High Heels

Story Behind The Poem

So.......this piece has been in my mind for many, many months now (conceptually, at least). The inspiration came from a side convo I was having with some homeboys. A classmate of ours happened to walk past us while we were sitting. She was wearing heels....which is not odd in the slightest, save for the little bump in the rear she had seemingly grown overnight. I asked one of the fellas, " Yo, when did such and such get that, lol". One of the guys said, "Whenever she got those heels"

And that started the conversation....It's no secret that when girls wear certain clothing.....whatever is in style now, it tends to accentuate the more feminine features that visual creatures like us men can't help but notice. And somehow the wrong head starts doing the thinking....

In a nutshell, ithe poem is about how in the grander scheme of things, we as human beings---capable of thought, analyziation, and careful consideration--- hardly exercise those gifts. We simply are stimulated by an impulse, and then we start attaching to that thing all the other things that we know we need. For instance, I need a strong minded, opinionated, humorous, self-assured, secure type of woman who can actually take it as well as she can dish it...Historically, I've typically gone for good, sweet people who in actuality lacked what was needed to deal with a brash person like myself....i.e; assertiveness, self-assuredness, confidence, thick-skin, etc... Instead, I always seem to end up with the sensitive, insecure, passive, weak-opinionated types....and it's not entirely because there weren't signs off jump to tell me this.

It's all mostly because I, like most others, am weak when it comes to a fine girl catching my eye. I disregard all the shit telling me she ain't even close to being the one, solely because she is attractive....because she is wearing heels. Still, in the same breath, this poem is also just as much about those who put up fronts to attract people., or who fool themselves into thinking they want a certain kind of relationship when the contrary is true.

So, stripped down, this piece is an indictment of myself and all others for saying we want one thing and chasing the other. For taking a pretty face, or good sex, or a person's 'statistics' and making those things the basis of our feeelings...the basis of justifying a relationship, as opposed to those things This is for everyone who assigns undeserving characteristics to the objects of their affection because they WANT to fool themselves and for everyone who has been involved with different people, but somehow still keep finding themselves in the same relationship......

Perhaps if we start seeing that this is the source of our problems, we may move on to healthier things.


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When I first met her, I paid no mind to the fact that she was wearing heels
Still, it was evident
Steel, it’s cold feel raced the length of my spine
I was hypnotized by motion that wouldn’t have existed, but for those heels
And these feelings I’m harboring, no doubt, were mothered by opened-toed stilettos

But shit, wasn’t none of it real
It wasn’t love, it was lust,
Trust, less I wouldn’t have let her just walk away
Well, perhaps I would’ve let her walk away
But only to hold a moment of silence and remembrance for her fine ass
If only to bear witness to the wave and that extra little sway
I’d become consumed by the unoriginal, the artificial
I was fooled by a flat booty
But I digress
If it were love, I’d carry her cross forever to keep her here

But I soon realized…..
Between the mascara and the shadow and the gloss
I might as well have been blinded
Because even at arm’s length, I couldn’t see her
And I’m sure, had we fallen asleep, I’d have awoken to a stranger

And the conspiracy was not complete without the push up brassiere
Masterfully and magically, it rose to its task
Somehow, the cup overflowed many times over from barely a sip
And at the risk of further digression from my point
The heels’ affects complimented this falsity embarrassingly well
My head was no longer in control
I was thinking positions and night caps
And in my mind, I’d already traveled the road to take me to that destination

But even the heels and the mascara and the brassiere were pale
Pale in comparison to the coup that was her personal façade
Her entire carry was -----intangible
Which explains why I could never grasp her…

She was and forever remained but a grandeur in May
Because there was little to her, and nothing more
No mystique, nor anything to father intrigue
A master of accentuation, her persona wore heels
And mascara and shadow and gloss
And a push-up bra
And lashes, and false eyes, and false hair, and the nails
All things I noticed and recognized as not yours
But I was a slave to primal instinct
I’d become an aggressive prognosticator, seeing what I wanted to see
And I fueled my desires off the front she put forth
And in those heels, I wanted to see the future in her
…I wanted to see a future with her
And I, in fact, did

…..Until she took off her heels
And I was no longer distracted
And, simply put, I then realized she wasn’t what I thought she was
More importantly, I realized I was the fool

Plight of The Misfit Toys

Story Behind The Poem


My people, my people.....It's been a goooood lil minute. I have no good explanation, so I won't even venture to try. I will just promise to try and do better....emphasis on 'try', lol.

