like some
concealed weapon.

My future self-wont be a childless human since
I have already birth galaxies of my own.
She will probably never be a vegan but will think that cantaloupe and olives will go great together.

(She will have a sense of humor.)

I don't know my future self, but I do
know she will still be half human and half
star and her DNA will still be all angelic.
She will most likely still be her own bandwagon.

If you will please crowd around a campfire of words
and milk it for all it is worth.
There is always a little anger under the flames.
Don't be afraid to ask it what you got that the others ain't.

There are two very different fires burning inside of you.
The authentic flame looking more like a lighthouse all isolated, and the other called the shadow of lies you show the world.
Each flame sounds a lot like music as it tells you the difference between you and the rest of this planet.
Did you listen?

News announced today "cop kills a man in his own home".
Mistakes his apartment for hers, mistakes him for a burglar or
an easy target!

My Granny says "I bet she is white and he was black"? She used was since Botham is dead. Granny says "cops killing black body has been normalized since forever".

Three days later the news releases her name and photo.
My Granny was right. She is a white woman with Klansman's robes for eyes looking to **** a black man.

  Amber tell me did you sit in your car for 15 hours carving Botham's name on the bullet that killed him before going to his apartment?

Did you want his apartment to reflect the same color as
the red mat in front of his door?
Oh, you didn't notice that,
or did you just decide to take a shot in the dark,
while Botham was in his home resting effortlessly?
It was too dark for you to see that was not your apartment, but lit enough to see him to shoot him in his chest.

Amber, I bet your heart is cut from the same
cloth as your mother's "All Lives Matter" Tee Shirt.
Botham's Mother says his heart was made by angels.

If God is the book then life would be the pages in him,
for us to study and turn to each new page of her.
There is so much paper here, but no place to start a fire.
A fire of words and dreams to chase.
Will you run with me, with feet wide awake?
Please do, and I won't be scared to bleed for you
when the time comes.

These words I have don't dream lifeless
or die in corral conversation or in a helpless blind study.
I will help you see it is in fact that God's home is make-believe
with no welcome mat to greet you. Maybe God never
learned to let bygones just be gone.
Maybe this is why you have never seen the glorious
Matriarch or heard her voice, but I bet it sounds
a lot like the space between a gunshot and a black
male's body hit by the bullet right before the screams.

Did you know this is what black feels like?
These pages feel like an eighth-grade suicide poem
written because it is solely triggered by life, and
since life is so freaking triggering and our only
real competition, then I will write words that are
weapons. I will write real-life pages of myself,

that is more jazz than blues, more biggie than Pac
more Prince than Michael. I will write myself out
this padded room call earth, because after all heroes
can dream too, and our thirst can become hunger and quickly
I learned to eat my own words and breathe in endless
possibility in a world where breathing is  no longer a privilege
Just a means to be necessary.

Jesus! I got a life with no religion and still, I manage to turn
doubt into rhinestones right along with these pages
of myself. I will turn page after page as if I were Jesus turning the other cheek, and like Jesus, I can take all my
dislikes and burdens and turn the into sunsets. I will teach
my pain to laugh. Ignorance is not bliss, it is kind. It teaches
us to look deep inside of ourselves to see the word of God,

and I have seen it, I have seen I am half human and half star
and my DNA is all angelic. God wrote his first poem in blood right here on Earth. Her pen never felt writer's block. He never suffered inside the ink. Do you know the difference between God and everyone else? She never starts emotional fires to burn pages of himself and herself as we do.

Some say
I am a Vagabond
in my own flesh carrying a heart
desperate enough to fly with
wounded wings.
My tears look like a
wondering rain-forest filled with
white lilies and baby breath.
My words ache to write you into existence.
Who am I? I am poetry,
but you can call me a Vagabond.

Open up yourself entirely. Let your dreams shape a new you,
let them give you the perfect skin, rosemary thoughts, youthful words and a dusty rose colored lace bow to set off your coffee-stained smile.

There are no unwanted dreams here to beat your soul with,
only the wet ones swimming inside of you, chasing after storms to stay full off of. Tell me, have you ever been hugged by a dream?
Dreams have arms wide enough to fit around the sun.

See, when the earth goes mad you must build a shrine for your dreams, and let it not make sense, play with its magic, and let it show you the things you never imagine, like the sun swimming inside of a rose.

Dreams are a drug we can’t put down, a wonderful habit, an art form of bigger things to help us come. Dreams wait for you every night in a bed of too many I love you's. See our minds are a gateway to heaven and dreams are the Angels that protect it.

