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BROKEN

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Whole feels like a memory,
Dipped in molasses.
Bitter-sweet and ungraspable with the tenuous hold of hindsight.

Something missed,
Wondered at,
Reflected upon,

Forgotten.

Are we damaged because we are broken?
Did we break because we were already damaged?
Was it some deep fault shaped as we were molded?

Could it have gone any other way?

Can it still?

Would we want it to?

How many more cracks can be filled with golden mortar?
Before that which we become,
Is no longer akin in nature to that what we were.

Whole,
A bittersweet memory, Dipped in molasses,
Ungraspable by the tenuous hold of hindsight.

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Missing you

Old nights,

Long nights,

Hot nights,

Slow nights with no laughter.

Missing those,

Long meandering talks,

Those hands over mine,

Those moments.

On those long days,

Heavy on the spirit days,

Those I wish it would all be over days,

Missing those,

Arms around my shoulders,

Your strength against my back.

That silent compassion,

That warmth without patronage.

On those cool evenings,

Lazy sunsets,

Those magenta golden murels painted on the western sky.

Missing those warm eyes,

Those brilliant smiles,

The laughter.

I miss you.


Bee and Me

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She was sitting on my back step,

At first we went our way in mutual ignorance,

I guess she was too tied up in thought to notice me,

I imagine she, like every other working woman,

had enough on her plate.

I stepped light, unlike me her sting is serious.

She turned and regarded me,

I froze,

She flew away and I went my way,

I wonder if she ponders me,

like I am pondering the bee on my back step.

 


Sorry Don’t…

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Sorry don’t…sooth now-a-days, don’t placate.
Ordinary word, for an ordinary lie.
Regret has simply been disassociated with it’s utterance.
Remorse, something that should go with, but lost in the acceptance of it.
You breath easy now, that it’s taken and accepted, now you’re free to do it again.


A King for the taking

 

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Now taking a King,
Needed, one brotha grown into his skin,
and liking it there.

One not prone to calamitous attacks of egotistical self indulgence,
capable even of giving this devil her due…
respect.

To be returned in kind and ten fold,
A man who possesses a King’s ransom in truth,
A true master in possession of the knowledge of his own weakness.
And in so is able to appreciate the cracks which form a granite woman.

A capable brotha, able to shoulder proudly the responsibility of a woman’s love.
One who finds pleasure in her mind as well as her body,
Willing to bond in spirit with his Queen.

Now taking a King,
A queen in process of building her nation seeking conversation,
Consultation of unmitigated condor,
Was there ever a light that sparked deeper passion?

Seeking a creature of purposeful determination,
an enduring presence,
Not so fickle as to be seduced by the cheapness of a change in self definition,
as offered by the bosom of another.

Knowing it is so much delusion bought on by an inability to harvest pride from his life doings.

Seeking a King, hoping to find shelter in his arms,
as his heart is her fortress,
and their bodies temples of mutual exhalation, submission to faith,
In his steadfast dedication to meaningful things.

A hard won Crown seeking a Kingly companion.

 

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A Tragic Destitution

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She wants to fall into him,
To lose herself in the feel of his lips,
In his scent,
In the way his stubble scrapes across her skin when he tastes her.

She wants to be surrounded by him,
cocooned in his warmth,
On ever plain of their them-ness.

She wants to be taken by him,
made to feel more essential that air,
To know that she alone inspires the wanton that stoked the fire in his eyes.
the muse of his moans, his Persephone.

She wants to know him,
To be that kind of intimate it is so easy to be in the absence of love.

She wants to be wanted,
To encompass and enfold him within herself,
Want to metamorphose into this new being,
By being herself within him, while he occupies her.

She want to be owned.
Unmistakably, uninhibitedly claimed,
In word and action in a way that is…
Unrevokable.

It’s a tragic destitution to want so much.

To be so without center, insufficient, alone.

But oh what poetry to find that merging,
To have faith so richly rewarded,
To be so treasured.

She simply wants all of him.


Dear Sir,

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Dear Sir,

I wish I had her voice,
Then I could emote these feeling clearly enough,
To capture both your attention and your interest.

I wish I had his flow,
That once if only once could I be worth your adoration?

I wish I had her newness,
Or is it haplessness,
Inexperience maybe?

But then I am become my insecurities,
Or are they yours?

What’s worse,
Bitchy or crazy?
Crazy or bitchy?
Jealous, Fucked up or defeated?

I wish I could see you,
When they aren’t watching.

Is there ever a moment when it isn’t your inclination to appear,
Interesting, intelligent, or superior?

Or is that all you are,
A facade of shit well handled?

Well, sir.
Dear sir.
Fuck you.

I  am naught in need of an idol to worship

Yes Sir,
Dear sir,
Keep your noose,
And your favor.

Blessed evening and Goodnight.

 


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