But moving on. As you all may have noticed, it's the Holiday season, so of course I've been catching all the little holiday shows. I caught one of my all time favs, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and watching it I revisited a sympathy I felt as a child watching the movie. As a kid, I always found it real messed up how all the toys on Misfit Island were just discarded, especially when at the end they ended up being appreciated by some lil kids who weren't limited by any preconceived concept of what a toy should be....the only question for the kids was whether or not the kid was a means to his having fun. (Okay, so my childhood thought process wasn't THIS intricate---but the point remains...I felt bad for the toys, lol). But somehow, someone, somewhere else made a decision that they understood everything there was to understand about the Misfits. The truth of it all, though, is that whoever was in power simply lacked the ability to appreciate individuality; he lacked the ability to see all the toys for what they truly where...And because of his inability, the toys suffered...they were typecast as 'different', the catchall concept that essentially is a saving grace allowing the ignorant to feel as if they still do actually understand.

Okay...so maybe I took the cartoon too far.....but that's my individuality, don't typecast me as 'different' for it, lol. In all seriousness though, the plight of the toys, as I have discussed them, hit home with a feeling I've been having for a while.......I admit I am an acquired taste for people; I'm not exactly the easiest person to be around. However, being an acquired taste does not necessitate a finding that I am hard to understand.

Now I haven't been told by people that I am a hard person to 'get', but the way people have treated me has told me as much. People are very good at telling me how I will feel or react to certain things because they know my 'type', and it frustrates me because 99.9% of the time, they are completely off base. The result is me being frustrated by essentially being condemned to forever being misunderstood....sorta like the misfit toys.

Stylistically, this poem is really a departure from the norm from me.....the pattern, the pace, it's all a bit scatter brained and poetically, probably a tough digestion for the average reader. I call it my 'soap-box' form.....I jus had a lot of things to say and wanted to get it all out...so how it hit the paper is how you get it....RAAAAWWW!!! I actually re-wrote/ changed the piece three times content-wise, but I never went back and tried to make it a traditional 'poem'....this is like an anti-'Wax Poetic', lol.

But without further ado, welcome to my thoughts. Enjoy your skinny dip in my stream of consciousness..


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A misfit among misfits
Even amidst those unlike others, I am apart
And I beg the Good Lord that I not be misunderstood

But I suppose, I am not entirely unlike their breed
My good providence for misinterpretation lays in cold water, on tea leaves, stale
Still, a distance remains
As the others are embraced by an intangible concept, an enabler
The masses pat themselves on the pat for defining those across the drawn line
“Different”, they say
And somehow the masses feel they comprehend
And the others feel understood
And all is well
But apart from the masses and the others, I stand apart, frustrated
Discontent with being short changed
No attention or effort put forth to understand me as I am
I am not different
Not within the confines of their definition, at least
A definition which seeks to lasso me among others who are, but, unfamiliar to most

But such is the plight
Placed in the hole where the pigeons are kept
A parallel universe governed by assumption and misplaced certainty
Where no one dares questions the politics
There’s a strange unrest amongst the contentment
Yet it is futile to rebel
Because as my father told me, struggle is ordained by God

Still, I feel compelled to burst out of the nutshell that is my summation
And I challenge all takers to truly learn me
Navigate away from the road most traveled
Shift your gaze away from their sanctuary, east towards He
The light is always proper
And you can
I always see me for who I am; what I am
My outburst do not define me
Neither my anger, nor my sweetness
If any concept at all, I am a fluid one
Like a river that will never be touched twice
I find predictions of my evolution to be asinine
Copouts for more fearless assertions

But such is the plight
Unfitting of a conceptual fit
As opposed to risking a conniption by broadening ones horizon
The option is simply this or that
This, being a concept they already understand
That, being different

Somehow the concept of relativity escaped them, along with the truth
The truth that we are all different…..
Some are just not as easily understood
Even by those who think they understand

Such is the plight of the misfit toys

When We Get There

Story Behind The Poem

It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you, without a dope poem to read, lol. It's been a while since I posted something, folks....but blame it on my life and not my heart. Between the lack of motivation and the difficulty I've been having in verbalizing the things I'm actually ready to write about, the entire creative process has been moving like molasses.

At any rate, to stem the tide, I'm posting an older one....wrote this one sometime last year during one of my reflectionary type periods...Thinking back on it, I think this poem is the precursor to 'Rooms', so reading that one after this one might link things up a bit for those of you who actually care to attempt to understand how my mind works.

But getting back on point. Those who know me know that generally I'm reluctant to get pursue relationships...I'll step up and go after who I want, but even then I've always been one to have a wait and see approach in terms of completely falling for someone. In a phrase, I'm a pessismist when it comes to relationships and the poem is kind of an embodiment of that attitude. I've made concerted efforts to be more optimistic and vulnerable in terms of giving of myself, but shit...I can't say I've made the strides to be where I want to be...Anyway, let me know what you think.

Enjoy...

