The Break. (The Skinny Poem)

I have realized

The dangers of a passion

Left alone to starve.

Small morsels of

Grazing skin-to-skin

And bartering full glances

…Tease the longing soul.

However,

While a cloud of the unknown

Hovers close,

We are temporarily shaded

From the sun.

Here,

We find relief.

From the intensity

Of hope,

The pull

Of commitment,

And the exhaustion

Of desire.

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.