You dot the i's
and call yourself  
modern day romeo
coming to sweep me off my feet
coming to zap my heart
with lightening bolts
of awareness
awareness of you

Yet you never once
told me a poem
melted my heart with haiku's
or moved me with impossibilities

Never once has it occurred to you
that capulets and montagues don't click
because you always had your way
you're a modern day romeo
full of narcissistic poison
melting off your logic
revealing every chiseled muscle
that you think
will make your Juliets
melt

Oh romeo, romeo
where for art thou?
Show these modern newbies
the ways of articulation
the ways of seducing without the flesh
the ways of making eyes glow

oh romeo,
where for art thou
for the romance
I seek
is long
forgotten

You are the light in my eyes my morning star
The unholy confession of who we are
And as the night burns the dark so does the love in juliets heart
No cage can contain nor boundaries bound the emotion of ours
so insanely profound
As If I were Romeo and you Juliet
then the song of true love shall be our eternal duet

I won't be plucking off petals from my rose
like those lovesick Romeos and Juliets on park benches.
I don't need luck and petal symmetry to believe.

I won't litter the petals
like lipstick marks or blood stains on white sheets.
I won't be placing them in a vase half full,
that's temporary.

I have a better plan in mind,
a better way to immortalize
my rose. Deep within a gift,
pressed between pages
is a symbol of your love to me.

You said you loved me
I said I loved you too
So that's it right?
End of story
they all lived happily ever after
except not really
the miles between us
care little for
teenagers who think they are in love
It has been jaded by too many
psuedo-Romeos and Juliets
Who get all caught up
in idealistic notions of love
but **** the road
we aren't like them
we are true
and we are strong
aren't we?
and I would bridge the gap
there's nothing keeping me here
except my signature
on the lease of my apartment
and of course
I love this city
and I think living in Harrisonburg
would only end up with my suicide
but some times I just think **** it
who's stopping you
even if everybody says it's a bad idea
isn't that what being young is all about?
making really dumb decisions?

I was the girl who doesn't exist in reality
He was the boy who is close to fantasy.
We are characters in a tragic love story;
Romeo was his first name
And Juliet was the girl who consumed me.

While Shakespeare's Juliet captured the heart of her Romeo,
My Romeo was stolen by somebody else.

We were living in two different worlds,
And the story of my life shows:
*"Not all Romeos and Juliets meet,
And I was that Juliet who never met her Romeo."

Romeos  never come too late
to rescue your Juliets
Juliets don’t wait in vain.
Life is too precious.

Shell ✨🐚

The feel of the soft sand
On your feet replaced with pebbles.
Uncomfortable, probably therapeutic.
Read me poetry. Recite it from memory
If you like. I'll be your Juliet. Say it's
Our wedding night. That'd be laugh.

There's a town behind us.
Invisible hand. Economics.
It probably matters to some people
But I don't regard money, I'm a poet
Juliet. I look at the sea. I don't
Understand money. All Greek to me.

Socrates. Democracy. Will you ever
Slow down? Ever understand that
The grey sea is not a metaphor for
Your state of mind, it's a trick of the
Light. Calm down Romeo. You're
Not a poet. You're a wreck.

Kiss me Juliet. Whoever you may be.
Dance a slow dance, against pebbles
Instead of sand. I, your Romeo
Will write you a poem against
The grey sea, sky, state of mind.
It's a shame you're so far away.

Will I ever see your face?
You're so far away. Not
Across the sea. Behind
Me. Three hundred kilometres
Away. Makes me want to
Fall asleep. Fall asleep.

Send me a text Juliet.
Answer me. I'm looking
Out to sea. Good 4g.
Town behind me,
I'm not there.

