Oops

I had began to forget all about my poor blog):  I have tons of poetry that I need to post on here.  I'll get it done(:

My Favorite Position

(Calm down.  It's not nearly as suggestive as it sounds). =)

My favorite position is every situation that I’m being tempted.
Temptation opens my legs in his bed of life and I just wanna let him hit it.
Yes, he's gifted; and I want him to share all his spiritual riches.
But he spent it all at the bar on a shot of lust on the rocks even though all he did was sip it.
When he realized he spit it back out.
But it was too late the taste was already in his mouth.
He entered my tomb disguised as a womb, invited death into his room.
Infections soon bloom spreading fumes that sweep his innocence away like a broom.
HE'S DOOMED!
But he just can’t resist the assistance.
His body shaking on his knees at the foot of his bed asking God to assist with the resistance.
But instead, he gets another silent night and I don't mean  Christmas.
I mean the silence that swarms your mind revealing guilt, he never thought it would hurt this much.
It has him questioning the purpose of women, are we a gift or a burden?
So far a burden.
It’s like I put the men in a cage with food and tell them not to eat it.
Proverbs 5, he reads it, but still the sex he" REALLY" needs it.
But he can’t feed it, unless he blames it on the first move.
Alone in a room I'm taking off my shoes, now we're playing by my rules.
At first he was so cool before I melted the ice with my tongue.
Letting me step to the mic while he listened to the song that I sung.
But he stopped after he heard the first note, because it sounded so unfamiliar.
I told him, “I can heal you” but finally his eyes could see pass the figure.
My soul was revealed but his wasn’t compatible.
So he ran for the light like a scared little animal.
But the damage is done looking forward at the pain that must be given.
Now he's in the presence of my love with a dagger of bad news while I'm getting ready to pursue my next victim
already assuming the next position....
 This should be fun.

Let's Take a Trip

(Lol I got bored). =)

Let's take a trip through imagination.
Where every kiss,
Every touch.
Takes you to the highest high,
Of sensations.
A total liberation,
From suffocating vines,
That bind,
And keep you from the realization.
That you are young,
You are free,
You are beautiful and lovely.
You are everything I want you to be.
A miracle,
And a dream.
Now kiss me,
Touch me.
Let's go to ecstasy.

Poetry

(The title is a bit cliché I know, but I'm not now nor have I ever been good at coming up with titles.  Hopefully you find the poem itself more intriguing). =)

I've come to the conclusion that WE are one.
We don't write in words, but in scripts and verses.
We separate our diversity from others.  Now We.
Are like no other.
We move in a new direction.
And if there was ever such a thing,
We ARE perfection.
And everything that flows is our reflection.
And this is what divides us from THEM,
into our own persona's.
Now on judgement day, the judge will look at me and say,
"Did you believe in me?" 
My response, "I did not, and this I am guilty of your honor."
But you see, I had all these spears being thrown at me from Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa,
to Christmas day and Christmas Eve. 
How was I to know which one to believe?
And it wasn't 'til I died that I realized you were more than just a fairytale.
You were a novel I couldn't yet read.  A lyrical book, filled with more than a thousand hooks, reaching melodies that carried out way beyond my vocal abilities.
And it wasn't 'til I died that I realized this is why you installed these lyrics mechanically inside of me.
You were more than what was ever preached to me.
You were my pain.  You were my happiness.
You allowed the alphabet to flow through me and create passages
written so poetically.
You.  This Man.  This Poetry.

And then I fell in love with You.  This Man.  This poetry.
See WE. We have this sort of unspoken love.  The kind where WE don't have sex, and WE don't make love.
And still.  Our love is love.
We lay on this bed of papyrus paper as my pen caresses you and your ink undresses me.
And then we lay as one on this papyrus sheet.
Now I am impregnated.
The thoughts that burst inside of me from you,
travel through my veins.
Nourishment from soul, protection driven by hope.
As this being, this life, grows inside; I feel strength, I feel high, and for once I feel alive.
And damn, I know I'm not a bird and yet I feel as if I could fly.
Could all that really be the truth?  What they taught me in church?
But in the midst of my thoughts, I began to give birth.
As quickly as it began, it was over.
As soon as I held her, I knew that I loved her.
Created from me and You.  This Man.  This Poetry.

I looked down at her.  This art.  Our daughter.
Every curl and swirl of every letter is so finely written.
One thought that follows the next thought.
How every fragment just seems to fit in.
Decked in onomatopoeia's, verbs, nouns, and similes.
And when she cries, she doesn't cry.  She bellows.  No.  Matter of fact, she screams.
She screams to be read or so it would seem.
But she really screams to not be forgotten and remain more than just a well written memory.
Though she flows from me, she knows who she was created by.
You.  This Man.  This Poetry.

