On my block,
Warriors come out to play when the night is full of terror. Tears of the loved ones provide rain for the cloudy weather. Those who survive to make it home were the most clever. Or more ruthless and tootless and unable to bite down morals. One death easily becomes plural. Blood murals on concretes. Unknown artists, witnesses don’t snitch and don’t speak. No rules to this game these warriors play.
I wish this didn’t happen on my block every other day.
It’s okay
that you had to
take the long way home
to find true happiness
on a unforeseen trail
and… claim it
as your own.
It’s okay
that you had to
step out
of your comfort zone
to view the beautiful skies
of unfamilar success
and… claim it
as your own.
It’s okay
to not simply settle
with what you been told
It’s okay
to discover your truths
and confidently stand up in your soul.
It’s okay.
There’s gifts
in your rifts
as you’re lifting me up.
As your fingers
sift through the chords,
it’s like
my wars are yours.
My ears
are on your shores.
Like the tide,
you pull me
to your side
Traveling along the bridges
you sing above
the troubled water
When you strum
I feel like I’m at the altar
marrying myself again
loving myself again.
There I go, loving myself again.
1.
“Hoes: We don’t love em”
Yet, you only fuck them
Do you love yourself?
2.
we nasty, making
penis butter and jelly
sandwiched in our thighs
3.
Your kisses lingers
There, on the roof of my mouth
Be still and be stuck
4.
Your body is yours
And your body is not mine
I will not own you
5.
I have no worries
problems, pain, doubt, guilt or shame.
All I have is you.
A man, stuck
wears quicksand for shoes
straitjacket for sweaters.
His prison
Is located at the intersection of
“Where The Fuck Am I?”
and “Nowhere”.
He’s right there
on the median
scared to jaywalk
talking the talk
about how he can’t
walk the walk.
A man, stuck, known
for balked pitches
with endless innings
as he is trapped on the mound.
A flea in a jar
frantic with embarrassment.
If only he knew
that he was only stuck
in his mind
I shake up soul
I jump out my skin
to find control
I fly away
from who they think I am.
The flesh, bones and skin
that I own
doesn’t understand
that I am more than
just a man.
They didn’t
care enough
to find me
beneath
their expectations
and
their politics.
So I rise
for everyone to see
this is me
Join
me.
Every time
we played
Hide-N-Seek
I’d go hide
behind the tree
that best represented
what I wanted to be.
The biggest tree
that understood its roots.
While
Skinnying myself up
like the needle with bifocals
that my friends claimed me to be
I’d suck up all the air
that was in between
the kisses of
Father Time and Mother Nature.
Holding everything to a standstill.
Before I would
tiptoe back to homebase
I’d look up to the sky
And praise God
for my metabolism
And thank him
for… big trees
And as if I were greater than God
I’d demand God not to snitch on me
Because bragging rights
were stranded
at the home base
I
would be the best fitted
hero to rescue them.
Out of all of my friends
I would be to only one
not to exploit these rights
for the greater evil
I knew that with great power
come great responsibility
and I didn’t need God
messing that up with his
omniscent viewpoint.
As I tiptoed towards rescues
with each step
guilt weighed me down
breaking me to my knees
in the position
to pray to God
for forgiveness
of my ego.
Out in the open
I’d be tagged out.
This happened every time.
And I don’t know why
but I always
get myself caught.
And those poor braggings rights
have to suffer the life of being
missiles used for emotional destruction.
Who do you wait for when you’re lonely?
Who do you question when you don’t understand?
Where there’s your heart go when your mind is aimless?
Where does nostalgia aim as it pinches you sensefull
How deep was the coffin that you’re digging away from
How much pain have you skimmed to create numbness
Why did you long for the end to begin?
Why do you circle back to square one?
What is it that catapults emotions to walls to see what sticks
What variable makes you function the way you do
What is x?
Is ex x?
How do you explain the flea in a jar output
What is the input that pours oil into freedom’s pure water
When did you realize that survival is temporary
When did you realize that all of this is temporary
That all of us is temporary
Us is temporary
Us is
Us
is..
none of this belongs to my skin
but then again, this is all just flesh
i turn myself in, i turn myself inside out
and show you all of this historical mess
i tell you that i am cursed
you tell me that I am abstract and blessed
i tell you that i am tired, my stories are stressed
you tell me that i am blessed
and that i do belong in my skin
but then again, it’s just flesh
good mourning, evening moon
full
of the shrieking howls of
the boys who cried wolf
the wounded boys
sliced by the knives
of Enlightment’s wake up calls,
croaking into a confusing reality
you are good at what you do
orchestrating swan songs
hollow-lessly promising peace,
watching stories fiddle into truthness of grief
you are good at mourning