Look there, you see it? Its a full moon hanging above a lousy *******, and your moans go unnoticed like boring movie scenes.
Kamasutra your name you say? Well, I just assumed you were not that at all.
I see you more like spilled cold coffee looking on enviously at tea leaves holding a boring straight *** conversation in a purple rain teepee.

Somewhere beneath a bed of stars and a sliver skyline falling in free form with a tribe of features, floating down no matter the weather, but to where?
Who knows? But I did notice my mind take the scenic route.
Because the GPS speaks a dangerous language.
So I take chances and flip a coin, *** up heads down
I beat the odds and win, but what?
Who knows? But moving on right pass the earth’s after birth
and on to the next one, on to the next one
On to the blueprint to why freedom never rings it just sings
In a monotone *** position of undressed flesh
and out of the reach of our dumbfound imagination barely
thinking,
and our hearts that are broke like a lack of money and barely beating,
and our breath that is filled with smoke and barely breathing.
Like chronic asthma in a bent over backward dream taking it up the, who knows?
But I Do like wearing lipstick and catching ****** needs off guard,
as ******* take a life of it’s on. Doing it with or without me
I use to being *******. I grew up in a broken home, America where u at?
With your newly hidden slavery the same thing just different cotton.
They assign jobs to us our children to the state we live to work not work to live.
We do the same thing but make different mistakes.
And two days is not enough to recover from five, this **** is a disgrace
Oh beautiful for spacious skies, where at, who knows?
What I am trying to tell you is heaven has basic desires and a low self-esteem.
Just ask Natureboy the Christ, no ask him can he swim on land since he can walk on the sea.
and what I said got some of you bothered feeling some kind of way
But what would Jesus say if he was here? Forgive her father she knows not what she says.
Maybe Jesus is wrong I know exactly what I do. I am a pusher to this poem.
I will make it snort a ******* line that exactly what I would do.
Burn pictures on the conscious mind fire’s awake now making something better out of itself.
Just like a group of words, no one never thought about grouping together. No, really I don’t know when too much is too much, so I am liable to say things like does God like his face? Then why
doesn’t he show it
Would we judge him bully him if we saw it? Holy ****** baby feet Batman I can’t trust the alphabet or vegetables
This unsustainable way of living and that the government did not take part in those special fireworks done on
9/11. Body parts everywhere and since some time has passed I want to know does anyone care?
But who am I? But a beast in smallness with a mean left hook and have the things the world believe in
Really got me shook. I cannot walk around with the believes and definitions that are not mine.
My beliefs don’t weigh anything so I am not weighed down mentally or emotionally
I listen to the language of the earth because all the other languages are brittle
Nature all about cooperation, taking the good with the bad, and that's fine but you know what is not?
It is how religion aggravates me. I know you believe in God but does he believe in you?
No, because if he did he wouldn’t test you and still you are unable to see the acceptance you seek really come from you.
The Illuminati taught me that, but you know what is really truly interesting?
It is how Hall and Oats is white and of course angel ****.
And again I need to be careful what I say because I will have folks looking at me in the wrong way.
Wishing I would die and burn in heaven, well luckily for them I stay suicidal and I thought up about nine and eleven
Ways I can end it tonight. In death, my mind would be gone and that’s alright.
I will still create frighten poems. I will make my ghost write.
But as we all know dying is not an option and as we can see no fear just caution.
And I stay humble all day every day because I was told having too much pride that is for those who are gay, and happy I am not. I want to see the government put to a stop
A world with no freaking cops, the elite on the bottom and the less fortunate on top.
And my most random camouflaged thoughts open up the eyes of the senile so that they can see now.
What they could not.

I let him know how I smiled at the way his hand fitted inside of mine, and oh how I fancy his love, but instead of love all he handed me whatever he found laying around, and an unwanted bye.

I let him know I love him with no gray areas attached. If you know him, then you know he has a heart that is hard to catch. shielded by a rain-forest of mirrors glazed over in metallic black.

Still, in my darkest hour, I muster up holocausts of hope, as I watched my love and what he called love to walk away on a free falling tightrope. I could hear his words faintly in the distance over and over again.

"In time what will be will be".
"In time what will be will be".
"In time what will be will be".

His words felt less like a song and more like our eulogy, but I am still hopeful and will love him until my heart is worn out. I will not let my mouth forbid me to speak what my heart needs him to hear.

What do you do with a heart that won’t give up or let go, what has let go of it? But I am still hopeful like twins in a crowded womb, hopeful like waiting for a chance.

And one day I will teach my soul to give sunlight back to the sun and continue to hold the dear words Jonathan never sang.

I sat restfully on a green park bench next to a gray-haired stranger. He was a tall black man
in his 70's I supposed. He read my predictable

thought and said 76 to be exacted! We went on
to talk for an hour or more, but to me, it felt more
like an unforgettable lifetime.

