Read my fucking poetry.
More than half of it is about you ANYWAY.
God, song after song after song I listen to of yours.
Not because I want to do you favors.
But because I care.
Like, no.
I actually sincerely care about your shit.
I believe in you.
I BELIEVE in you…
In the POWER of You.
I stand in accordance with the stars which align
to shine favor upon all of your talents and dreams.
So the least I can do to prove
my devotion to your craft,
the least I can do to prove
my excitement for all that excites you
is to listen to your shit.
And I don’t mean press-play-and-let-it-serve-as-background-music-to-me-doing-other-things type listen.
I mean, press-play-close-my-eyes-feast-on-your-metaphors-and-take –time-to-appreciate-your-mind type listen.
So read them.
Feed on them.
Let them drip slickly from the outermost corners of your grin to the very bottom of your thick chin…
Read my shit.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Sad Open-Mic Song
Fake sticky lashes
Fresh digital prints
wrinkled up bedsheets
still drunk with his scent
ashy grey tear-lines
streaking her cheeks
itchy blue headaches
and two tired feet
It's all of these things
and sad open-mic songs
that the poor girl's got left
'cause he's as good as gone
It's all of these things
and sad open-mic songs
that the poor girl's got left
'cause he's as good as gone
Chipping red polish
and black sin-stained panties
all that compromising
'cause he upped the ante
wedding magazines
all dog-eared in vain
what good is a bride
with no new last name
what good is a man
who will never change
what good are her poems
what good are her songs
what does it all matter
when he's as good as gone
what does it all matter
when he's as good as gone
Now she's in the bathroom
for more than an hour
Guess time in there crying
has extended her showers
and the same eyes he swore
he could gaze in forever
are a little less gleaming
and hopeful
and clever
What good is the "right thing"
when we opt to do wrong
what good is a man
when he's as good as gone
what good is a man when he's as good as gone?
Fresh digital prints
wrinkled up bedsheets
still drunk with his scent
ashy grey tear-lines
streaking her cheeks
itchy blue headaches
and two tired feet
It's all of these things
and sad open-mic songs
that the poor girl's got left
'cause he's as good as gone
It's all of these things
and sad open-mic songs
that the poor girl's got left
'cause he's as good as gone
Chipping red polish
and black sin-stained panties
all that compromising
'cause he upped the ante
wedding magazines
all dog-eared in vain
what good is a bride
with no new last name
what good is a man
who will never change
what good are her poems
what good are her songs
what does it all matter
when he's as good as gone
what does it all matter
when he's as good as gone
Now she's in the bathroom
for more than an hour
Guess time in there crying
has extended her showers
and the same eyes he swore
he could gaze in forever
are a little less gleaming
and hopeful
and clever
What good is the "right thing"
when we opt to do wrong
what good is a man
when he's as good as gone
what good is a man when he's as good as gone?
Friday, November 28, 2008
Forecast
Was looking through some old documents on my PC, and found this gem from my freshman year.
------------------------------------------
The morning announced itself with sheets of rain.
I was awakened by the sound of drops slapping against my window.
Touching my face I brought back fingers moist and warm
….and the water hadn’t come from the rain.
I had been crying even in my sleep.
That’s when the night’s headache came back to me.
I don’t think I’ve cried for so long or prayed so hard in some time.
It’s tough, this love thing. And even though he told me he just “didn’t have it in him” to give, I still yearned to love and be loved by him.
And it’s not because I am foolish, but because I am in love with him.
Even though now I am convinced there is no difference...
I can not remember
walking to the bus stop
or where I sat in class
or even what I ate for breakfast...
When I close my eyes all I remember is the heavens' threat of thunder, and taking an exam I probably bombed because I spent the entire time daring tears to spill from my eyes.
And the forecast says it promises to rain all week...
But I don't need no weatherman to tell me that.
-------------------------------------------------------
Good stuff. :]
------------------------------------------
The morning announced itself with sheets of rain.
