©. Nov. 28, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
Fashion: Origami Style Velcro Sleeves and Hemmy Puffs
Month: November 2022
The Sea Wow
©. Nov. 26, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
She’s Got The Hots
©. November 20, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
If you love her, spare her
The details right away,
Even if you can burn
Your tongue soul kissing her.
She’s hot.
She’s got
The hots,
But not
For you.
Soul-refreshing vacations
Are fun when you pay.
You’re too nice;
Don’t bore her with how you’re a lover.
She’s hot.
She’s got
The hots,
But not
For you.
You may say that you “love,” her
But “she’s not for sale.”
Don’t sell yourself short
Like no dates until marriage.
She’s hot.
She’s got
The hots,
But not
For you.
If she’s bored,
She may mind her business or tell.
Your business booming
Is just her heritage.
She’s hot.
She’s got
The hots,
But not
For you.
You learned that you
Were drinking water the wrong way,
Watching her in a seated
Position, sipping.
She’s hot.
She’s got
The hots,
But not
For you.
She makes you mistake a Monday
For a Friday.
She’s on your mind
And she knows that your heart’s skipping.
She’s hot.
She’s got
The hots,
But not
For you.
Know your worth
And that is that you are not for sale.
Talk to God on your good days
And on your bad days.
She’s hot.
She’s got
The hots,
But not
For you.
Snow Jay
©. Nov. 17, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
Title: Snow Jay
Medium: Acrylic and oil paint on canvas
Size: 11” X 14”
Date: 11/17/22
Front:
Back:
They Don’t Love You Back
©. Nov. 17, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
Anyone can be rich
And anyone can be poor,
But how many people suffer
While begging for more?
How we see common criminals
Fighting on the streets,
Saying, “I love it,”
But do these criminals love it
Like adding silencers to guns
To shoot at airplanes?
Look at drug smuggling
And what it does to their brains.
Their music may be loud
Without earphones or headphones.
In the car, the songs are enough
To break bones.
Artists may do what they rap about
And love it.
They’ll influence others;
Maybe their life’s a gimmick.
Can’t you hear their music next door,
Shaking the thin walls?
Were they having a life
Or are tired of 911 calls?
The streets don’t love them back.
The devil will attack.
You don’t see what I see.
You don’t want to know me.
Look both ways before you
Cross the street; you might see thugs,
Overreacting about life
As if they’re on drugs.
There’s a boy that says,
“There’s a huge spider on your back.”
The woman says, “Get it,”
Then the boy hands her flowers.
He can get shot
And thugs will shoot at his funeral.
They’ll continue to do crime,
Until the day they stumble.
Once upon a time,
Humans loved language barriers
And they give the play by play
More than mail carriers,
Mating with women,
But you better not snitch on them.
Start a business
And they’ll pursue racketeering.
They’ll disrespect you
In front of your own family.
They’ll mate with your wife
And may keep the same energy.
The streets don’t love them back.
The devil will attack.
You don’t see what I see.
You don’t want to know me.
Haven’t you realized
That these people won’t protect you?
Even when you move in silence,
The plotting is true.
Countless women may give
Their bodies to charity.
You shouldn’t check in if you come
To the neighborhood.
If you extort someone for money,
You go to hell.
No matter how hot it gets,
You won’t get out on bail.
If you’re visiting your loved ones,
Thugs want to know that,
Just as much as the government,
Watching where you’re at.
Who would ever date the daughter
Of a gang member?
What heavenly sought man
Would want for such destruction?
What heavenly brought soul
Would want a mere sin
Like incriminating footage
That haunts you again?
The streets don’t love them back.
The devil will attack.
You don’t see what I see.
You don’t want to know me.
Often, those that claim they’re self-employed
Are unemployed.
When it’s about them,
They can never be paranoid.
Someone’s harmed on the Red Line;
We’ll call it the bloodline.
Like watching your wife
Mating on a film set with teens,
Positions are ridiculed,
So try playing football.
Try playing basketball;
They’re sure that you’re good at rap.
They’re sure you have a large package
And that’s a trap.
Out of the good fathers,
The bad ones are glorified.
Why are you around broke folks;
That’s career suicide.
They’ll be our missing fathers
And return for hot sauce.
In this world, could it always be
Like father, like son?
Most will pretend to love Jesus,
Then disrespect you.
Your life’s valued lower than them;
Don’t step on their shoe.
The streets don’t love them back.
The devil will attack.
You don’t see what I see.
You don’t want to know me.
Why do people like pimps,
But not human trafficking?
They cannot stand the consequences
Of practicing.
Women are auctioned like,
“Going once! Going twice! Sold!”
Would you feel humbled enough
To be a trophy wife?
You with low self-esteem,
May get yelled at by strangers,
But possibly a racial slur
Increase the dangers.
They’ll say you lack manners,
But treat you like a doorman,
A poor man with a white Jesus,
But you’re black and tan.
Yet, Jesus isn’t white;
Your soul’s on the black market.
“You’re not going through nothing,”
The same people will say.
While women get raped,
They’ll say that you don’t have girlfriends,
To the bitter end,
Then you won’t enjoy your weekends.
The streets don’t love them back.
The devil will attack.
You don’t see what I see.
You don’t want to know me.
Women will have unrealistic standards
With deadlines.
Hopefully, the few good ones
Do not have the wrong signs.
Chapter million:
There are still high value men out there.
