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

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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

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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....


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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.