When the Light Comes On

Dreamers often lie. Dreams usually die. Dreamers forget to try. Dreams of dreamers die because dreamers forget to try. Today I woke up from my fantasy and realized that I had been submersed in your lies. Baptized by your truths, and left hanging on to your every word as if I needed them more than my next breath. I thought I needed your truths more than my next heart beat or the blood coursing through my veins. I lie starving for your affection as if it was my only protection. All the while you kept feeding me more and more deception. Never noticing that your perception of who I ought to be was damaging the woman I was created to be. Sitting in your arms, swimming in your aroma, dying to words. Dying to myself. Poetic genocide or was it suicide. My words weren’t good enough. My meter wasn’t creative enough. I was too young to know what it meant to write words that could reach the masses. I believed you. Today when I lie down and greet my cloud of dreams, it won’t be another night spent reliving memories. I gave up your perception…dreams, aspirations, and desires…They are all lost in effort…tired, sleepless...restless...loveless...I was lost in pursuit. Relieved that hurt reminded me of life. But I’m not content with speaking of love in past tense. I tense because I know my smile radiates distinction. I needed to replace you. Now I need to embrace you. My body grows weak. Yet my thoughts don’t chase you. Expressed in action…shown in honesty....died by trust, now I trust me. Picking up the pieces of my shattered image I realize that I am a reflection of my poetic expression and I will not apologize.

A Poet's Poison

I don’t want to get so lost in the pursuit of you that I forget to be true to me. Forget to take care of me, to make time for me, to speak life in the form of poetry. To speak to the heart and the soul of me, the thing that makes me whole again. There's that hole again. The one I keep sliding into when my words don’t make sense to you. Not because I don’t make sense to you but because my words aren’t common scents to you. You can’t SMMMMMEEELLLLLLLL what my mind is cooking. Taking sundry words and exposing my mind to time. It’s time to delve in the realm of places unexplored and lose who you think I am in a sea of words. Just promise to drown me in the sound of my heart beating sweet melodies of death. So that when I die, I die true to the reflection of imperfection that always looked back at me. Back to the first word on the first day that life made cents and dollars for me. For it was then that I knew that my words had worth and gave birth to the poet that’s shackled inside of me. Inside of me is where lyrics are the poison that drives me to creative insanity and mental ecstasy. Words do more than any man can do for me. Think you can handle me? Then pick up a pen and demand some respect from me.

Tangled Up In You...the beginning

Slow melodic strides that take me where I want to go and intrigue onlookers as I glide casually through their midst. As cool as a winter breeze in the still of the night after an erroneous battle beneath the rage of the sun. Heads turn as minds begin to wonder and question the image of imperfection that vision has revealed. A glimpse of beauty that few have wished to behold, a treasure in the making, the quintessence of my soul.

My spirit was as free as its allowed to be while the heart remains possessed with no desire to be unleashed. Thoughts of fornication seeped in without notice while fantasy and reality became intertwined. Expressions from my soul that the mouth longs to utter, remain shackled to the memories that appear surreal

UNTITLED

I miss the sound of your words...not gone are the days when I look through old papers and read the words that bring such tender delight, soft kiss, deep strokes, no inhibitions just written restrictions...I sit and wait for you to miss me....missing the way your eyes used to kiss me...memories dance around my thoughts, thoughts dance around my pen. my pen dances around you...my paper longs for you...longs for your words, words that bleed truth, truth that begets passion....passion...past action...writing in a language that only the greatest can master…writing faster…righting wrongs faster…fasting writing because I can’t find the page master…the master of my page…I walk on stage and create a lyrical disaster…like a pastor misleading his flock…only my people can’t follow my heart’s desire…the words don’t reach them…and I can’t teach them…and I don’t wanna keep them…because they belong to you but my passion will always reflect a past action of a passion that begot truth…because my words bleed truth and the truth is that my words long to reach you with no inhibitions nor written restrictions….