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.

 

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.

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.

Delon

She got into a minivan,

He drove off, like fast,

She looked at a million mini strands-

Of browned stained grass,

The outsiders stared into the van-

With dark tinted glass,

The little lady loosens laces-

Of her stained soccer shoes,

Ol’ Little lady making faces at-

Her trained boxer bruised,

She squeals with her tongue,

He slams on brakes,

Her body goes numb,

She jumps quick as she wakes,

Outside a dumpster on Delon,

She stands and her waist,

Drenched in dried white from what he’s done,

She searches around this place,

Screaming loudly with half lung…

I can feel the tension still stagnate in my legs,

I can still see the imprint of where the seat bit her head,

I can smell the pain on the top of her breath,

I call still feel vibrations as she dances near death,

I reach high into the sky parked beside the blue van,

Grabbing shards of myself to build a new man,

I stare at God for minutes on end,

He stares back at me casting consequence to sin.

The sirens are screaming the sirens are screaming,

The day has came down, the night now has meaning,

I turn to my right and see white red lights,

The cop sprung out of his vehicle and read me my rights,

I pray in silence in hope that God might,

Give me a reason to take my own life.

The Wolf

He’s going to try his old methods,

To obfuscate the throng of rural people in order to capitalize on their idiocy,

He’s present himself “holy than thou” to make them believe that they’re protected,

From the ones insidiously-

Supplying moxy to the wretched.

He’ll speak in riddles,

They’ll hang to his cloak,

The attendance will the triple,

The governed once believed it a joke,

His discourses are brittle-

As he forces his hearers to choke…

He’s a monster,

In warming mantles,

They invite his new blight that gives life to parasites,

Granting poison via tongues,

And confusion to the young,

Good peace forever none,

Speak now forever done,

Promise the damaged forever fun,

In lands of nights and never suns,

The poor-man’s intrigue,

Latching tightly to the folly,

Music to the ears,

And verve to the body.

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.