I was awakened by the sound of drops slapping against my window.
Touching my face I brought back fingers moist and warm
….and the water hadn’t come from the rain.
I had been crying even in my sleep.
That’s when the night’s headache came back to me.
I don’t think I’ve cried for so long or prayed so hard in some time.
It’s tough, this love thing. And even though he told me he just “didn’t have it in him” to give, I still yearned to love and be loved by him.
And it’s not because I am foolish, but because I am in love with him.
Even though now I am convinced there is no difference...
I can not remember
walking to the bus stop
or where I sat in class
or even what I ate for breakfast...
When I close my eyes all I remember is the heavens' threat of thunder, and taking an exam I probably bombed because I spent the entire time daring tears to spill from my eyes.
And the forecast says it promises to rain all week...
But I don't need no weatherman to tell me that.
-------------------------------------------------------
Good stuff. :]
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
11:06 pm.
Her camera snapped as she posed in Saks, and it snapped again as she flashed a 'Home & Garden' smile in front of yet another cliche New York City Street: Broadway.
Our camera caught us in our most candid moments: snaking through the back streets of Chinatown-- direction-less, haggling at the Asian Market, and puffing cigarettes on the corner because we'd just been rejected by the hippest club in the city.
Ha.
Remember that?
As she bops her head to Beyonce's latest single somewhere across town, you and I lay coiled, losing ourselves in each note of the forgotten greatness that is Carl Thomas' "Summer Rain." Just as I predict, the playlist shifts to the Isley Brothers' "Between the Sheets," and follows it up with Donny Hathaway's "A Song For You."... and then-- oh, this totally fits the mood right now -- Sade's "Your Love is King." Mmhhhhh...
Did you ever do this with her?
I mean, can you really "coil" to "Bootylicious"?
Whatever.
My closet stuffed with knock-off hats, scarves, and tops that I scoured from thrift shops, you compliment me on the ensemble I donned earlier: a green army cap, a red sleeveless knit-vest ($3.19!- score!), green flats (the ones girls constantly compliment me on-- they'd die if they knew I found them at the bottom of a consignment-shop sale-bin), a mustard yellow top (snug in all the right places,) and my pair blue/black denims that fits the same...
I allow myself to wonder- only briefly- if her ears were ever tickled by the same flattery, as you whispered how much she sparkled in her diamond earrings and dainty manicure?
I guess I'll never get it.
She writes checks.
I write songs.
She spends her days with line sisters.
I spend mine catering to lines of customers at work.
The girls at Hooters know us by name now, as we spent most of our summer there, during the NBA finals, remember?- inhaling chicken wings, and downing beer after beer, and high-fiving each other each time KG dunked it, or Kobe practically snapped someone's ankles...
Did you two ever pass the basketball back-and-forth in your parking lot?
I mean, there's nothing profound about that at all.
It's random, I know...
But-- did you?
You couldn't've.
She doesn't strike me as the type.
It's just-- it's rare, but curiosity sneaks up on me sometimes.
And it's annoying as eff.
I know your time together-- and ours-- they're completely different.
And I believe you when you say so.
Because she's so...
And I'm so...
ya know.
Caught up in my thoughts, I make the mistake of wondering-- out loud-- "How could you spend so much time with someone who's so... not your type?"
"What?"
"Oh," realizing my self-perceived mutter was actually audible, I figure that an actual answer might amuse me, so I ask again:
"How could you love two people who are so completely different from each other?"
Was he getting it right when he was with her? Or is it here... with me?
Silence.
I know he's wondering how in a time like this-- when he's got me wrapped up this way-- how I could ask him about something so... irrelevant.
More silence.
Then finally, his eyes lock in on me as he asks, in a failed attempt to not sound hostile...
"How could you?"
............... Damn.