And then I woke up.  It was only a dream.
Strongest dream I've ever had about You.  This Man.  This Poetry.
Although I still can't believe in things unseens, I vow to try and change my outlook on things.
I've decided that I don't want for me to have to die to realize you are more than just a dream in the middle of the night that came to me.
You.  This Man.  This Poetry. 
You are larger than life and you are greater than me.
Then I look to the right of me and the infant from my dreams is laying on the the table just off to the side of me.
And as I lifted her up, she didn't cry, she didn't bellow.  No.  This baby screamed.
At this moment I knew you really were more than just a dream that came to me in my sleep.
You were an author, and an illustrator, and I was your documentor.
So today I decided to get my act right before I am forgotten.
Because I know I will either leave or be left and I swear to You.  This Man.  This Poetry.
That I don't want to be left with the rest.
And now I contemplate was this given to me genetically?
Or was it given to me by You.  This Man.  This Poetry.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

(Sorry Maya Angelou, I just love the title!  Let's hope I don't get sued for this)! =)

Trapped but I’m not because America told me that I am free
Free to whose vocabulary? How does America know what freedom means to me?
As Americans, we live in this world, we never made it. We merely created it.
But who patted us on the back and said it was a job well done?
Who gave us the right to victory? Who died and said we won?
I am an American. And not because America says so. I am an American because the Americans said so.
But this nation is as one under God. And if you are not for it then you are against it.
But are you to drop all your beliefs to be an accepted American citizen?
Who died and made America accurate?
Who lied and made America’s manuscript? The commandments?
What are we to do with it?
All but fall. Reach for the stars. But how are we to grasp what can’t be reached?
They want us to teach others
when none of us can read.
The blind leading
the blind.
The scared leading the meek.
And if I’m busy teaching everyone else, who’s gonna teach me?
God bless America. Land that I love. But what about the b
ar pubs and the narcotic clubs?
Does he bless those too?
Because Americans say that he shouldn’t and America is the truth.
America told me if I don’t like it then leave. I’m only scared of death America. Are you threating me? You turn so quickly. What have you done
that’s so great. All but silence hate.
Then we deal with war soldiers with stale chips on their shoulders—well; that is the ones that are lucky enough to move forward.
Sons with no brothers, Fathers with no sins. All is forgiven because America always wins.
I don’t support the bad habit, but I support the addict what kind of citizen would it be of me to say I didn’t have it? What’s a few dimes and nickels but quarters for my thoughts?
You wanna escape the world you can’t afford to live in at my cost? By all means; go ahead and get lost. You live in America and you know what that means. You are free to be, free to drink, free to sink into a world that doesn’t shun you so hard. This is America and you are so free. But you know that can’t be, that’s why you insert your freedom in your body, in the alley, secretly.
But that’s neither here nor there. In fact it’s everywhere. But I live in America and if it doesn’t affect me then it is inexistent. Until it hits home. Then nonexistence sits in and I haven’t felt the pain since then.
I live in America and America tells me that I’m free. America would never lie to me. Because Americas not racist, and Americas not mean. Americans aren’t built from prejudice and greed. America is the home front. In America you can do whatever you want.
It’s all making since to me. America. Home of the brave. Land of the free.
Now I know why the caged bird sings.

Frolicking Fun For Flies

(This was written at my goofier times). =)


Two flies feeling the approach of cold
(One fly young, the other old)
Decide to head to warmer clime
Their story results, in this rhyme

Their flight begins in YankeeLand
Where winters often get out of hand
Destination set for Miami, in winter a good place to be

So they just fly and buzz along
sharing jokes and often songs
Alert to birds and spider webs
When their strength begins to ebb

Just as the Carolina line they meet
Decision comes, it's time to eat
From way up high ('bout half a mile)
They spy a fresh, large green cow pile


"That looks yummy!" They both say
"A feast laid out for us today!"
They land on it on flyish feet
Take out fly spoons and start to eat

They ate and ate and ate a lot
Until bloated they both got
They sat a while from their big eat
Then staggered onto little fly feet

Soon realizing their big mistake
To the air they couldn't take
A fly that 'can't' is in real trouble
They needed an idea on the double

The young fly was about to freak
As its panic reached its peak
What'll we do?!  We've no defense!
To eat so much made little sense!

The elder fly had been around
And spied a pitchfork on the ground
He thought, then changed his attitude
And cried, "What we need is altitude!"

Just climb up that pitchfork's handle there
Then leap into the friendly air
Already being up you see
To stay a loft, will be easy!

So the youngster scaled the height
Jumped and flapped with all his might
Despite his effort and all that
He plummeted to his death with a SPLAT

This story is now at its end
But there is a moral here my friend
Light a candle so you won't forget
Don't fly off the handle when you're full of sh*t.

Referring to Me As "Dark Chocolate"

((I HATE when men refer to me as food.  You know...anything that is sweet and brown..(mostly dark) in color.  It's a disturbing turn-off.  Anywho, I was inspired by that/them to write this poem..))


He liked to see it melt, devouring the sight of change
from solid to soft and then to viscous liquid
His tongue would always tingle as he dipped it

It always tasted bitter at the tip of his tongue
like a dark chocolate covered almond
but he found those depths where it spread sweetness

A steamy temptation everywhere he'd want it,
The different affects of the afflictions when he licked it
unfolding its layers and satisfying his addictions
and he could never seem to leave it alone...

...and somehow he always thought it was for him....and him alone