When you kiss me my heart goes cold.
Becoming less bold, shamble body losing its soul.
Making my mind crush under the pressure of knowing
that you are not going to be coming back to our romantic dinners.
I have left my voice box on repeat with my previous approved speech.
Regurgitating “Yes sir, your kisses are my bliss”, “Yes sir, I am ok with this”.
But my days of being the confined concubine have ended.
No longer will I pretend that this heartbreak doesn’t hurt too much,
That seeing you with her doesn’t hurt too much.
Each time my mind rakes over these lines,
Trying to collect my thoughts to see if I did all I could to save this strange love.
Or was it doomed the day we started this twisted love game,
or maybe I should have said my final goodbyes when I learned your name.
Forgive me for I have gotten off subject,
I don’t want to bring any attention to my ill behavior
Cause honestly, I would rather live a lie,
Than have the ongoing day mares of you not by my side.
Even though you no longer reside within me, the confirmation of your kisses
Still make my heart go in overdrive, tying to think clearly,
Creating strategies to keep you near me.
I stand in the face of my frienemy, who tried to be a friend to me,
but little does she know that her kindness is killing me.
She makes it hard to hate her, when I know her soul was made for him.
My heart carries constant contusions of your “I love you’s” to another.
This game has created within me self hate.
I have regular psychological inter-debates to create a solution for why
I couldn’t be the center of your desire.
Why my love was never enough.
I have to believe that this was God’s will,
to have a angel in disguise be our catalyst,
bring us to such a rapid end,
But your kisses still linger on my skin, still making my heart go slow, screwed, and chopped up.
Your lips pressed against my skin causing my body to shudder,
no longer hearing the sound, just feeling the vibration.
I wish there was a return policy on broken hearts,
I am not even asking for a new one, just one that never knew you.
Because this one has no space for anything or anyone new… it cries, it smiles, and it longs for you.
Your scent is laced in my speech, so when I speak you essence still flow so freely.
Still making me feel weak and when I think that I am at my peak on missing you.
I catch a glimpse of your smile and my heart goes right back to being your love child.
After all the pain, I still want to thank you.
I learned that death is not defined by physically not being,
but it can come when your “I Do’s” are placed with someone
that is not your reflection in the mirror.
My lifeline now lingers on your left middle finger,
being my contestant reminder that we are really over.
I love you, this is my final Goodbye and
I will miss your kisses because they made my heart go…
Monday, October 6, 2008
Phenomenon
Some call me a phenomenon.
But I’d rather be called a poet.
Not like those who use the affirmation of hand claps to make known that they are better than most.
Parasite of prophets who try to host their insecurities in me;
Killing their creativity, giving themselves chemical burns,
in return to leave none of their own mind behind,
because stealing mine seems uncomplicated, unproblematic.
Being the wonderful person that I am,
I have been trying to build up the emotion to be kind to your painfully fragile state of mind….
But I am tired of being your “dope words” dealer,
Promising me that you will lick my clit for another hit.
I am tired of you using my “trigger happy” terminology, to get a hold of faux 10’s.
I will stitch my lips, protect my spit, and lock away my stories, before I let you duplicate my ancestry.
Even now, you are watching at my lips to see what words you can savor,
trying to bleed the ink from my poetic dynasty.
Oh you know them thoroughly, but only in theory.
We are tired of you leeching and bitching about “how all the great poets are gone”.
No baby, they have just gone home, their just tired of you trying to breach their domes.
I love how you think that you have blessed me by calling me a beast,
but what you should be really calling me is … mommy.
Because clearly I birth you,
My name is stained with distain on your pages; and it also claim that bootlegging is your daddy.
Honestly I don’t remember when that bastard jumped in my bed and rapped me.
But souvenirs of my labor are screaming off your typed paper.
This is your final warning because the next time you take my lines,
I will put this nine to your spine then I will really show you who is “rhyme or die”.
WOW, guess I can have Chris be my ghost writer too…
but I have a little assignment for you….
Imma need you to go home,
Read like 5 different dictionaries and STOP BITTING ME!!!!!!
And as far as you falling on your knees, praising me,
and calling me Poetry’s phenomenon of the 22nd century.
You can call me a poet because clearly you’re not one.
But I’d rather be called a poet.
Not like those who use the affirmation of hand claps to make known that they are better than most.
Parasite of prophets who try to host their insecurities in me;
Killing their creativity, giving themselves chemical burns,
in return to leave none of their own mind behind,
because stealing mine seems uncomplicated, unproblematic.
