I'll be here for infinity x infinity
A penchant for curves like cursives
I say it in my verses
Vocab too wide for curses
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Fun, I prescribe
Right on time
Better late than never
Man of the hour
Original with the flavour
Chocolate and Vanilla
Black and grey
If you're too slow to comprehend
No résumé
No references
DIY my title says
Fickle fools play 'Simon Says'
Press remotes don't change but
Batteries can be replaced all the same
God - like
Holier - than - thou; Pope's attitude, beg for mercy
Self - driven, self - motivated
Ministering like Osteen
Light and dark
Yin & Yang
Angel or demon I can be
High off life
Limitless, no pills
I'm probably ill
Well it's my will
To count millions in $100 bills
Like ice, I chill
That's me, trill
And that's that
Suh bill

LanceSkiies

I am slowly learning to use my words—

allowing the ink to besmirch these immaculate fingers
as I weave out my sloppy cursives around feint rules
like hydrangeas climbing lattices in the early summer;

spelling out vulnerability with every bit of hope
left glistening in these swollen, tear-stained eyes,
and unfaltering love with all five letters of his name.

I am slowly learning to use my voice—

heaving out the dust that’s settled over things left unsaid,
and rolling out my tongue to intimately slip off naked truths
my throat has been choking on in the silence of fear;

drawing constellations between the kisses of my lips
to faithfully concede to the phonetics of needs and wants,
and articulate every syllable with the intonation of desire.

So read between the lines, and listen closely—

pick apart my words and unravel the candor in my stutter,
unzip and unbutton every unsent letter I’ve ever written,
and watch me strip down on these pages in poetry-laced lingerie.

I am no longer that bashful submissive sprawled across the bed,
softly moaning for the pleasure of attention and the pain of neglect
under the crippling fear of loss firmly taped over my mouth.

I am slowly learning to ask for what I still and have always wanted—
I'm sorry it took me so long.

I've three poems to write for Open Mic on Monday night
But where to get the inspiration?
How do I know what will sound right?
I'll have to dig deep to find new words and sentences in my own time
As well as making it matter
and make sense to you
But isn't too preachy whilst stood in the limelight
Something that flows free
And comes naturally
In hindsight
How do I change up the rhymes
But keep my structure and flow tight
What style am I wanting to deliver?
Well, I want to really reach in to memories
From which emotions are triggered
But still keep some sort of restrain
To tame all those scenes you'll envision
Cos that's me at heart
I'm all about subtlety
When using specific words and wisdom as art
But I'm not a master yet
I've still got lots more learning to do
I'm still yearning for you
To give me feedback
So if I talk crap
And it sounds whack
Tell me to stop and rethink
I can always backtrack
Cos I've got a passion for language
Which at times is demanding
When I can't seem to get what I want on a page
I'll sit and think for ages
Even when there's no sunlight
To break through the haze
Only by emptying my thoughts
Can I navigate this inner maze
So let me now share with you
How I've written words in cursives
How I've arranged every word
So these verses feel furnished
Full of purpose
And meaning
That enter your chest
Just off left
So you physically feel
What I'm revealing
Giving life to meaning
And now I've started
I'll finish
Cos I'm fully committed
That's one poem down
2 more left to envisage
I hope you enjoyed this
Simple musing I've written

Like a flower,
A corpse
In the scorching heat
Of summer
Clipping wings
Off bones
Sweet bourbons
kisses goodbye
Felt like
A Summery slow death
If I must admit
Running from cruelty feelings
Only to jumped
Into autumn misery
Perfect weather
If you’re a vulture
The kind of love
you only dream of in storms
False excitement,
All ten fingers
Caressing Rosaries
Not a second later only to be
Struck  by flowing stones
As her kiss showed its teeth
Crushed out of air
Only to get high on spanish fly
Written in Haitian cursives
The language of death
These Silly rabbits,
These fu* heartbreakers
They have never learnt,
Forevermore forgotten
Feathers do grow back
There isn’t a single day
I’m not eying the blue sky
Of love,  no matter the weather
Gosh ,
I’m always misunderstood