We share so much of our personal life with one
another and for whatever reason, I am not sure,
but I considered him a friend and not foe.

We were comfortable until he asked me the taboo question. why would anyone
want to **** themselves?

I give him the best answer that anyone can, but with another question of course. I asked him why
not, aren't we are all just primary casualties.

Cry with me the biggest river and together side by side we will drown in our own tears.

Let me ask you a few dangerous questions.
1. when did wisdom magically become a weapon?
2. Can you turn the other cheek?
3. Can you turn lead into gold?
Because I can't.

See some of us reside in an unlivable temple
scraping by on ok, hog tied to the flawed words "I'm fine" and find comfort, knowing the only way to truly find contentment is to find a tribe of people willing to be unicorns and butterflies with you.

See we kid ourselves with the belief "they will save me", But we don't live in a house with a glass ceiling so we can see God or a sky that is easily taking apart.

sometimes I wonder, did I wake up today to another state of sleep ain't that easier to swallow than reality, ain't the best fight with yourself.
There I go again chewing on doubt as if it were gum.
Thinking of my mind as part incredible part trash and mostly dead

See what I meant to say is your mind is not something you can just escape from it is something you survive.
So I will continue to wear the sun like the air wears sage in the winter,
because after all ain't the best scent in a dream.

I wanted to drown the ocean,
seeing that it could never be done.
I wanted a longer tongue,
long enough to taste jazz music
inside my coffee. I wanted to avoid
downfall, but I can't when
everyone around feels like gravity.
I wanted to touch an angel's halo,
but butterfly wings don't travel that far.

I wanted to throw caution
to the wind, but there is
too much canary yellow tape all over me.
I wanted to be loved, but it was stamped return to sender.

Wounded air I breathe in as I think of you.
Troubled soiled sand beneath my feet, and
I struggle to walk towards you.

Above you a candy blue sky ready to
settle inside of you. I cry and wish there
was enough room for me too.

When
I make
love to you,
I feel like I
am making love to love.

Disrobe the rhythm in my heart.
Let it ceremonialize its own unsympathetic departure,
in the dead of winter.

Let it yowl like a pack coyotes.
Then let the wind take the
melody to Jupiter in Capricorn.

Put
me in
a world where
time doesn't ache and
Tears dry themselves.

I am somewhere lost in a hostile dream and the South End.
There are no more feathers on my skin and stars in my eyes.
It is the second week of a gothic autumn and winter is waiting its turn.

I am swinging on a golden sunset enjoying someone else's fun
When you are this pretty you don’t just delete your social media,
You delete your entire social life.

This is a great way to rest peacefully in Life.
My mind is the beautiful scenery I live in.

Love lies sacrifice by Navah the Buddaphliii

Will I lie of love?
To the one
Who is as true as day?
How shall I deny his smile in
light of earth's morning?
These questions have burden my blood and choked my breath
As I lie of a million pleasures
Pretending he has pleased
Knowing still not one he shall fulfill
Curse not my lying lips
for they are a hero to his heart
I will abandon my joy
To protect the soft part of his heart
I will show him not my saddened self but piercing arrows of strength
though I long to hide
in the shadow of weeping willow trees
Instead I ask myself
How can I cause pain to the one
whose heart for me is a glow?
In me love is frail
And my words
Are longing to lie
And the truth is
In love I am not
Still I allow him to consume me
And I shall obey our togetherness
for it is wise
Unlike his foolish heart
too far gone in love to see
I pretend to grieve not
I bid my happiness farewell
And sacrifice for him when others dare not

Struggle with me, not for me.
When I am going through a moment
of tossing poems in the air, hold me close
and ground me.

Heal with me, not for me.
When I tell you, I have never had a
healthy relationship don't just leave me to
try to learn how to on my own, let us learn together.

When my mind is faced with a congregation
of unwanted whispers that are here just to break my
human heart, play me a Prince song,
tell me you love me, Tell me you care, and
that you will go through the stormy weather
with me and the rain will scratch our skin and scar us together.

Waste yourself inside of me, and let us create a whole new universe.

