I like feeling cold but cuddling in bed watching Youtube.
I like reading romance set in a historical phrase.
I like kitkat bars.
I like love coconut water.
I like my hair when it cooperates.
I like that fresh feeling after a shower.
I like when it rains heavy when I am indoors.
I like watching waterfalls.
I like dimple smile, I just do.
I like holding moving conversations.
I like many things. What do you like?
A poem for #PoetryMonth2017.
Why do so many black people love to point out all the flaws of their ethnicity like parents blaming teachers for their children failing grade. Yet when another ethnicity takes the same flaws and appreciate and show love, the same black people erupt a volcano of “it is our culture, we are the only ones entitled to wear hair like that or use that hastag.” Do they hear themselves sounding like Judas before the Last Supper? This is why we cannot have anything nice because we are busy throwing dice about ownership over trivial matters. If a young Bangladeshi-American growing up in New Jersey used #blacklivesmatter in answer to one question on a Stanford application flustered so many black people then shouldn’t black people express more than lackluster dismay? Shouldn’t one be happy that another ethnicity is marching to the proud loud drums of equality for all. Instead many are lashing out that it was not his hastag to use, leaving my thought process dashing in an array of dismay. What is wrong with our sense of reasoning? Are we so mess up in the head with such strong yet low opinions of ourselves that we fail to realize that if we keep segregating that we are defeating the fight against laws of Jim Crow?
Islam is a religion and its fellowers are called Muslims like Christianity is a religion and it’s followers called Christians.
Sign off with a sigh for #PoetryMonth2017
If I could taste a piece of you I would betray like the Last Supper. Yet I would not kiss anyone because my affection would be momentarily just for you.Will you satisfy my six lust groups or will I dominate? If I could taste a piece of you I would surrender that future hour to your justice. Dictate your verdict Sir: locked in wonder or free to wander?
It seem so difficult to concentrate on any task of pleasure for too long. I am not sure why my mind goes on its own leisure away from the task at hand in flights of other objectives bourne out of a type of mind fuck. It is that fleeting mask green with jealous yet teasing my thoughts to unsettling nerves of fright. I cannot finish my novel in the timely manner of before because the sight of a familiar sends my paranoia running marathons. Why am I cunningly manoeuvring between settled and haste? It was moments of strategic thinking but now it feels like a waste of embarrassing analysis. Something is slipping away turning in times of torments and aimless mind mummbling. Dipping into cascades of shining nothingness,something is mind fucking.
A poem for Poetry Month. I may dip into the world of writing more than twice weekly for Poetry Month.Happy poetry month
I love to wake in the morning when the rest of the neighbourhood is indoors minding people’s business.
The feel of that glorious silence riding the back of darkness envelopes into a peaceful retreat.
When the birds are chirping with no disturbance from traffic;free to not only roam but to conquer the air waves.
The monotonous drip drip dropping of a therapeutic rain makes me smile in content that I am indoors and not drenched in getting home before day break from a fete or a malicious broomstick meandering through keyholes rendering more than nuisance into people’s lives.
I need healing the type that touches your soul.
I need some well meaning fire, oh so very bold,
To awaken the dead bones like Elisha of the old.
To strengthen my core against any magma of hatred frightening to erupt into a hole,
0f contaminated fumes of jealousy exhausts; a series of mould.
Dangerous leeches threatening because they sold
Their freedom for material gain and want Noirfifre to join their fold.
Let that protection circle like a vulture around my being and scold
All their wicked intentions so that they will never cross my threshold!
Spreading information at the expense of
Propaganda thriving in a scene of irony
Accompanied by cousin sarcasm.
Must we always be subjected to such
Incredulous incessive collection of
Needless videos, aimless, fruitless
Galloping broadcasting equalling JUNK.
He said “My nose is running like a slave.”
I said “What did you say? Tell me you just did not say…”
He said “Yes,my nose is running like a slave with a whip on its back.”
Ohhhh I planned to lay it in on him, really thick for having the nerve to compare his cold to Slavery.
So I said “I will write about you.”
Hours later and I am contemplating his statement and my response.
Why am I sensitive whenever someone juxtaposes Slavery with a subject I deem too crazy for such referencing?
What gave me the authority to feel a bit flabbergasted by his comment and at times disgusted by some others?
Why does just the mere mention of the word Slavery heightens my senses flowing maydays to my aorta of self-defense?
When do I learn to build a wall like China that would hinder all illegal foreign unmentionable from climbing into my sensitive thinking zone.
Oops but isn’t that the Trump wall?
But the solid opinion holds firm like old oak in hurricane winds that talk of Slavery moves me.
Not only am I a student of history but I am an accepted descendant of some enslaved.
Not only does the chocolate colour of my skin and my nationality shows my claim but my emotional connection plunges me into that world which scares many away.
Maybe I will keep my sharp inhales which sometimes pierces like the final whistle on the ball court,to myself.
But maybe not because that weapon dressed up in pink that God blessed me with is perhaps as sharp as the iceberg which sunk the unsinkable ship.
Crying, the only expression my face held back.
I just wanted and needed to cry.
Cry because after spending two days working,
On a book review of Northanger Abbey that cried
My sentiments towards Catherine Morland, Jane Austen
And Henry Tilney I plundered by accidentally cutting those paragraphs instead of copying.
No autocorrect, no instant arrow to reverse on InkPad Notes.
Gone are those words, gone into an imaginary Recycle Bin.
via Daily Prompt: Promises
Do not promise me promises that you promise you would make
because we both know your history with promises.
Do not promise me forever when your tomorrows are
limited to now and next month or perhaps the next two months.
Practise how to keep vows, look in the mirror and repeat the words over,
over and over again.
Until you can understand the value of a promise, please stop taking
promises so lightly because they are serious words.