I'm nowhere. Come to me.
End this sick ballad
Before I fall asleep.
Grey sea. All around me.
**** society. Don't let me
Fall asleep. I don't want to fall asleep.
Don't want to see you drift
Into sea like the old Juliets did.
Sick production. Sick. Sick.
The work of a Philistine. The kiss was forced,
Felt like his Juliet was in
Liverpool. Disgusting place
Until you were born Juliet.
Come to me. Recite poetry
By the sea. This is a sad
Ballad, so much self pity.
Let me be with you Juliet.
Let's run far away before
I fall asleep. Oh life without you,
Makes me want to fall asleep.

there's a game we all know
that has a Monopoly over us
that doesn't take a dice to throw
nor a score to plus

its the game of Hearts
sometimes complex like Draughts.
a game of straight flushing and great blushing
in spates of gushing or candid Candy crush Crushing

sometimes there's:
star crossed Starcraft lovers
two-per scenario Super Mario Brothers
and the game's
a Tetris tete a tete
a dual duel between two beating chests
each with a Chess set missing a King or Queen they've yet to get
Romeos and Juliets
though they've only just met

and other times;
we're just trying to Connect fo(u)r two seconds for once
in this scrabble scramble through life
Risking it all in the Trivial Pursuit
of trying to fit in the Sudoku
by following some pseudo social cues
of the games creator
that says we're failures
if we're not in 2player

It's the red heat I mean
to capture in rivulets.
My blood blues, too,
fuzzy pink, Juliets.

Burn the whole palette
and rethink your colors,
the impressions you're under.

**** score-keeping, thus
**** the goalkeepers.
Life requires only
earnest volition
to hum to life.

I'm so happy to be
right here now
Light. Mirrors. Town.
Poets 're comin'
and how's giving time
for paper where
Time's scarce?
Screens & buttons multiply.

Escape, expression,
eleven-eleven,
words and their meanings,
intentions and speeches
come running come screaming.
Supposed to mention truth n'
whatever I ever reckon to believe in.
I know you can't recognize anything
close to truth till you're sittin' in
your inner world.
And here one is, baby!

Taken in stride where no other bides
swift swelling of the heart
In beauty lives the fragile frame,
a ticking clock while the mind searches
in fruitless abandon

One moment in time, a false hope.
No home gone forsaken in what was offered
to lead way onto way and moving forward
Leak leisure as words fail
falling through cracks in the ceiling
Crawl away with sweet suffering smiles
burning inside with the prickly wonder that will not fade
To this minute, this very second yield nothing

Perfect in the resolution of these sentiments
to forbear with unanswered patience these cries of longing.
Feeding fear in endless wells of obscurity where shadows march in time
Bringing in them the full sorrow of an empty soul
There is no sunshine in the wind.

Howl for the mighty honor of being the loudest
Arrogance disguised as intelligence
a waltzing masque full of pretty ribbons and bourbon breath
No eyebrow raised this day
Not in any day that shades life lived fully.

Question not as others have this silent broken mind,
dwelling in the rank depths of ignorance and despair
No hope for the faithful, no pause for the weary.
This shallow life is a silent tragedy played on a stage full of Juliets
and souls are lost among the quickening heartbeats.

******* at the funeral
poison women aching in their parallel
they drink until Juliet is dead
or until in their head too
it is clear
free of fear and recalling
this was always supposed to be a tragedy
______________

no left or right turn
changes that everything, even love
begins and ends with some type of poison
the slowly dripping IV type
or
a sudden break check
dash to face type of poison

the Juliets' love only exists on one page
allowed to live if the real goal
is to die
smoke breaks, goodbyes
the ever too consistent "I'll see you arounds"
that is the point of a tragedy
it gets to claim the reason for existing
and the entire existence itself

Juliet drinks the poison every night
even after the man in the hole warned me
her love feeds on the liver
while the others begin to fade out

I’ve never really thought about what that “special day” really meant,
Never really thought of how it would feel,
To bed red with “love”,
Even love-making would be red.
All I ever really did was
Spin up images of the day, in the desert of my mind,
So inexperienced and innocent,
In need of some sort of fluid
To water its parched fields.
Lovers exchanging boxes of chocolate
Roses dug up from fresh earth,
Sent off in packages
Even little boys sent notes to their admirers
In third grade.
Old couples reminisce about how they met
Teenage Juliets sneak out when the moon’s at its peak,
To meet their Romeos
And watch clichéd movies,
About this “special day”
And end the night
In bed together
sharing chocolates.
Juliet’s heart’s racing ‘cause he said “I love you”.
How foolish..
You just met him two days ago,
He just wants a piece of you cake
If not, all...
Never really gotten the gist of this “Valentine’s Day”
Why show love one day, in a year of 365 days?
What’s so special about the 14th of February?
Why not treat him or her special 365 days?
Or
Why not treat him or her like crap 365 days?
Makes sense doesn’t it?

