Make It

Typical talking,

Watch! Mother is running to her expectation again,

The heavy hell in heated hollers shakes my bed frame,

Typical taking…communicate in ways that makes me regret ever I said anything,

I can feel the fire from underneath the door, and skin on my teeth and that unholy war,

Dripping from her dreamy pores like acid pouring on the broken floor,

Mama’s broken gates, don’t open no more,

Father’s screaming speech kills the hope that we keep far from his sight,

Her heart bleeds when they fight,

She has her wings but will refuse to take flight,

Tonight she’ll choose to make right-

12 years of mistakes,

12 years of sweet nothings disguised as slurred hate,

She will dance, and dance until her ankles break,

And finally have time to talk speak to her son.

 

Typical talks,

I’ve seen her analytical mind-spikes stalk the heaven of her dreams…

The truth in realism a little bit harsher than it seems,

I’ll sleep again and hope to wake to peace,

She’s finally dancing alone finally made her peace.

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Sky

There are certain platitudes unfamiliar to the raging optimists,

With emotion, they dislocate their arms stretching their palms to dry sky,

Dripping eyes black spots, sun front, blue backdrops,

Go blind, go blind,

Won’t stop, can’t stop,

Staring,

Strict, a very strict bearing.

 

The sky forgets,

Believe the destination to which you would like your praises to reach is fixed,

Raving optimists,

The good still exists,

Good still persists,

What ever I am convinced-

Has taken ahold,

Raise my hands, burn my skin bold,

Burn my skin gold,

The story my sin told,

To me,

For me, to recognize my actions are free,

From me.

 

My fucking arms hurt,

My elbows pop,

My tilted neck’s sore,

Up, up and away,

One day, not too far from now,

My dedications will drift away until the sky cries back.

Liquid Salt

There’s only people here,

7 perfumes, or caloans, I can’t tell,

Well “colognes”, I can’t spell,

Tear…tear gas,

Smells like armpits and fresh ass.

 

What are they covering up,

I think it runs a little deeper than body odor,

Maybe self-disappointment…the type facilitated by manipulative people,

The type we think simply goes away as we get older,

And then it doesn’t…so we invest in stay-away spray and cook in it in a social oven,

They’re spraying their lower spirit trying to convince the crowd that they’re approachable.

 

No air current, frozen as fear does us,

The metro railing providing a cool beat that takes us,

Just for a second,

Away from these metal cages,

The brakes hit, the metal rages,

Screeches, teaches us that we can trust our sense to judge our surroundings,

Paranoia binding our palms to the bars,

Around the cars the railroads wrap,

8 steel tunnels the rail cars trap,

Us within ourselves waving like meaty blades of grass,

Tear…tear gas,

Salty armpits and fresh ass consume my early morning.

 

 

 

 

Thaw

It would hurt me to see that sun I’ve run from for so long,

…cold heart, a burning back,

A burning lack of visibility of what dreams would occur if I bound myself to my happiness,

I used to fear being happy.,

Searching corridors and springing around corners for the next disappointment,

That time more personal, that time harsher,

I would tremble with my inability to accept the rapid upheaval of emotion unearthed from my tormented past,

I would keep myself attached to my twisted upbringing and spin out of control for months on end,

I would often fantasize about the glory in the end-

To the swinging pendulums beating at my ribs.

 

I used to scream when I needed to be heard,

Poisoning my statements instead of polishing my words,

Unwanted attention struck my tender back like loose lashes of slave whips,

With each crack, I would weep in mind,

Crying tears of thoughts my actions would rebuke.

 

I…had a golden sun holding an unloaded handgun to the back of my head,

It wasn’t the truth in death but the fear of dying dead,

That made me turn around.

 

Single One

Fickle the intrigues of single men leeching to she bodies for that sugary life support,

Draining the effects of those glass touches to which shatter on contact,

Four snipes of ungodly accurate dialogue from his unwanted guests would snatch his bloated ego from its hallowed throne,

The wandering species allergic to the purported arrests of undeniable commitment-

Flock among themselves to combat the uninvited hopeful,

Damn any woman willing to build an empire with only the sighs of my aspirations under the mumbles of my tongue; be damned myself.

Your Lives

I cannot wait any longer,

It feels,

Just one more second,

Could splint my heels.

 

I…we have walked years,

And talked about a form of hope-

So much that it caused a ringing in our ears-

We’d try to wash out with unwanted social soap.

 

In attempt to dissociate ourselves from our annoying reality,

We firmly placed ourselves in the life of others,

We would read their books and follow their press like a high school varsity team…

We would not truly benefit from it,

Not one bit it would seem,

Their corrupted heartbeat would become ours,

And their blood in our bloodstream,

We’d take their path through the darkened cave,

And never live a second of our own lives until we feel the cold embrace of our lonely graves.

 

We cannot wait any longer to mention,

The blatant stupidity in ignoring ourselves,

Wrapped up, wrapped up tight,

In their skies and dim daylight would cause the cold to creep-

Into the veins the frost would seep,

Eating away at warm meat we keep locked under our skin,

We know we are products of our failures and heralds of our sin,

But I really believe we can learn to wish again,

If we got impatient about what we wanted.