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When We Get There

I tend to lose focus
A train of thought that grows increasingly shorter
And closer to a place where I envisioned going
But never ventured
Or even thought possible
So excuse me if I don’t get too excited at the promise of getting there
Rather, if it don’t show
Cause somewhere in the back of my head I still believe
If it don’t show
It don’t grow
And THEY don’t know
So somehow, it doesn’t really exist
Some may call it pessimistic thought
But they lack experience
At least MY experiences
If they knew what they know not, that I know most certainly
They’d call me a realist
Perhaps a journalist if they read my scribes
Maybe a historian, if they saw the relevance and development of man
And spirit
Which is a another monster in and of itself
Which I plan to face
But am in no rush to do so
I’m fine just waiting on that 9 cloud to carry me to where I want to be
But have you ever tried waiting on something…..
And not knowing what that thing looks like
It’s so damn frustrating
Thinking every car coming round corner is your ride
Only to be left standing on the curb
With the remnants of liquored poured for dead friends and rainwater
Splashed on your overcoat
Looking at a license plate
2BAD 4 U
…Now imagine that someTHING is someONE
And every time you think she’s coming around the corner
And everytime she gets close
She juke steps
And you’re left face down in the dust
You get up
But your face is still on the ground
It’s so hard
If you didn’t have religion before
You for damn sure have it now
And I ain’t the only one
The whole damn world is scarred
I’m like damn
It all comes full circle
The wounded wound
And vice versa
So it is versa vice
I just write the verse
And hopefully my pen can work out whether you are
The One
Or “The Next One” in what seems to be a never ending line of candidates
Who settle to be conquests
I suppose your guess is as good as mine
Whether you are a guest
Or a permanent inhabitant of the hallowed halls of my heart
Not that I’m necessarily inviting you inside
But I’m not, not inviting you, ya dig?
How bout I just leave the door open a lil bit
And if you choose to come
Let me know when you get here
And I’ll let you know that I’m there
And we can proceed to get where
We need to be
And celebrate when we get there

Piece

Cold December

Story Behind the Poem

As most of you know, I dabble in the hip-hop a bit. Though poetry always will be my first love, this poem actually started out as an attempt of compose an obviously poetically infused piece into a song.

As with my other pieces, anyone who knows me is familiar with a struggle that I've been going through within myself. As recently as age 18, most folks generally would have described me as a sweet, kind, gentle, teddy bear type (I hate the comparison FYI). I still get those types of compliments occassionally, but over the past seven or so years, I've also noticed a distinct change in myself...somewhere I've channelled the ability to find anger. My temper is hotter than its ever been. My concern for how others will react to things that I say is non-existent....I honestly couldn't argue with anyone who would call me mean...And I don't like that about myself. Even the relationships I have with women are changing. Once upon a time I could honestly stand before people and say that I was different....but even that's changed. I feel as if I'm becoming more like other cats with my attitudes towards women....part of that is because of some atypically bad break-ups, part is because of some shots that didn't quite beat the buzzer...all of it is rooted in actually putting myself out there on a limb...making myself open and vulnerable, and having the branch snap from beneath me. A lot of it has to do with poor communication...actually alot of it has to do with alot of things that I will discuss in a later poem ("Birth of a Purse Snatcher") once I'm able to work my thoughts out on that piece, so I'll cut this short and leave you all with this.

I'm a strong believer that if nothing is ventured, then nothing is gained. If you expect to make progress in life, you have to put yourself your mind, your heart, your sanity on the line occasionally. I want to make these strides and have laid myself out at the mercy of the world and several people many a time, and not gotten the responses I've seeked. Needless to say, in a nutshell, this poem is about how life has effected my development from a person a really liked but wasn't built for the world, into a person who I don't like as much, but has the tools necessary to make it in this cold world. So, as I lay back in the therapist's chair.........enjoy

And for those of you trying to figure out exactly what events led to me feeling this way.....the poem was written in the summer of '08 and is based on a great deal more than relationships with the fairer sex

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it's like the bitter chill made the whole world sit still
the air's stagnant
my face numbed from glares of ill will
ice grills backed with bad intention, I feel...
compelled as black mamba tryna kill bill
laid at the will of killers with penchants for doing jus that
and their cold, cold hearts are so real
and so hungry for blood meals
and even more so in such a cold December

they say only the strong survive
but I beg to differ
because the strong die too
and they get lied to
but the wise know truth and rule the strong
because though they lives lived short, their words live long
and shake every man’s soul
tiptoeing through time on the airs of whispers, they hear you
and the words are held so dear
and in the chill still heard so clear
and even more so in such a cold December

the coldness only makes me more conscious of my environment’s violence
and the fact that the more I live in this climate
the more I die within
only the Lord knows where my fire went
cause now this artic has made me lethargic and heartless
and unaware of how to navigate the darkness
and somehow I lost my way and now I’m gone forever
as if I left footprints trailing away in this cold December’s driven snow

