In the winter months you
are expensive for when
we fight and you won't talk
to me, I can't pick you
flowers from the wild, I
must purchase them from the
grocery.  These means, which
may seem a bit like a
ploy, will soon make a well-
deserved grin take hold, but
I wonder if these means
will get stale, or if I
can keep this up when we're
old.  So why is it that
when summer comes each year
you tell me that you want
some time alone?  Every
year I can't have both cash
and love--you're out of sync
with the flowers I've grown.

From streetcorner pulpits near and far.
We’re watering wisdom’s seed with fear.
If your melanin’s under par,
Slave-trader heathen, listen here:
God’s own holy unpronounceable name
Now translated for you: Whites Are To Blame.

King JAMES was black. You heard it first
From me—before those Israelites
Began to preach to the accursed
Of Edom (meaning heathen whites).
So, his authorized text is meant
Only for those of true Hebrew descent.

No flaming redhead Scottish king
Was he who bore Azania’s crown
Upon his brow. It’s time to bring
The truth. James Stuart? Dusky brown.
No bagpipes here, nor usquebaugh, nor oats.
Just afro-polyrhythm’s gladsome notes.

Mansa Musa filled his coffers;
Sub-Saharan James grew wealthy;
More than Solomonic offers
Kept King James both wise and healthy.
No puppet monarch for Britannic schemes
But African sage, of vision and dreams.

ELIZABETH, of Albion’s fame,
Was also misperceived for hue.
A white rose, yes. But only in name.
Pure African was she—it’s true!
You’ve been lied to about these royal folks;
High time we rewrite such ethnic jokes.

Don’t believe the Edomite hype.
They want to keep our tribes suppressed--
And Moses is our prototype;
His law we follow, and we’re blessed.
REAL understanding: it’s something you earn.
Once gained, ain’t no trick you cannot discern.

No context needed. History
Is mainly Edomite propaganda.
King JAMES was black. No mystery.
And Edinburgh’s in Uganda.
The first king of Scotland will not be last…
Our exegesis is unsurpassed.

The sounds of his sleep-filled snores, a polyrhythm.
To the echoes in my aching hollowed chest,
His eyelashes, beautiful, but a constant reminder,
Of what was loved, lost, and still in the back of my mind.
In this anguish of the sleepless nights.

He tosses and turns, in his slumberous shifts, his hand seeks mine.
Comfort and warmth, instinct, but not delight.
In his touch, my stomach churns in disgust, at myself.
I yearn for your touch, I yearn for your warmth,
Your embrace, that seeks solace against my body, which is burning alive.

This cruel irony, he loves me so.
This closeness, this warmth,
whispered lies of "I love you"
eyes that trace the ceiling, each imperfection, a reminder of this imperfect life.
Each creak, of this house, of words unsaid.
Each snore, a measure of my acting in this trance,
Unbind me from this torture, unbind me from your love.
I miss you so , I miss you so, please set me free
so I can love again.