Love letter in November
Happy to be part of the Juliets and the Kennedys and the women who never lose it
I would do it all in a heartbeat, and I would do it again
I'm in my glory days
My glory weeks and months and years
And I cling to it, not it's notion but it's being
All I can do is smile
Smile and warmth
That is what it is and you love.
You love and love and love

Just plain ***** are the boisterous birds;
All day and all night singing the blues,
The fly me to the moon serenades,
Like Verdi Romeos by the balcony
And Juliets with romantic eyes

O baybah baybah baybah,
My mistress mine, my coy sir,
Embrace me with thy soft feathers
And puteth claws on my shoulder.
O feel my smooth beak sing
Praises on your wings
As we copulate on a cloud,
And take what the rainbow brings.

Perverted pigeons, seductive doves,
All you oversexed dinosaurs,
Is there nothing but that nasty thing?
Could you ever learn to sing of love?

Ah, Love, love...do birds really love?
I dare not assume to know.  
Yet I hear such longing in their songs
Like troubadours or rock and rollers
Chirping in the mating season.

So, I murdered a sonnet,
closed him up in a bonnet and left
him to charge me of ****** in 14 lines.
Well it was the length of his words against mine!!!
I shot him with an illegal firearm that
I always used to clothe my arm before I
slaughtered pages,
his shadow was always clothed in suits,
yet his existence so meaningless,
a privileged vocabulary,
well he couldn't fit into the ghetto,
the expressions that reeked blood,
the metaphors that hid black dead slaves,
the rhymes that had discords because a lot
of voices spoke,
I could not imprison those stories in
those white lies,
sorry I mean 14 lines.
I designed his corpse in a body bag,
recited his obituary on poetry stages whilst
my black toes knocked the ground,
nervousness,
the lies enveloped within his lies,
he spoke of bedbugs, Romeos and Juliets,
thus and thus,
I stopped, for his truth was attributed with grotesque lies.

So, I tried to bleach my eyes,
just to try and see the color of his reality,
I tried to express his stories,
but he kept calling my people Othello’s cousins,
he categorized them as kaffirs,
he spoke of thanksgiving, but my lips
shaded with melanin bit themselves because I kept wondering
what my black folks would thank anyone for,
they have been taught to
hang from strong lines that hug their throats,
painted on headlines with RIP hashtags,
so, if a Poet like me would spice up their obituaries with
punchlines maybe they would use
those lines to charm St Peters at Heaven's gates.
I feel like our ancestors have sold us to
death on the other side.
I have grown tired of plucking dreams from
buried graves at feared cemeteries,
speaking to tombstones that are support structures to
dry roses, wilted lilies,
blooming thorns,
so, would you blame me for murdering
a 14-line year old *******,
Shakespeare's child.
So, justify me in the Poetry court of
elite critiques.
By the way I plucked Mr. Sonnet's *******,
they were too pointy,
I think he was too ***** to be a Poem...

I cut his blonde hair,
and it’s now a mop for my bathroom mess,
I forgot to feed him his own ******,
maybe he would've understood what kind of
seeds he fed to these dead Poets societies.

So, I guess I'm already guilty
to some Jury poetry group,
so please sentence me to fourteen lines
behind poetry bars,
maybe I'll come out rehabilitated of my ghetto
lines, or sit me on electric chairs,
guess what, those have become our thrones,
no one notices our pride,
no one sees our poetry lines as power lines,
we cannot even feed our families with these
words,
we were born as street poets,
pirates of the pages,
the ones who hold pens beside pistols,
stop signs and zebra lines don't
really stop us from reaching the
Shangri-Las and Nirvanas of street word.

So, I killed a Sonnet and
buried him in my head's bonnet,
no guilt though,
but he's always behind every thought I embrace,
behind my head!!!
#RIP...... hope they write about you
wherever you are...
Ciao!!!