don’t act as if you didn’t know
although I understand if the flow of your thoughts became frozen cold
like the ice water pumping through my veins
clearly I’ll never again be the same
and I want somebody to blame
or at least explain this change
and the answer came as wintry rain dancing on my face
each drop tinged with pain
and it hurts even more so in such a cold December

i never felt so alive as when i died
riding with the righteous side
fighting for what my heart desired
nevertheless, my hair’s turned grayed
my eyes is pitch white and my skin is fading away
i'm one amongst the masse, it’s tragic
that I’ve been forced to assimilate the fabric
and my mind too
the mirror’s frosted up but no reflection needed to know I’ve become you
and the chickens done come roost in the midst of this cold, cold, December

and now I find myself wishing bad on others peoples mothers
death upon other peoples brothers
it's so hard when u discover that you are no longer the you, you once knew
staring at the mirror wondering who is that dude
and you haven’t one clue
like a nigga flew over the cuckoo’s nest and left you
sitting a alone
and that’s cold, even for a cold December

even my heart is frostbitten
twice shy, indifferent
iced more than a quarter-century's exposure should allow
the result of repeated frigid impacts upon an unreciprocated affections
i've grown calloused and unwilling to try any longer
my tongue has sharpened
my concern, now non-existent
i am no longer merely influenced
you can see my body shiver, reacting to the temperature
trying to resist the bitter side-effect of contact
but it's useless

I AM cold
Even for a cold, cold December

Congratulations

Story Behind the Poem

About a year ago I learned that an ex of mine had gotten engaged. It threw me for a shock, for the simple reason that only a few months before, when we last spoke, I was unaware that she was even dating someone. We initially began dating back in '03, during my freshman year of college, broke up the same year....and really had no real contact until my senior year of college. She'd transferred after freshman year (not because of our break up at all) and had returned to Hampton to hang up with old friends before everyone scattered back across the country. Anyway, since that time we've remained cordial...and basically erased any ill-feelings between us.

Between '06 when we reconnected through, say, fall of '07, we steadily improved our friendship, but it was a bit odd, at least on my end. We'd basically arrived at the conclusion that our break-up was caused by young folks miscommunicating. In my head, my curiousity was peaked a little bit.....but nothing ever came of it, before we amicably loss touch amidst our busy lives. It's so much more to the story, but I've said all I rightfully can, because anyone who's known me for any length of time could probably identify who I'm discussing....All I can say is that the poem discusses my reaction to the news of her engagement, and a bit of rehashing of our history, just for context, just so you all can understand how .....unique this feeling I have is. To say anything more would be nothing more than airing out someone else's business...so without further ado...Congratulations (but I don't want an invitation, lol).

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I imagined this would be a little bit difficult
And a whole lot bit awkward
But just the same, I’m calling
Because at the end the day, we are still friends
Granted, I have only one friend I can say was my first
So…again, you can imagine what it must be like for me
….to say congratulations on your engagement

Whenever I think of you, I am the face of bewilderment
Drawn aback from the impact of our few months
I think about sitting at our tree on the waterfront in Virginia

And the night we shared your blanket
Huddled within each other on the cold concrete,
Counting stars
Drunk with unimportant discussion that actually mattered….
And falling asleep, remaining that way until the rain awoke us
And chased us back to your dorm

I think about those frigid nights that we’d sit amongst the escaping winters
Birthing what are now memoirs
My teeth chattered, yet I refused to take my jacket back
Afraid that we’d have to cut short our evening
It was on one of these oh so common nights that I crowned you
Topping you with my fitted cap
Cocking it to the left the way we do on the eastside
I claimed you
And you cried without tears
A true understanding, words were useless; our souls spoke
That may be one of the sweetest moments I’ve ever shared with any one

All of which makes the break up perplexing
Shy of first love only because my heart then was as it is now;
Incapable of that sort of vulnerability
Only moreso then
You embarked on an impossible task with me, given the circumstances
Which I will keep between you and I

I think of all that now…
And how none of it matters
What we could have been has been exhausted
Yet I honestly don’t think I could be any happier
That’s why when I scrolled passed your name in my cell phone
I was compelled to be the bigger man
I chuckled at the tentativeness in your voice when you answered
Ill at ease, I’m sure
As even our innocuous exchanges always tended to return to our favorite familiar topic
What happened to us?
What could have been had that happening not happened?
How naïve we both were, to think we could ever be just friends

But it’s okay
Trust, I’m only calling to wish you well
My reflection shows no envy or jealousy
My chest is not warmed by anger
My heart is not hurt, and it’s still beating
And I’m smiling
I wish my friend the best
And trust, my words have the utmost sincerity

Her Drug

Story Behind The Poem

Friends, I know it's been a minute since I've given you some new stuff, but fear not!!! Seriously though, I'm droppin off a new piece for y'all...another one that will give you a glimpse of me. The approach this time is a bit unique in that I'm not telling a story from my perspective, so much am I discussing a break up from the perspective of an ex.