Being the wonderful person that I am,
I have been trying to build up the emotion to be kind to your painfully fragile state of mind….
But I am tired of being your “dope words” dealer,
Promising me that you will lick my clit for another hit.
I am tired of you using my “trigger happy” terminology, to get a hold of faux 10’s.
I will stitch my lips, protect my spit, and lock away my stories, before I let you duplicate my ancestry.
Even now, you are watching at my lips to see what words you can savor,
trying to bleed the ink from my poetic dynasty.
Oh you know them thoroughly, but only in theory.
We are tired of you leeching and bitching about “how all the great poets are gone”.
No baby, they have just gone home, their just tired of you trying to breach their domes.
I love how you think that you have blessed me by calling me a beast,
but what you should be really calling me is … mommy.
Because clearly I birth you,
My name is stained with distain on your pages; and it also claim that bootlegging is your daddy.
Honestly I don’t remember when that bastard jumped in my bed and rapped me.
But souvenirs of my labor are screaming off your typed paper.
This is your final warning because the next time you take my lines,
I will put this nine to your spine then I will really show you who is “rhyme or die”.
WOW, guess I can have Chris be my ghost writer too…
but I have a little assignment for you….
Imma need you to go home,
Read like 5 different dictionaries and STOP BITTING ME!!!!!!
And as far as you falling on your knees, praising me,
and calling me Poetry’s phenomenon of the 22nd century.
You can call me a poet because clearly you’re not one.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Death's Dance
His sound came crashing down like Death's redemption.
His best performance,
his movements so fluid that strangers took notice.
Through the slight breezy that carried him, the silence of his fall was defiance.
His body slicing through the air so gracefully,
but the thought of life not existing was crippling.
As i watched this burden down Angel be plucked from his heavenly balcony,
I was trying to understand why he chose a 50 story drop as his way to salvation.
I wondered if the life that God gave him was too much for his soul to bare.
Were his daemons anchord on his wings
And his decent was just a case of God not really being the wind beneath his wings.
I watched the ground cradle him, bones breaking, soul seeping.
I cupped what was left of his face and i saw him smile at me.
Looking at me like his life's work was complete.
Like he was the new Mortals Messiah and his sacrifice saved me.
I tried to be angry at his convoluted decision but all I could feel was fear.
Afraid to face the facts of his final choice.
I mean who is to say that if his shoes sized fit me perfectly,
that my ledge would have not been higher,
that my leap would have not been bigger,
that my soul would have not been casted down to a hell hotter,
because i now knew what was best for me.
Because I knew that God didn't love me,
understand me,
Know me.
We were looking down on him,
when he was the only one of us that was looking forward.
We thought of him as weak,
when he was the only one of us that was strong enough to face the other side.
Brave enough to defy his beliefs to see if Satan really held captive God's suicide souls.
I feared my findings because his thoughts were not to far from my own.
The end result of his leaps left me to seek the same end with the scars that i new own.
His dance show me the way to be truly free.
His beautiful dance came crashing into me.
His best performance,
his movements so fluid that strangers took notice.
Through the slight breezy that carried him, the silence of his fall was defiance.
His body slicing through the air so gracefully,
but the thought of life not existing was crippling.
As i watched this burden down Angel be plucked from his heavenly balcony,
I was trying to understand why he chose a 50 story drop as his way to salvation.
I wondered if the life that God gave him was too much for his soul to bare.
Were his daemons anchord on his wings
And his decent was just a case of God not really being the wind beneath his wings.
I watched the ground cradle him, bones breaking, soul seeping.
I cupped what was left of his face and i saw him smile at me.
Looking at me like his life's work was complete.
Like he was the new Mortals Messiah and his sacrifice saved me.
I tried to be angry at his convoluted decision but all I could feel was fear.
Afraid to face the facts of his final choice.
I mean who is to say that if his shoes sized fit me perfectly,
that my ledge would have not been higher,
that my leap would have not been bigger,
that my soul would have not been casted down to a hell hotter,
because i now knew what was best for me.
Because I knew that God didn't love me,
understand me,
Know me.
We were looking down on him,
when he was the only one of us that was looking forward.
We thought of him as weak,
when he was the only one of us that was strong enough to face the other side.
Brave enough to defy his beliefs to see if Satan really held captive God's suicide souls.
I feared my findings because his thoughts were not to far from my own.
The end result of his leaps left me to seek the same end with the scars that i new own.
His dance show me the way to be truly free.
His beautiful dance came crashing into me.
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