Speechless, I slip from my rested-on-my-side-with-my-elbow-on-the-bed-while-my-hand-holds-my-head-up position, and plop on my back as I search the ceiling through the darkness.
"I dunno.... "
But I do know.
"It's hard to explain."
It's not.
You see, I was in a different place, then.
You know. Back then, I allowed half-assed, unworthy, borderline-retarded men to set up camp in my heart for much longer than they deserved.
I wasn't desperate.
I just-- settled.
They were-- cool. So they were enough...
Andre, short-tempered and crippled with pride .
Jordan, with his two kids and unstable 'baby mama'.
Vince, who couldn't read any better than a sewer rat.
Kevin, devoid of any human emotion.
I mean, they were (kinda) funny, and really good-looking.
We stayed together because there were never pressing reasons to let them go.
But with you-- God, with you...
I discovered the glorious treasures which remained tucked inside the darkest crevices of my heart--waiting to be searched by You.
It's scary though, because loving you has made me realize just how much God stuffed inside of me... how much He invested in my tiny little being: how much passion, and selflessness... forgiveness and wisdom.
And fergodssake-- you fill me up... along with the beliefs I hold in my mother's love, my savior's resurrection, and God's unique purpose for my life, I also believe--wholeheartedly-- that God dropped you here on this earth to be loved by me.
And to love me in return...
With you, everything-- everything-- is so new.
It's disgusting, really.
And revolutionary.
And exciting, and terrifying, and raw....
Why did I stay with those other guys for as long as I did?
Because I hadn't yet met you.
----
And without having expressed any of this to you, you feel it.
You know what I'm thinking.
Gently wrapping your fingers around my chin, you pull my face within centimeters of yours, and whisper, into my mouth, "That's my reason too," mushing your pillow-lips against my forehead...
So I forgive you.
For being with her...
Because now I understand.....
Prince's "Call My Name" rings out from the speakers, yanking me out this pathetically-romantic daze, and I laugh out loud-- suddenly aware of, and embarrassed by, the cliche-ness of it all.
I turn over to face the wall-- my bare back pressed against your heaving chest, so you can spoon me in that way you do, forcing the tension from my bones -- and smile myself to sleep...
Who cares if this scene is cliche...
Sing it, Prince.
Sing it...
Our camera caught us in our most candid moments: snaking through the back streets of Chinatown-- direction-less, haggling at the Asian Market, and puffing cigarettes on the corner because we'd just been rejected by the hippest club in the city.
Ha.
Remember that?
As she bops her head to Beyonce's latest single somewhere across town, you and I lay coiled, losing ourselves in each note of the forgotten greatness that is Carl Thomas' "Summer Rain." Just as I predict, the playlist shifts to the Isley Brothers' "Between the Sheets," and follows it up with Donny Hathaway's "A Song For You."... and then-- oh, this totally fits the mood right now -- Sade's "Your Love is King." Mmhhhhh...
Did you ever do this with her?
I mean, can you really "coil" to "Bootylicious"?
Whatever.
My closet stuffed with knock-off hats, scarves, and tops that I scoured from thrift shops, you compliment me on the ensemble I donned earlier: a green army cap, a red sleeveless knit-vest ($3.19!- score!), green flats (the ones girls constantly compliment me on-- they'd die if they knew I found them at the bottom of a consignment-shop sale-bin), a mustard yellow top (snug in all the right places,) and my pair blue/black denims that fits the same...
I allow myself to wonder- only briefly- if her ears were ever tickled by the same flattery, as you whispered how much she sparkled in her diamond earrings and dainty manicure?
I guess I'll never get it.
She writes checks.
I write songs.
She spends her days with line sisters.
I spend mine catering to lines of customers at work.
The girls at Hooters know us by name now, as we spent most of our summer there, during the NBA finals, remember?- inhaling chicken wings, and downing beer after beer, and high-fiving each other each time KG dunked it, or Kobe practically snapped someone's ankles...