There above blameless clouds and a sluggish silvery night line is an ivory pearl ruling like royalty in an unforgiving sky. In it are innocent stars accused of passionate crimes that are bridged together like a crucifix overlaying the night. The once powerful now defenseless lights are mourning their very own glow that fades away like compliments. They are fully vulnerable as sitting ducks waiting in the welkin.
These heavenly bodied creatures confined to grey areas and hummingbird grey lines are judged by a non-material heaven. When did the sky become similar to a prison, a jailhouse without bars, the slammer for stars? My guess is It started with the imbalanced moon's tall tale of what could have been. Her words traveled faster than a Halley's Comet going to and from every planet leaving bits and pieces of itself. Just imagine being that high from being high, and still, her highness falls for the stars. Those sparkly poetic gems, beautiful Asian flowers, orchids of the night. Only they are alluring enough to sweep the moon off her feet while the rest of Milky Way collapses at it.
It is unfair these up right things that bless the twilight are birthed in a moment they can't outrun, and still, they bolt through a sightless journey as they are chased by a galaxy of everything from satellites to black holes, but mostly what the scorned moon feels. If only they were shooting stars quick enough to escape from the crescent moon's mood swings and her Luna Eclipse of roller coaster rides So ludicrous you swear it was a dream or maybe some sort of nightmare.
Perhaps the celestial moon was never taught love is not a stranger to some but to most and that stars are not gods, but poets. And each night they spit a fine tune poem to the retro sky about how unsafe space feels in the dark and how there are no good nights there. Just empty goodbyes and as for the Royal Moon she got exactly what she wanted and it is for the precious stars to feels just as damaged as she is.

Let us make love on the ocean floor, because our connection is just as deep.

People think they know love,
But they won't until they know this,
Their shadow roaming the Earth freely, when they are not.
When the Earth tries to speak only to herself in a make-believe
voice, but somehow you are the only one listening.

When your mind tries to put together a puzzle of words while your thoughts are just trying to rest. When you kiss the lips you were meant to kiss and gold runs through your veins instead of blood. No, not until you have cried enough tears killed a desert by making it an ocean.

When it rains it pours
and we all know what that means, or do we?

It wasn't raining when
Noah built the ark. How revolutionary is that?

Logic will get you from point
A to point B, but imagination can take you anywhere.
How revolutionary is that?

Neither the sun or death can be looked at steadily,
and still dying is an art like everything else.
How evolutionary.

I looked far beneath the surface
of your face, I found pain and blood boiling
like an ocean
that can't swim away.

I found beaten bones
and so many unholy wars of
yesterday.
Tell me, have you seen your reflection lately?
Did you see us all
honey and purple wildflowers?

Hiding behind the only halo
we hallucinated and worn in others memories who denounced us.

Remember how we
   wrapped them so carefully
in paper ma-shay pearls and perception.

We found how effortlessly
it is to play hardball
with imagination.

I wish our worlds didn't
fall apart and break so easily!
I Wish purgatory wasn't
attached to our grave stones
that reads here lay the
two olive branches never extended.

I wish we weren't left to die
If only they knew sage and a hug was our cure.
Then we could of done
the shadow work only
performed by God.

Now we will never know how
   the Elohist befriend
its demons and not **** them.
Maybe in some strange way they
know this is the only thing keeping them alive.
I wish tomorrow wasn't already dead,
Like fresh cut roses
with buds of innocents.
Death knows so well
how to mirror life

It placed warning signs on pedestals high enough so that all may see, but what I see is
we are the journey and not on one.

We are a continuum of blurred lines
Drawn in sand and sky.
Dying wasn't the problem
And living was never the answer.
I never asked to be delivered from evil
I just wanted to know why
Was it created.

Stand close to the statue of roses, it's friendly and doesn't bite.
Your Lego block legs are strong and long as the night.
Take one free fighting hand and wave it goodbye.
Your friends are leaving, and you are not sure why.
Maybe they got tired of standing so they left.
You know there is a sit with your name on it that is left.
Stand for as long as you can.
become your own biggest fan.
Don't be moved.
Your song is playing let them see you dance and grove.
We all have a space to fill.
love, magic, patience, and pills
will help you see the fake from the real.
Can you stand it?

What I have mastered is the art of love, and the
understanding that some hearts are worth fighting for
and some are not.

See here the scares love left, when it left.
See how remorse has its limitations
when it came to you.

I still see the imagery when I think hard enough
how I once smiled
like full-grown sunflower under moonlight.


I also see how your love vandalized what I feel for you.
How I trusted you, not knowing my
faith would need an accountability partner.


Now your eyes sickened and contrite, ruled by
Venus and lust, which caused my
tears to look like diamonds in the rough.

If only tears can talk instead of just fall.
They would probably tell us what love sounds
like underwater.

this pain isn't poetic it is just words
massaging deeper wounds.
"My heart is a powerful stanza Standing all alone"

She plunged to the lowest level
of the ocean and grabbed
a hand full of the mermaid ****.
She flew back up and
smeared across the sky.

Holy ****** butterfly wings
Batman. What happened to her
standoffish mind or her cry for
help. Who accidentally slipped a
roofie to her heart. She's
flying she's flying she's gone!