Moves

Despite the throes of shouldering malignant devices,

I am still fond of my resolve,

Spades of incessant onslaughts sought to drain my hope from me like blood to a grateful needle,

I have confessed my power to conquer the professedly impossible to the world,

I bested the wretched with flames and held again begotten peace in hand,

While terrors of the night rocked me in my sleep I found solace in the mental chaos and threw doubt to the dancing flames,

Hands burnt to char and wrists bruised with chain.

 

The embraces of tranquil relapse massage the trite irrationality-

Never beyond my grip of sanity,

Intelligence of oneself putting shields to the trying tyrant,

Armies in thought clashing blades with the beasts,

Possessing advances without defeat,

Again, and again into incredible escapes,

I have found my definition of what means emotionally safe,

I can no longer stand on fragile ground holding eternity in my hands,

This is a story of my triumph.

 

Days have stopped counting backwards,

The sun has stopped startling the bats,

The smell of stability no longer churns the morning stomach,

I am no longer hungry for love,

I am no longer blind to place,

I am no longer slung asunder,

And I am no longer ungrateful to God’s grace.

I am thankful.

Broken Light

I died in my dream last night,

Not pleasantly no no not pleasantly,

I was crushed by a curse,

The weight of my culture scraped into my swollen shoulders,

The weather made it worse,

The sky would cry its stolen ice boulders hoping the ground would hurt,

The vibrations would call my knees to ground,

The sound,

Would cause my ears to ring,

The debris,

Would cause my breathing to act up and my skin to sting,

I had a memory of living toward greater means,

I wanted to thrive and yearned to be seen,

I had aspirations, motivations, and death dreams,

Every morning and every night,

I would speak to myself in the mirror trying to kindle that internal light,

When it died down the darkness stopped the beating on my chest,

I got swamped with fatigue and dived into disinterest,

Chronically depressed,

Eating beside my own shit and sleeping atop my own mess,

I could not see beyond my sight,

Every morning and every night,

I would talk to myself in a building’s window to try and rekindle that light.

 

I did not know what it meant to be spiritually blind,

I was always the only person on Earth and could not stand being around people,

I would scoff at the church steeples,

Call the church people “sheeple”,

And move on with my dirty day.

 

My people would stare at me and my beggin’ hands,

Giving pity and pennies,

Two days have passed on an empty corner and questioning faces.

 

Plague

I had a dream that I lost her,

The light left and I was forced to rekindle my flame in this new darkness,

I had a dream that I saw her, bewildered and heartless,

We had to be stuck in the same cage,

Because I could feel her breath on my shoulder,

The breath began to go colder and her eyes began to glow bright red,

She was trying to wake the dead-

Feeling of abandonment but bred injustice instead,

She was between two nexuses I didn’t care about,

I began to shout-

In the dark,

Trying to keep my spark,

From being consumed by her stark-

Attempts to swallow me whole.

 

I woke up,

To the bells of my alarm clock,

Completely sweaty, completely still in shock,

I could not believe,

That another person convinced me I didn’t need to breath,

That another person made my wants feel like my needs,

I couldn’t believe,

That I would be force-fed an understanding I simply could not conceive,

A plight of reality of knowledge,

A pain held on my ribs,

I got up to work…

Getting dressed with my eyes closed…

 

Russian Roulette

She’s Russian roulette,

A partially loaded chamber that with each spin you have exercise liquid self- honesty regarding your desire for it to be the bullet or not,

Keep feeding the gun,

Verbal disputes on domestic battlegrounds you must try to not burn down your own house,

Add a bullet, put the greasy barrel in your mouth,

Yank the trigger,

Let out a shout bordering disappointment.

 

His friends tell him they can smell the gun powder on her like overzealous perfume,

He said he doesn’t mind the smell,

He’s told us he couldn’t bear the heat but he doesn’t mind the hell,

He keeps getting burnt,

But the sex is good,

She keeps cutting into this chest,

And can’t practice what she’s learnt,

She’s a gun…

Partially loaded,

But loaded nonetheless,

Gun,

He’ll keep feeding her bullets,

He’ll keep pulling the trigger,

We’ll keep warning him,

But eventually he’ll kill himself,

With red shit splattered all over the walls of her favorite place,

The snake to chase the time away,

The time be waste-

The day away,

Bloody whites,

Post lovely nights.

Lice

I used to get beaten in my sleep from emotional dreams,

I would jolt up in cold turmoil and try to rock myself back to sleep.

 

I was never afraid to wet the bed with the tears taken from me,

Giving substance to the memories of unsightly abuse,

My eyes had no other use,

But to give life to my imagination of cutting my oppressor into two,

Or three,

I was never ever afraid to wet the bed…with the tears that were taken from me.

 

Years would pass,

I would…I would laugh,

The memories would last,

I could not would not forget,

There was no space for positivity to fit,

Space-less pieces of meat and shit,

Forced into a giant head,

Tiny lice’s proclivities to my bed…

 

 

Once the decade touched,

I wanted to move, but too much,

I wanted to get better,

I wanted to change the proverbial mental weather,

That I’ve keep for years,

That I kept tied intimately with my fears,

I hated their stain,

I could see it every time I experienced pain,

I wanted to kill everything I touched,

I wanted to improve, but not too much,

I couldn’t lose the person I thought I found,

In the mirror of yesterday staying into the presently unsound,

I wanted to win,

So…I did.

 

 

 

Maker

 

Philosophical mood swings,

Realization of dismal truths aid their existences,

My hands versus hers,

My paranoia versus her sound mind,

My inaction versus her crafting gestures,

Daily aiding the building of empires,

Constructing the throne of her own,

There is a calling,

Down to her bones,

To make a net for those falling,

And make sure they know they’re not alone,

I fancy not to be another one of those people.

I am faced with a reflection that burns into my mind,

Sigils of futility in the shadow of her monuments,

We are a minuscule expressions of time,

Forced to exist in the present tense,

We are made to make that that transcends our temporary existence,

Her dedication versus my persistence,

As her hands continue to craft my own,

There is a calling,

Right down to her bones…

My lady is magnificent,

Pristine and virile,

Mountainous and everlasting like landscape of the springs,

But we are made of many things,

All different in effect,

But I greatly fear-

What she hasn’t built yet.

10 Feet of Hearing

Hi, whenever you get a chance outside the poisonous walls of the wretch.

I would like to explain the pain of the consequences you haven’t met yet,

Birthed from your inattention turned torment,

And your civility that’s grown dormant…

Let her explain the reasons for her filth to your gullible ears,

Screaming explanations off-key,

Her duplicity triumphant as your second X chromosome disappears,

She scoffs and I sneeze,

Because I’m allergic to fake hair and real weave,

I’m running a day care and she won’t leave…

Damaged be the ones who constantly put their wants over their needs,

If I could, I would hang her off from a 10 Storie building just so she can feel the breeze,

And then use both of my hands to nonchalantly scratch both of my knees…

These walls are fucking thin,

And if we were ever to talk in depth I wouldn’t know where to begin-

And the conversation would never end,

I would convict you of your sins,

And you’d be in a world of ungodly trouble as the Devil continues to smile,

All while-

She rests infirmly in your arms,

Waiting for the right time to do you do you harm,

You’re still falling for the wench and choking under her charm,

Every night…

When I’m 10 feet away through a thin wall trying to have a conversation with the one person that make me feel safe in the midst of all chaos,

Ya know what?, I don’t want to talk,

I want you to suffer for your inaction, inattention, inconsiderateness, inconsistency, and insolence,

All while you choke to death on your arrogance,

So I know where I would start in speech…at the ending.