We were best friends once upon a time, the we dated, then we broke up. There were periods of what was probably pure hate (at least on her end, I think) and then reconnections followed by other break ups...man, y'all know the deal, I'm sure everyone had has a sito similar to this one to some extent. You keep revisiting situations that you know can't or shouldn't go any further, probing for some avenue that you know doesn't exist.

At any rate, I recently have been....encouraged to go ahead an finish this poem. I'd been working on it a while, but never quite knew how to end it....the poem always felt like the middle of a story, like something else had to be done to have closure. But then I realized....there was no other place for us to go, and deep down she realizes that too. What we have now is what we have and it can go no further, there is no crisp, tight ending, or closure in any form you would expect it to take. So the poem itself, probably will leave you wanting something more...but shit, that's the way of relationships right?

And for you simple minded folks, this poem is about alot more than sex.....y'all nasty!!!


Owwie, Enjoy

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There was fire and heat
But no lighter, nor flames, nor any fumes
Still, she would always inhale…
As if in preparation
She would close her eyes and inhale
As it entered her, her body would relax as it worked its way through her stream
The discerning eye could see the injection consume her
And in an instance, from what was but a casual escape, an addiction was birthed

The moment that expectation and satisfaction merged,
She felt the rush and never again would be the same
Never again would she be able to….casually partake
She was unaware that even a small hit would cause her to revert
I knew otherwise

When face to face with her addiction, she’d fall unconscious
Leaving her present limp and untended
A slave to a selfish desire to be needed and wanted…..and content
And content she was, many times over
Yet, though she used in order to achieve her high
Certain, she soon convinced herself, she was, that she was not an addict
But a victim of the narcotic’s vengeance
An impossibility, a sane mind would recognize that much
But again….she was hazed
A queen in a world of purple clouds, green suns, and white waters
To some extent, she doubtlessly was but an instrument for satisfaction
But to impugn the substance, and not the craving, was to misplace her animosity
Because it was not the drug using her
But her, using herself, to suit her dependency…
…To dress her enslavement in golden shackles
To posture herself such that she felt justified, and not a fault, in the role she played in losing

She craved for what she once had that had heightened her standing, reminders
Substituting intense moments to again feel how she once felt, she was tripping badly
Other packages were too stepped on, too weak to please her
She recognized that strychnine was not a kick
It was not real, it was poison and she needed that raw
Thus, as she chased her high, she felt no shame


Once she was able to resist the callings
Seeing herself leaning, she recognized her addiction
And she ran away swiftly, fueled by anger, distraught by her reflection
For a day she was a champion; stronger than the high she longed for
But that was only a moment
The first of twelve steps, she’d go no further
She soon became okay with, if not satisfied with her reflection and her addiction
Until this point, it had never been so evident that the narcotic surpassed influencing her
It controlled her system
One with her being now, destined to forever have a hold on her
Overdosing may be her only way out
A suicide necessary to live..
Now if that ain’t a sickness…
And at the same time, the cure…
She needs that feeling, and I am her means
So she takes me because I take her…

She takes me because I take her…

She takes me because I take her…

She takes me…

Because I take her there

Why else would she not walk away?
Cause it damn sho’ ain’t love, right?

Gutted

Story Behind The Poem

Another creative piece....and a verrrrry old one at that. I think I wrote this back in like '05 or '06. I think it's pretty self explanatory. This was during my phase where I was playing around with techniques and my tool of choice was the best of them all.......METAPHOR. So yeh...I'm not talking about fishing....not for fish anyway.



Enjoy
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All it took was to see what I wanted
And I bit
Quick
Pulled out the water into a world I didn't know
It was promising
Yet bittersweet when I was dropped
Off the hook
Free
Only to be gutted
And left to feel empty inside

Lyrical Rhetorical Flourish #1

Story Behind the Poem

Not much deep behind this poem. If anything, it's just a showing of how writing helps me pass my spare time. The therapy it provides me. Had a lot in my head, and going back and reading it, I can remember what I had going on in my mind that time....but I'm not sure if an unknowing reader would be able to discern it.....which is cool for this piece. This piece is not important for what it is about, but more so for what it is; a glorified creative exercise. Probably moreso than the other stuff I posted, this piece shows HOW I work.

Enjoy


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So I'm sitting in front of this blank page, which becomes less blank as I scribe.

So, rather, I'm sitting in front of this increasingly less-blank page looking at my reflection. The more I write, the more I become me.

Sitting at this table, in front of this increasingly less-blank page looking at my reflection. Only to realize that should I choose to write my fate with a pencil, I will certainly fade away. Thus, I unabashedly choose to live my life with a pen, my errors plain to see. No regrets. Flowering in my being from the remnants of what I once was.

The verse is not fully born yet, nor am I.