Did you two ever pass the basketball back-and-forth in your parking lot?
I mean, there's nothing profound about that at all.
It's random, I know...
But-- did you?
You couldn't've.
She doesn't strike me as the type.
It's just-- it's rare, but curiosity sneaks up on me sometimes.
And it's annoying as eff.
I know your time together-- and ours-- they're completely different.
And I believe you when you say so.
Because she's so...
And I'm so...
ya know.
Caught up in my thoughts, I make the mistake of wondering-- out loud-- "How could you spend so much time with someone who's so... not your type?"
"What?"
"Oh," realizing my self-perceived mutter was actually audible, I figure that an actual answer might amuse me, so I ask again:
"How could you love two people who are so completely different from each other?"
Was he getting it right when he was with her? Or is it here... with me?
Silence.
I know he's wondering how in a time like this-- when he's got me wrapped up this way-- how I could ask him about something so... irrelevant.
More silence.
Then finally, his eyes lock in on me as he asks, in a failed attempt to not sound hostile...
"How could you?"
............... Damn.
Speechless, I slip from my rested-on-my-side-with-my-elbow-on-the-bed-while-my-hand-holds-my-head-up position, and plop on my back as I search the ceiling through the darkness.
"I dunno.... "
But I do know.
"It's hard to explain."
It's not.
You see, I was in a different place, then.
You know. Back then, I allowed half-assed, unworthy, borderline-retarded men to set up camp in my heart for much longer than they deserved.
I wasn't desperate.
I just-- settled.
They were-- cool. So they were enough...
Andre, short-tempered and crippled with pride .
Jordan, with his two kids and unstable 'baby mama'.
Vince, who couldn't read any better than a sewer rat.
Kevin, devoid of any human emotion.
I mean, they were (kinda) funny, and really good-looking.
We stayed together because there were never pressing reasons to let them go.
But with you-- God, with you...
I discovered the glorious treasures which remained tucked inside the darkest crevices of my heart--waiting to be searched by You.
It's scary though, because loving you has made me realize just how much God stuffed inside of me... how much He invested in my tiny little being: how much passion, and selflessness... forgiveness and wisdom.
And fergodssake-- you fill me up... along with the beliefs I hold in my mother's love, my savior's resurrection, and God's unique purpose for my life, I also believe--wholeheartedly-- that God dropped you here on this earth to be loved by me.
And to love me in return...
With you, everything-- everything-- is so new.
It's disgusting, really.
And revolutionary.
And exciting, and terrifying, and raw....
Why did I stay with those other guys for as long as I did?
Because I hadn't yet met you.
----
And without having expressed any of this to you, you feel it.
You know what I'm thinking.
Gently wrapping your fingers around my chin, you pull my face within centimeters of yours, and whisper, into my mouth, "That's my reason too," mushing your pillow-lips against my forehead...
So I forgive you.
For being with her...
Because now I understand.....
Prince's "Call My Name" rings out from the speakers, yanking me out this pathetically-romantic daze, and I laugh out loud-- suddenly aware of, and embarrassed by, the cliche-ness of it all.
I turn over to face the wall-- my bare back pressed against your heaving chest, so you can spoon me in that way you do, forcing the tension from my bones -- and smile myself to sleep...
Who cares if this scene is cliche...
Sing it, Prince.
Sing it...
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Ba Boom Ba.
"ba-boom
ba
ba-boom
ba
ba-boom
ba
...."
you never got it right...
instead,
"ba-ba-boom
ba-ba-boom "
But don't you... hear it?
Or have you any rhythm?
Patience running low as you devour six gluttonous minutes: ears pressed against bare breasts, as I lay there with you resting on me...
as if you were an infant...
as if I were settled in to nurse you...
You should've caught the pattern after 30 seconds.
The
ba-boom
ba
ba-boom
ba
of the tattered bloody drum that keeps my breath in step.
The very breath that lets me love you this way.
