For some strange reason nervousness arise
watching you leave, even though you belong
to someone else. Those play kisses held
real emotions, tangible enough to taste mischief's
tongue, aggressively. Because he cheated, you
got even, never expecting the queen to develop
emotion for a pawn.
Desires confesses through actions,
soaring feeling free, fixated on a brighter sunrise.
They scour sentimental ailments bestowed by their
significant others, sipping time as a fine wine. Happy
arrived speaking the same language that sounds
like future's whisper, clearly.
There is magic in a setting eclipse... They will rise
with an intensified shine leaving behind a dark world.
If tomorrow seems long with forthcoming, weave decided
to live in the moment and alter time, true to each
other... finally, day has come.
Dew sets on pastures of passion, made of honey. Doves
sit beneath olive trees with white roses in beak for their
love to paint petals red...
after sterilizing the catacombs and crevices
where fear abides, love, spread eagle exposing
every condition that aborts it in its zygote stages.
perfection's mirage faded like the feeling of an orgasm,
pleasurable moments minds adhere
while simple conversation becomes an added hurdle
disorderly deeds and uncalibrated delegation devours
the dynamic; needs spearhead most people's campaign.
my love never grew up,
that child-like quality of knowing nothing
is a full understanding of agape, untainted and undeniable.
Your stork is his creation
perched upon your abdomen
in chase of vultures, breaking
into a flock of doves as they
descend towards purity,
Upon their wings, an unearthed soul
migrating towards a cracked sky,
the doorway to Heaven's dimension,
where the son has risen.
A future smile so touching
God afforded it, depositing it
into his kingdom where angels rejoice
their new trainee.
Windows to its soul sealed,
never viewing landscapes of hardship.
Opening new one's where love is agape,
bosoms lactate wisdom nurturing the sibling
lamb until flight with the flock.
These words leave my tongue as
1 million elephants feet pummeling
as an authentic voice that has tasted
These versus left without intention
of harming with open arms, both ways.
They left knowing a baton is anxious,
they left in tears before tear gas, and
gambling to be Garner's sequel. They
leave with pheromones enhancing the
olfactory senses to taste what this shit
really smells like.
A secret grand jury with fist budded,
domesticated unto injustice, overrules voices
They're the head with blind eyes looking down
micromanaging justice's allowance.
Riot gear tailored officers are the arms in arms
versus picket-signs peacefully protesting... A
paradox fuse looking for a lighter.
Law and Legislature are legs this system strolls
on, resisting a rest sleeping like an horse.
The torso is civilians who pay taxes,
which these metaphoric limbs are attached.
From thee outside, this mulatto of mayhem
doesn't appear to be concupiscent,
planning to screw someone out of their life.
Truth is, no one stands in the middle of Justice's
scale, it tips harder with privatized thoughts.
In order to convey and display, an autopsy
is being preformed... Flipping injustice's body
The blue bloods remain in vains, no signs of
organ failure, while Eric's esophagus is obstructed
with alphabets in a ball just below his Adam's Apple.
They're the last plea he attempted to utter,
"I Can't Breathe".
We all seen that.
This is where the olfactory senses are needed.
As the officer assault this man over legalized
tobacco, slowly killing him, while the other
Protect and Serve advocates assist,
civilians just walked by
without rights to stop this wrong,
that ain't rights.
™ Eric Garner, WAS NOT selling single cigarettes
the day he was killed... His profile was guilty,
and the cops on video are innocent.
Dr. Jack Daniels and his whiskey therapy
burns in unison with the lava-like tears
exuding from my soul. Before it hardens
and remold what was, I get a hold of my
drinking buddies, the same glass who always
listen, and the six string who's always talking
in a Wah Effect.
The white porch bares testament of these pains.
Chords from picking those strings releases
magma tears... To you they appear as blood,
to me, they are trophies.
After the bleeding those wounds begin to scab.
Clearing the distortion chords begun to change,
Now it's time to play a happy song...
Friend-ships are divingbell's with thinning air--
We'll take our last breath together, or the stronger one
chooses death to strengthen the weaker one's life...
I'm just trying to make it do what it do, baby.
Get the bird in hand to make a mating-call
alluring its desire anxiously into my palm.