So I put this pen to the paper after etching out some eargasmic type stuff. Now the paper is a mess, but at least my mind is no longer on the verge and I can remain faithful to myself.

So I'm sitting in front of this nearly full page, feeling pretty impressed by myself. And liking my reflection thus far. But I think I will leave the rest of the page unmarked. The gaps are accurate and now so is the incompleteness.

True

Reflection

I am not yet me




Piece.

Leave It Be, Walk Away...

Story Behind The Poem

I know the whole point of me doing this blog was to give yo all a peek of me on the inside. But I'm gonna punk out a bit because the subject of this poem is still a bit fresh, and possibly identifiable, so I'm going to be very vague in my description of the background story. Simply put, being one who generally doesn't become attached to anything or anyone much, I found myself in a sito where I found myself becoming attached to someone for.....reasons I still can't grasp; which probably explains it.... not knowing so much kept things fresh and interesting for me. Still the part, the mystery, that made me the most interested also frustrated me the most.

This poem is another one of my"say it aloud to see if it makes more sense when you hear it than when you say it" attempts....almost an extension to "Rooms". The sito was bouncing 'round my head so much that it was becoming a distraction, and I knew it had to be resolved, and the resolution wasn't coming from the source. Part of this was because this is probably one of the most genuine attractions I've ever had. Mind you, genuine is not a synonym for strong, because I've been more attracted to other women than I was to her....but dealing with her and seeing her ways almost made previous situations seem articifical....or small. This jawn was cute, but that was really insignificant after the first time we kicked it. To me , she truly felt like a puzzle piece to this picture I've been painting. Thus, I decided to leave it on the paper, and walk away and let the poem cry....cause I can't see em coming out my eyes...


Shit, I done said too much. I guess you get me after all.

Let me know what you think

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A ‘no’ would be so much easier to take
And honestly, I sometimes feel like that’s why I stick around- still
To be able to close the book
Not only subjectively knowing
But objectively certain as that what it all has been reduced to is an exhaustion of all possibility
Still there’s no answer, nor even a floating thought resembling ‘why’
I feel my way through the darkness, grazing my finger across it occasionally, I think
And it hurts too the touch—
Quite the opposite of you

Maybe some other time, some other place we could have shared that star crossed kind of love
The kind adolescent girls aspire to
But in the here and now, I can’t help but feel a day late
A dollar short
And sore
Because I know you’re settling for less
Not that I’m necessarily more, but damn
I hear the potential in your voice when you speak of those things that make you happiest
I see it in the smile of your eyes
And in the text messages I keep in my phone admittedly too long
Just so, at my leisure, I can remind myself that you feel something
Remind myself that you’re here for me
Your spirit precedes you wherever you go
Worthy of, deserving of, capable of having the world
Yet you have nothing

A classic dance of the foolish heart
It hurts to stay, but I can’t walk away
Too many poems have been written by others on the same matter
Which is why I feel so……. cliché
Generic and inauthentic
A destiny unfitting for an atypical, extraordinarily infinite adoration
Classically, characters of my particular fit are unwilling to sweeten upon anyone’s name
And concerning intent, my reflection is consistent with that fact
And I’ve fallen nonetheless

Piece.

Rooms

Story Behind The Poem

Okay, folks. This is another piece that is a bit dated, but I had to go ahead and post it because this piece, more than any other, was my motivation in wanting to start renaissancestyle. The poem took me a RIDICULOUSLY long time to write- 4 months-, especially given it's length. It took this long because, at least in comparison to the other stuff posted on the blog, it's the most personal and truthful and I wanted to make sure that I stated everything exactly as I meant it.

I call this piece "Rooms" and it deals with a bunch of loose ends that I had hanging around me. Specifically, the several pseudo-relationship type things that I had hanging around, as well as one particularly unhealthy friendship. For the most part, the ladies I'm talking about in this poem had become distractions (or at least the situation had become a distraction for me). This poem was my attempt to rid myself of these several distractions--whether it be by dismissing the lady, the situation, or allowing myself to put the situation on pause (or have it be put on pause, lol).

If you know me, you've probably heard me say something to the effect of, "Say it out loud and let the words fall back on my ear's it will make more sense hearing it than saying it." That quote was essentially my guiding light in writing this poem; to put my issues out into the atmosphere, and re-approach them as a observer as opposed to an involved party, and thus reach a resolution. In sorting out my my several messes, I wanted to properly define these varying involvements I had and place them into an appropriate 'room' in my life. So call this my sort it out poem. Each stanza addresses a different situation, each with its own unique history behind it and corresponding room destination.