Back strained from supporting all the weight your head has burdened, I give up.
And if I didn't see such symbolism in this, you and I might stand a chance.
But I do...
Oh baby, I do.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Sixth Time's a Charm.
I'm pretty sure this week makes six.
Convincing myself that this will be the last time, I ravenously indulge.
And whatthehell. If I'm gonna give it up for good, I might as well make tonight tomorrow's glorious memory.
The irony of it all is that that's why I keep coming back:
I make sure my "Last Time" 's are so fulfilling, so ... dangerously sweet, that before I know it, I'm planning for the next one.
And could you really blame me?
The shame, the impulse, the curiousity... they thrust their thick and throbbing fingers (clench-release-clench-release) around my puny little achy heart and I c a v e...
Giving in is the only way to make the clenching stop, it seems.
I don't stand a chance from the beginning.
And oh the tense-akwardness that chokes the air once it's over.
... just as the script for this routine instructs, I widen the front door to greet my worthless Conscience, laying there helpless, cheeks stained with ashy tear-trails.
And, as I've done so many times before, I scoop brown arms around her skinny frame, craddle her close to my dewy breasts, and carry her towards the sink to rinse off ... she lets me watch her scrub-scrub-rinse-scrub-scrub routine, until she 's convinced she's clean again.
My eyes too heavy and week to meet hers, I promise "never to do it again" and reassure her, for the sixth time, that this was "definitely definitely the last time."
The last few drops of water rinse away the mud between her toes as she feigns a smile & nods okay...
And we both know she'll be greeted on the doormat again .
Same time next week.
Convincing myself that this will be the last time, I ravenously indulge.
And whatthehell. If I'm gonna give it up for good, I might as well make tonight tomorrow's glorious memory.
The irony of it all is that that's why I keep coming back:
I make sure my "Last Time" 's are so fulfilling, so ... dangerously sweet, that before I know it, I'm planning for the next one.
And could you really blame me?
The shame, the impulse, the curiousity... they thrust their thick and throbbing fingers (clench-release-clench-release) around my puny little achy heart and I c a v e...
Giving in is the only way to make the clenching stop, it seems.
I don't stand a chance from the beginning.
And oh the tense-akwardness that chokes the air once it's over.
... just as the script for this routine instructs, I widen the front door to greet my worthless Conscience, laying there helpless, cheeks stained with ashy tear-trails.
And, as I've done so many times before, I scoop brown arms around her skinny frame, craddle her close to my dewy breasts, and carry her towards the sink to rinse off ... she lets me watch her scrub-scrub-rinse-scrub-scrub routine, until she 's convinced she's clean again.
My eyes too heavy and week to meet hers, I promise "never to do it again" and reassure her, for the sixth time, that this was "definitely definitely the last time."
The last few drops of water rinse away the mud between her toes as she feigns a smile & nods okay...
And we both know she'll be greeted on the doormat again .
Same time next week.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Dope.
Here he comes.
All .....smiley.
And smooth,
and
.........earnest.
.........earnest.
All soft-palmed
and deep-voiced
and smell-good.
Full of promise and rawness
and enough "I love you's" to force your heart to its knees, begging for mercy-
dripping snot and juicy salt-tears.
A man who believes in soulmates.
And as if that's not enough to wet your pretty little eyes...
he said that he's convinced I'm his.
The only thing we don't see eye-to-eye on is the whole weed thing.
To him, it's recreation.
And as an artist, it's to be expected, I suppose.
But me?
Ha.
I'm a walking PSA:
Against anything that takes you out of the "right state of mind."
At least, I was.
Because between his sticky-honey kisses, paralyzing eyes (in which Ifind myself drowning in a naked, sweaty slumber... all open-legged and unafraid) and his cripplingly-contagious jolt of a laugh...
I smoke, inhale and breath him in every day.
And if his high is anything like mine,
then consider me a new advocate of the dopest drug known to man.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
