To Be Treated

You look trapped in your pictures,

You cannot exceed the frame,

He grips your side with a smirk,

You look down smiling at the dirt,

Let’s be honest, it’s obvious you’re hurt,

It’s obvious that what goes on at home must not be seen at church,

He’s obviously abusive,

And there’s a reason why he wants to keep your relationship completely exclusive.

 

You have like 2 friends, your two older sisters,

And when you need something, both of their responses couldn’t be swifter,

But you never say you need anything,

Even though you’re hungry for validation,

You need no other external influence to bring you to the realization-,

That his love is blisters,

He gets jealous when you talk to men at work…

 

Transactional communication coated with copious aggression,

He always has to teach you something to make sure you learn your lesson,

At least three punches a night,

Not a fight,

Because you never hit back,

You just wait for him to finish and you apologize for the slack,

Your face is perfect,

Too perfect,

Mounds of makeup,

Smile is overexerted.

Stories you gotta make up,

Wearing foundation at the gym,

A relationship polluted with glum and grim-

Representations of control,

The society advises you to step off the battlefield before the battlefield takes its irreparable toll,

You’re a glutton for pain, so of course you’ll stay,

He’ll eventually snap one day,

And crush your head on the wall,

Your sisters would be at your funeral crying at your call-

To not speak to your family about the throes of your fall,

He would run away…well crawl-

Into a hole to evade the police,

Your body would be left on the bloody floor with your name still on the lease,

Just because no one taught you how men should treat.

 

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…

 

Dirty Strings

The blight in those fearless eyes,

Cutting blooms from plants,

And love from romance.

 

The blight in those fearless eyes,

Giving rot to my precious,

While gripping close to her heart.

 

Dare her to dance on the strings pulled by fingers,

The overbearing over-blaring opera singer-

Of her present,

Decide to build her future for her,

Give no regard to the desires of the subject.

 

She is family,

The closest there is,

The only there is,

But she is not theirs,

And she is not his,

She is herself,

Owned by her actions,

Forgotten by her inactions,

She is precise,

And has been given her rightful opportunity to build her own life,

She’s been guilted twice,

By the edicts of puppet masters making sure she doesn’t still the show; keeping her alike.

 

If she wields her feet to step, they shall,

If she wields her sleep to slept, it shall,

The power of breaking from the shell,

Of her elders’ shadows.

 

Precious Spring bloom,

Not arid, not trite,

Never taken by the blight,

Of their fearless eyes.

 

I promise the pressure will be a prospect of the past,

Just step.

 

2020

They enthused about the idea of massive genocide,

Slamming their broken bottoms of their flaming forks into the ground,

They disowned the colored women they once sleep beside,

Shortly after those same women tried to run aww and were chased and captured by hounds.

 

Year 2020, the black no longer the minority,

The pail ones feel the falling of their economic superiority,

Convinced that us blacks intended to start this fire rekindled for centuries,

Convinced we were not meant to integrate, that we worn enemies.

 

The phobias spill from their chests and cover the streets,

The parts not covered by their stomping feet

Their attempts to enervate-

The base of society –

Further snapped in two,

Head honcho gringo screaming provocations to the foolish folk,

The community crashed, the tension broke,

Law enforcement struggling to cradle the clashing clans,

Action on one, response on the other hand.

 

This is the future of the dramatic few,

Wanting nothing but continued violence and historic residue,

To drench the streets.

 

There are us, the unaffected ones,

 

 

 

 

Clinging to the reality of the issue,

It only exists internally, bound to our ribs,

Hatred actually has nothing to give-

But dissension and upheaval crushing the sorrowful communities zeal to love,

 

So I chose, to not talk about racism and keep it trapped inside those rotting corpses until it starkly affects my surrounding brethren,

I am not oppressed.

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.

Flame

He’s embarrassed she can’t leave the room silently,
He asks her where the fire is,
She says” in you”,
She’s kindles the burn by spitting gasoline on his chest,
She says he’s too hot to touch,
He says not yet,
She says “you need to chill”,
He’s says “I’m soaking wet”,
She yells “you gotta chill”
He says ‘I’ll try my best”,
The door slams and he grabs a fork,
He stabbed into-
Unroasted pork,
He risks for fun,
She spits for sport,
They crash and burn,
His coddled flame,
In the end…
He’s still to blame?

The Plow

I’ve already fathomed the desert there’s no reason to rethink, I’ve taught her how to use the tracker to plow the dirt because she kept complaining her hands hurt. She yelled “relationships are too much work!” And I silently watched her plow. The rattle of the tracker’s transmission scattered the desert pigeons feeding of the remnant of the rot and we’d sit and listen. The beaks would beat at minimal meat, fighting amongst their ranks on which nothing to keep, this would last for hours, I would stare for minutes, the struggle would lose its power, and then become folly, the birds respond oddly trying to make something from rot, my girl keeps plowing…in the same spot.