Still there are so many folks flapping out here in the breeze........don't be surprised if there is a part two to this poem at some point & time


Enjoy

*******************

It’s awkward, sitting silently here
So many things already said
So many things needing to be said
So, so many things better left unsaid
All of those things being the same
And honestly it is a task to even have arrived at this moment
Back and forth, I have paced my options up and down this worn path
We’ve been here far too many times before
Traveling a bit further each time
Making each return to the way we were all the more trying
With others, my mind has told me to stay
Believing that a man able to forgive is bettered by not becoming a victim of his own anger
…A casualty of his hurt
…A fatality of others’ expectations
I can be a survivor of that sort no more
I want to be healthy, and away from that which ails me
Away from these faint walls, pale and spare
And the sad, cold stare pleading me to be who I was
I cannot be
Nor do I desire to….
…Be here
…Be with you
…Be in this room
So although, I wish you the sweetest of scents and the most vivid of sights
I won’t again trace that path
I can’t
Instead I will exit and close this door, knowing that the person on the other side is not a friend
Nor has she ever been one

I exit, ambling down the corridor
And you, outside quarters reserved for few
Standing…….Taut?
Uncomfortable, even
Almost out of duty as if you’ve convinced yourself that you should be here
But presumptive and bold, nonetheless
But, no
We both know this is not your room
And not even your fullness could influence me to believe otherwise
Nor does your sway sway me
You’ve yet to persuade yourself, I’m sure
You belong with the others
So I enter alone

And I am certainly surprised to have a visitor
Unlike the face guarding the door down the way
You’re not a stranger
Frequent, but never here long
Mostly just casual conversations underneath the threshold
But you sit, here and now
Legs crossed, thighs dimpled
You’re comfortable, surprisingly
Wagging your invitation, tauntingly
Stroking your key, knowingly
And for sometime, I entertain you
Not a fancied production, by any means
But I entertain you, in the vein of toleration
I feign the gleam my eyes once had
And the perk in my stature, almost out of habit
But mechanics, no matter how patterned, are never genuine
No matter how familiar the routine
Luke-warm water will never set my heart afire
The ashes have settled
And I just don’t feel the way I once did
You want me when you want me
And honestly, I’m not pressed to be had
At one time, you may have belonged here
But now…..
Maybe we missed our train
Maybe some tomorrow is our day
…But today is not some tomorrow
So, you can hold on to your invitation
It’s dated, but it still means something
But let me get that key back
Silly me, I got to be more careful about giving those out
But baby, you don’t have to leave the building
I got just the room for you down the hall
Lot’s of greens and blues
And when you go
Don’t forget to lock the door behind you

And now I sit alone
In this room not intended for such solitude
Consuming myself with thoughts of that unfamiliar face down the way
Truth be told she is not a stranger at all
Not entirely
I am very familiar with those parts which she makes available
And to that extent, I adore her to no end
Yet outside the door of this room
It was not she lingering, taut
Nor was she waiting, thighs dimpled
Instead, it was she , standing distanced and remote, guarding other chambers
Thinking, deciding, dancing…
Dancing back and forth over the line I once toed with fear
Before I threw myself into the wind, as if I were caution
With reckless abandon and indifference as to my heart’s safety
Still, she moves no further than where she is
Nor does she exit
Needless to say, this standstill is awkward
I’ve given too much of myself to walk away
But have not received enough to justify staying
I sit, drunk with anticipation
Knowing she’s outside pacing
Unsure if she will ever knock
I’ve taught my heart how to beat slow
And I’ve found a peace in its rhythm
And with it, a willingness I was unaware I possessed
...to hold the door ajar a bit longer


Piece.

Bye

Story Behind The Poem

If any of you all read "Wax Poetic", then you won't be surprised that much of the feed back I've heard was do I write anything other than love poems...or do I write erotica. The posting of this poem is a response to that...It's a tad bit dated. I wrote it after watching Spike Lee's "Crooklyn" over this past summer. I was moved by the scene of how the girl, Troy dealt with learning her mother died...and it touched a spot with me because I nearly lost my mother last year. I got to thinking what would life be like if I actually did lose my mother. I've always prided myself on being a strong individual, but I honestly don't think that I could have dealt with that type of thing....and this is a 25 year old man speaking. Troy was a 12 year old child. So In thinking what it would be like for me dealing with that, I began to think about how a child in Troy's position dealt with that feeling.

I tried to focus on that moment when losing someone always seems to hit hardest....after the funeral, when everyone you've ever know is around, except your loved one. in terms of prospective, I tried to approach from the sympathetic mindset of someone on the outside looking in at the child, who can barely fathom what the child is feeling

Enjoy

*********

How does one tell a child things will get easier when she is the star of the funeral?
All eyes on her, waiting for the first tear to fall
All arms waiting to rush to catch her as she falls

Hand and foot, they wait on her
They make her plates, though she has no appetite

And it honestly feels as if there is no sunshine after she is gone
And you can’t tell the child otherwise
Even as she stares out the window and watches the night turn into dawn and into day

And the weight is so heavy
And the child never had the chance to prepare
When life was as it always was on Tuesday
How do you deal with a Wednesday when there will never again be a day like yesterday?