That meal, I offer to you, the small bird guarantees
me no waste.
I didn't hunt for these, one was caged and one
perched limb. The one that was caged, freed itself,
while the bush-bird gladly flew into captivity.
Artistic turrets with multiple personalities,
in possession of a NOS pushbutton to not giving a foof quickly
classifies our art as bizarre or underground.
You may think
what is he on, and I'm like, some of that Cosby Coffee,
and like an ass I asked if he could spike my foam. You see, Normalcy
isn't normal for me. I'm of a bite-first-pedigree.
I tried watching bumblebees converse wit each rose upon bush.
The rose even looked like it opened a Lil bit more offering nectar
to ol' bumble. I heard the muffled buzz through the petals
calming. Now quieted, the bee, he walks towards the tip of the
rose and wipes his ass on its velvety petal and then just fIew away...
I thought it was a brilliant metaphor for friends or relationships.
Let me rewind a bit...
It started when I found out truth was a mofo at age 9. Thanks be to MLK Jr.
being assassinated, a lexophile was conceived. My homework assignment
was an essay on the Civil Rights Leader. I penciled the tube-fed James Earl Ray theory,
the flunky blamed for pushing the button on a well oiled machine—Like a good mom
she checked over my report and went berserk, because on that day she marched
with him at age 16 in her hometown of Memphis, Tenn. Gayle Linton, guided my hand
to paint truth in words. That paper ended with Dr. King being murdered by police—Now
imagine the look on the teachers face. Now imagine my grade on that assignment, and
the phone call to my adamant mother who ran for her life when the riot consumed Memphis's streets. She repeated verbatim of the streets talking truth—25 years later on the Discovery
Channel, I watched as they unveiled the C.I.A'$ triggerman silhouette hiding in a bush just below Martin, aiming!
Without an Underground roots of creativity will wither in present lighting. Embellishment will have Jesus kicking and spitting at what was prophesied. Love will remain a facade for lust, while exile takes a backseat in being voice of the oppressed.
Poetry has pampered the fool... The Proverb painted wiseman and woman with puppeteered passion who write viewing clouds flat bottoms, warmth exist on top of clouds, and bird fights pauses ascension.
The shit that burned rubber on his sleeves
dug deep below skin, learned to walk
then spake words from blue blood.
To some it looks green,
reading art through thickened skin.
To devise is a device,
au naturale refuses to change colors
even with vitiligo on the vocal.
Remaining raw road raging
in his own lane is a happy madman
a diamond and glass man
reflecting glued together emotion
exploited on paper.
hone the tongue to chisel a picture
parables that parallel those burned into scripture.
In order to do that,
you have to write the shoes
people walk in-
Babies insurance vetoes,
the plucked rose which was closed,
she says it still occurs in her sleep.
To mix the write color of words to paint
Its face, and then
aim to maim pharmaceutical kingpins
when proof is in alkaline.
To write one piece that'll massage the mental
of the masses, & being enabled to ink-out our dreams
...damn, I even,, almost forgot about the innocent
locked on Death Row!
The bowl movement of Ms. Liberty
is black history month.
We're forced-fed information from tissue she wiped
from back to front... Did you cringe?
Me too, but knowing my great, great, great,
Great grandmother was traded for an ass
births a rebel with a cause.
I'm engraving your name, Mary Linton,
upon this axe that I'm using to sever those chains
attached to your name.
No more date-rape from master, who loves you
with a love equivalent to an ass.
I want you to know that our stock has risen and split.
Martin Luther the dreamer, became prophet,
this guy named Obama inaugurated on the steps
built by your fellow-slave comrades.
That's receiving retroactive pay, bills of total vindication,
giving change in mockery minted coins.
They couldn't have foreseen as slaves that they were constructing
a pedestal for the promised Land, their situation wasn't looking
But in 2008 granny, the lord split the sea again.
We're not just second class citizens either, thanks
to genetics, we annihilate anything you mix us with,
the proof is in our last name.
I want to strut in the afterlife with your head held high.
The blood you have shed, it inks my pen redeeming your value.
Your grandson, came to repurchase your deed.
You are a Lady, and you are freed
from being sold by animals for an animal!
* I Seen a pic of you, before the mule swapped places!