Across the Line

I.

We sneak off to indulge

In the moment.

My love and I steal away.

Giggling and clumsy,

To snatch glimpses

Into marital bliss.

We slow danced across the line

Clearly defined;

Grooving to Nat King Cole’s

Sophisticated crooning.

I staggered through

My conscience

So that I may tell you

In a grown up way,

That I love you more than

I am ready for.

Mimicking a look I saw mother give father,

I run a delicate toe coyly

Across the line….

…momentarily

caring less about the manner set for my feet

to walk in.

Tonight,

I could no longer stifle the mature woman’s bellow

Coming from underneath my belly,

Nor the cry from her womb.

So, I dared follow her nature

For a while (as best I could),

And responded to the grown man

Accent in you.

Dormant desire

Met with inexplicable zeal.

A pair of hips and hands meet,

And music was made.

And so we slow danced across the line,

Moving in our own inelegant,

But destined,

rhythm.

II.

I figured as much.

We were actually

Mesmerized by sensations

Due to the taste of my breast

And the firmness of your flesh.

Throughout moments of honorable torment,

As we began to

Slow dance across the line,

You could not stop thinking of

How good it’s going to feel inside.

And I just wanted to feel beautiful again... inside.

It all

Still

Leads back to you and I,

Making us selfish lovers.

I love you

And you, me

But

It’s a plus

That I desire to give parts of me

And

That these parts belong to me,

So we pretend to belong to one another.

Lovely, isn’t it?

It’s no fault of yours, my love.

This is what happens when

We slow dance to our parents’ mood music.

Possibly,

We gravitate onto territory

That we explicitly desire,

But

Are not yet prepared for.

Maybe I should wait

Until we’ve realized that

You make love to my soul

And connect to my spirit

First,

Before I give in to you again.

The Friend Zone (Snippet)

I asked God for a soulmate,

But instead, He sent me

you.

Equipped with all the

Probability of a Love Story

That I did not plan for.

With an unripe heart

And underdeveloped writing skills

I toddled right into the friend zone…

…etched a permanent marking there.

I was allowed to rest my coat

And cool my heels.

Fields of Battle (Working Title)

The plain of my love for you

Is more like a battlefield

Than an open pasture where

The possibilities are endless,

And the hopes are high.

I feel compelled to crouch,

Position my heart low, and fight

Than spread my wings

For a flight’s anticipation.

I would much rather

Stretch out contentedly

Extend my legs and fingertips

To take in each blade of green

And ray of sunlight.

But,

Instead the ground is mud and soot;

Where I place one careful footstep

After the other.

Cautious and afraid,

Passing by dilapidated buildings…

In an area that was once my home.

The Answer (I Will Write For You)

I will write for you.

At times my mind can be rigid and afraid

Silent but focused for days.

Meanwhile my heart

Clamors about desperately

Intent on living life free

From worry or doubt.

Though these dual forces

War in fiery rivalry,

Both surrender themselves to

The mercy of my pen;

Subservient and hospitable.

I will channel my mind’s eye

Along with the fight of my heart;

Enclose it, with all diligence,

To present it upon special request.

…You asked of me,

So I’ll gratefully respond,

“Yes, friend, I will write for you.”

You recognize that others

Stand and applaud at my thoughts’ echo,

While,

The approval and jeers cultivate the wordsmith in me,

From finger snaps (unfortunately) to follow-up gigs

And opportunities for improvised truth.

But know that, for you,

I would contract my gift,

And destine an indefinite amount of my heart’s prose

In your honor.

I would risk the embarrassment of misunderstood theme,

Grammatical errors, and

Impartial rhyme and meter,

So that you could partake of the rawest, freshest scribes of me.

I will write for you.

Carpal tunnel and eye strain will be my companions;

Purging whatever I have in me [for you]

To give to you.

And though I am afraid of what you’ll do to/with my deepest expressions,

So costly and dear,

I fear more the regret of keeping them close.

Hovering over the very gift that I am not meant

To maintain or control.

To cheat my words of the right to an audience

With your heart.

So yes,

YES.

I will write for you.

Economics.

Beautiful people

Nonchalant in their existence.

Cigarettes properly placed between fingers,

With postures slanted upwards toward dignity;

Floating among themselves,

Gloating.

Basking in privilege,

Yet secretly despising one another

And the wealth that has them all

Entrapped.