How the fuck do you deal with a day like that?

Piece.

Wax Poetic (A Moment)

Story Behind the Poem

By defintion "wax poetic" means to become increasingly verbose and romantic in speech...to become more and more like a poem. I titled this work "Wax Poetic" as a reflection of the overly verbose and showy language I used to discuss a pretty typical occurence. Though the entire concept of meeting a girl in the club is non-eventful, for the most part....I think we've all had that moment where you've been blown away by someone when you met them, and while in retrospect you've been able to temper your enthusiasm, at the time you first met, that small moment felt much, much, much bigger. That's the concept I wanted capture here.

I've had the 'Wax Poetic' concept in my head for a while, but was unsure as to the subject I wanted to wax poetic on. That was until I caught myself in a real life small moment, that I knew was small, but felt like it was big nonetheless. Accordingly, I went for the gusto with this one---I wanted to make it feel like everything was in slow motion, and generally, just make a big production out of something that, I reiterate, is very mundane. Thus, though gaudy and brassy lingusitically, this piece is pretty straight forward, and loosely based on real life, 10/10/09, a night at Luckie Lounge in the A....


******************

The best thing about the club these days is the little eye contact game.

You know, what I’m talking about. Through a crowd of dozens, the simple meeting of two sets of eyes momentarily slows the earth’s spin on its axis.

Wondering if it was meant for you, that which is uncertain quickly becomes evident as her gaze lingers that half second longer than chance or coincident would allow.

You turn your head away, without really looking away, giving her the profile of your good side, confident that your ten dollar line up is earning its keep.

She taps one of the girls she came with….her evaluator, her sounding board. And out the corner of your eye, you see the friend look up at you and then smile back at her girl, a single nod.

Approval.

Having passed the test, you move through the crowd a bit, positioning yourself in close enough range to grab that dance with her when a worthwhile song comes on.

After all, it ain't no use in talking to her if she can't move a lil bit, you know.

Praying for the DJ to play something worth dancing too, bullshit like the “Stanky Leg” or “Turn My Swag On” won’t do….not for this here moment.

Not with this here woman.

All the while, still playing freeze tag with your eyes...you sense that she knows what you’re waiting on….and why. And her girls, sense the smae thing, stepping back half a foot, to see what you gon' do. They're enjoying the show.

And then the DJ throws on that new The Dream "Sweat It Out", and you say to yourself "Bet"...so you work your way to her and.....

…some other nigga creeps up from behind. "Shit". That's what I get for bullshiting, you say to yourself. And you start to step away...

But then she looks up, but this time it ain't eye contact. Your eyes lock. And she's dancing with him, rocking slow, looking at you.

She’s teasing you, acknowledging your frustration with a wry smile. And so you play along, finding yourself swaying to her rhythm...

The DJ has switched to “Knock You Down”….and while you’re not quite there, you can dig the song a bit more because of this moment.

And in the middle of her dancing with this other cat, while your eyes are locked, you nod at her to come where you are...

And for some reason she step's away from him.....mid dance . Rude

You'd swear the dance floored divided as she strided to where you were, as if she was one of the chosen ones questing for freedom.

Like the Red Sea, said she, "Hi"...and for the first time you take your eyes of her face, eye her thighs, and smile....she is shy, but fly...

Extending your hand, to the brown, 5'7'' inch brick of a woman., she graciously accepts. And commences to rocking and swaying.

And it is then and now which you are convinced that the DJ is on your side....because she tell's you that "Under" is her song.....

And you'll be damned if the DJ didn't put that shit on.

So the dance starts slow....searching for the medium and pace between your rhythm, hers, and the beat's.

You keep a respectable distance, clearly on her, but not grinding. She turns her backside away from you and gives you her front.

Eyes lock once more....and you responded by dropping your hands to the small of her back, coaxing her to meet you in the middle...

She crosses her wrists behind your neck and obliges...and now you move only to each other's rhythm, the music now an afterthought....

As the DJ works his way through “Number One”, “Think I Invented Sex” and the like, the dancing becomes more…..suggestive.

You can feel the heat and weight of the DJ’s eyes on you.

He’s watching you both, and rooting for you…..He got to be, because they don’t play slow sets like this in clubs in the A that often.

And it all is so right, right? You could be in this moment forever and not know or care.

You lose all connection to the concept of time or the perception of action.....so no doubt you're curious when you awake to see her sleeping.

Breathing...and dreaming beside you.

Being, beside you.

And you convince yourself that the calmness that you feel looking at her, in this state, is poetry.

And perhaps you did wax poetic a bit in the recounting of the tale......

But your eyes did really lock.....and you really did dance....and you really did feel...and you really did get the number...

And there is a tomorrow......so it's not so much waxing poetic, as it is speaking into existence.

Piece.