Paste
“Paste”
by Positive Mark
At times, I find it difficult to call myself a poet.
Can such a grandiose tag be placed on a recluse?
It’s one thing to possess a passion for words,
quite another to put them to use.
Political climates produce frigid spells, intended to get on your case.
Busted relationship matters that swell into masks that I wear on my face.
The pieces of man and his harsh incantations
The heartbreak of vixens revealed at this station
The murder of music
The horn blasts of sports
The sight of my girl’s daughter prancing in shorts
The use of two eyes, while ignoring the third
The smoking and toking of each broken word
The hairdo
The smile
The swagger
The butt
My slip on the grip left a kid in her gut
The Black on Black crime
The innocents shot
The infrared beam never placed in one spot
The wording
The phrasing
The stories we tell
The eloquent way to tell you “Go to Hell!”
The grease on my lips
The holes in my shoes
The deep crystal stare, tryna find Langston Hughes
The coffee
The creamer
The over used pot
The anguish of wanting to be what I’m not
The piping hot liquor that burns in my chest
The rhyme at the Devil’s behest
I’ve discarded pieces of my broken soul with the chaff on my living room floor.
The poetry virus just cannot be killed, so the hurt ones can even the score.
Peace.
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