Silver spoons gleam brightly from

The mouths of babes;

Blinding the common man,

Straddling the fiscal fence

In the middle,

From seeing the dirty, disgraceful taboo

Of flies in destitute eyes & vacant, desperate appetites.

Search the world and find

1,000 impoverished pair of hands for every rich man.

And the ratio is allowed

So that the odds towards maintaining wealth are more favorable.

Therefore,

The backs of the poor are adequate commodities

For cheap labor,

Who will continue to build up the

Collateral of nations.

Routed slaves and desperate immigrants

Are testaments

that

The contradictions of the world

Are horrid, indeed.

And Then (Mini-Series. Part 5)

one day I will

fashion the words that

will make this love

tangible.

write the poem

that will

finally

give my pain

a purpose,

and

A hope to hold me;

making me brave enough

to wait for you.

Haiku #4672

women silently

giving birth to corpses. Who

will speak for the dead?

"Tommy,...You Ain't Got No Job Maynnnn!!" (Haiku)

worse than laziness:
disguising idleness or
work without progress.

Stick-Up. (Mini-Series. Part 4)

I came to you:
Level-headed and
Whole-heartedly
With
Flawless diamonds hidden behind my eyes,
and
a pure, expectant smile.

But,
you took what didn't belong to you.
And I want them all back,

you Thief.

Left-Out for Leftovers

I’m the girl made for
Second thoughts,
Lukewarm hand-me-down gestures,
And affections in the form of
His leftovers.

Figured I would be first in line
For
His fondness;
Yet I see that
My place had the stability
Of quicksand.

The [intimate] nickname I displayed proudly
Was not gold-plated or permanently mounted high,
Rather,
One of those thin, interchangeable
Plastic tags that can be switched
With another,
When there’s an adjustment in personnel.

I certainly have my pride.
So, I will quietly gather
What rightfully belongs to me
And love myself,
From now on…

Back to the Future

I wish to accelerate time
Defy natural law
Fast forward
To the moment where you
Love me better.
Wistfully you realize
That your Present Self is
In need of the Future You
A Prospect
In your former skin.
A Prototype
Of your future self.

You.
Powerless to give
And
Incapable of containing
Me.
Lacked essence
Meanwhile I spend mine into a void interdependence.
Loving the Idea of You.
I’m
Miserly with Moments
Courted by Glimpses
&
Wooed by Potential.

You are left dazed
By my excess
And ashamed
By your lack.
Quick trips to a hidden reservoir
Leaving me behind to
Maintain our Masquerade.

But I shall wait
Here.
Denying the traces of them
Who pale in comparison
To the You
That returns.

Patience. (Mini-Series. Part 2)

peculiar. it is.
while you
drift from
fear to love's folly,
and
one beautiful possibility
to another,
I.
stand next to you,
frozen in a solitary
teardrop,
and wait for you
to notice that it's
me
[holding your hand].

Dry Eyes (Mini-Series. Part 1)

I have stared at you
for so long,
my eyes are
beginning to tire.

They are dry from
focus.
And I am afraid
that if I
blink,
I will miss...
...something.

But I cannot keep this up
for much longer.

Please,
love

...look my way.

Love Jones For a Poet

The women of the world

May swoon

At the sight of ripped chests,

Arms,

And a statuesque frame

Molded after a porcelain David.

Others interests are sparked

(Along with that sparkle in the eye)

At the sight of a man

Nice at ball-handling or

Possessing the stamina of a

Tri-athlete of sorts;

A superman donned to

dodge bullets and

Leap tall buildings.

But I.

Stagger and stumble over curbsides

Over He

That can take vowels, nouns, and stanzas

And compose them into pure fire.

Spit a flame into my ear

Instead of a pick-up line.

My eyes will not follow the direction

Of a 5K runner or a tall, unblemished figure…

Nothing turns my head like He who can

Run circles around me with

The prose that He scribes.

My heart palpitates for the master of the 16,

The king of the manuscript,

And the ambassador of words and thoughts.

Not the muscular, wife-beater-wearing novice

Who will sport the shades, grip the mic,

Ransack the words,

But will say absolutely nothing.

No, not him…

But He.

Who wears justice as a belt

And truth as a cloak.

I will stand and applaud for him,

nod along to his beat,

study his verses and

commit them to memory,

apply the Truth I feel

to my every footstep.