Don’t hate the person that you are
Because of their ways.
They’re selective; they’re repetitive,
They’re subjective.
It’s imperative that we know
Some women can give.
Women can be productive
And are not all the same.
If you’re not a protector,
Then you’re disqualified.
Your large muscles can be useful
In defending her.
Are you a provider
Or can you control the law?
Ms. Independent doesn’t need a man;
She needs fun.
Is she taken, on strike,
Or haven’t found the right one?
The streets don’t love them back.
The devil will attack.
You don’t see what I see.
You don’t want to know me.
While you marry some woman,
She can still go and cheat.
Men can be just as cruel,
Beating them like a drumbeat.
She’s ground meat and he’s the athlete,
Awaiting his death.
How he gets free access
Into her early presents,
Then she fights you if you defend her,
So here’s your vow.
You’ll never get married
Because it’s the here and now.
Like a mother saying,
“I don’t want you to get old.
What if you find someone
And prefer her over gold,
Then how often would you visit me,
To hear my hate?”
The child says,
“So what about the dad that you married?”
When the child grows old,
Perhaps he won’t be like the parents.
Could the discouraging factors
Make any more sense?
The streets don’t love them back.
The devil will attack.
You don’t see what I see.
You don’t want to know me.
A delayed beating
From police officers return.
They can legally lie;
Some aren’t afraid to burn.
Don’t forget to pray;
People don’t forget to curse you.
Save someone today
And they can die by tomorrow.
Your duty is 24/7
With no excuse.
Your manners may be reduced
By someone as abuse.
Have your child ever been flirted on
With bloodshot eyes?
When girls have fun, it’s repulsive
Compared to guys.
Plenty of guys get their way
With you; you’ve been branded.
Who will remain
A gullible person forever?
They’ll try to get you to swear
To God in a courtroom.
Assumed you’ll dance if you win,
There, like a sonic boom.
Cookie Jar
©. November 8, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
If you can make women feel,
They can be manipulated.
The love you offer them
Is like them taking placebo pills.
They are humans; they are different;
They are complicated.
I’m sorry for not loving you enough
With a love that kneels.
It’s inexcusable the way love heals
In relationships,
Somewhat like a first kiss
By someone performing CPR.
Pink slips can be just as painful
As round trips and heart-shaped lips,
But togetherness is needless
Like hands in a cookie jar.
Who’s your favorite fun-loving failure
That can’t stop feeling?
That glass ceiling met with ice
Belongs no longer to humans.
Reach further than menopause
And how much time are you killing?
Reach further than the pesos spent
In Cuba, full of Cubans.
Deserted humans guiding
And providing are Holy men,
Having communion away from the world;
They make believers.
They’re not make believers,
But their belief is beyond your ken.
Soon, generations will turn timeless,
Then God heals the grievers.
Catch him in the friend zone.
Catch him at a dead end.
Catch him with a high tone.
Catch him with a good friend.
Don’t take the cookie jar.
Growing boys and girls meet up daily,
Then hear an ultrasound.
Most timid boys are not approached;
They’re raised by their deepest fears,
With neither promises nor dreams,
Susceptible to the ground.
Southbound souls are surrounded
By cheers until God interferes.
Whose happiness is overblown,
Strong like a blaze of glory?
Seven moons forward and mothers
Have amatory pleasures.
How many men
Prefer gustatory pleasures in 3D,
Pleading the fifth instead of searching
For national treasures?
Often, the secret admirers
That cannot forebear dying
Already loss, unless
Their significant other’s lost.
They can reenact their first date;
Maybe it’s gratifying
Like love letters at the dead ends
Of corn mazes at low cost.
Better yet, make living life be free
Like the cost of salvation.
It’s priceless, even though
We live in the world and not of it.
We live with paradoxes,
But try to avoid damnation.
We were born loving—we relearn love
While some learn to submit.
Catch him in the friend zone.
Catch him at a dead end.
Catch him with a high tone.
Catch him with a good friend.
Don’t take the cookie jar.
Fashion Sketch/ Stuffed Piece Inside
©. November 8, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
A Girlfriend Just Like You
©. Oct. 3, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
Although she wore
A permascowl,
Now, she smiles,
Protecting her peace.
Heartbeats can make
A stomach growl
Like a morsel of meat
In grease.
Aging, she’ll play
Spin the bottle,
Making out
With the same person.
Her man
Doesn’t need a model,
Even if
Their struggles worsen.
When it’s
Their anniversary,
Then they’ll
Have a quality day,
For every day
Is a journey.
They’ll love
In every type of way.
I want a girlfriend just like you.
Yes, you.
His woman
May be soft-spoken,
Attracting
Rich aristocrats
And stardom
All of a sudden.
Her housebroken dogs
Bark for cats.
Kiss him
During a tornado.
Then she’s
More precious than jewels.
A lookalike of her
Can know
Public speakers
In swimming pools.
The crux of the matter
Is now.
They were here,
When he closed his eyes.
They were there
When they met somehow;
Her cheekbones taste
Like key lime pies.
I want a girlfriend just like you.
Yes, you.
Babies in her tummy
May kick.
Babies in her tummy
May cry
And in her, they
May be homesick.
Most are healthy
Until they die.
They’re alive,
So “No abortion.”
He’s not
An ATM machine,
But will nourish her
With progression.
Love her always;
That’s the routine.
“Do you have change
For a hundred?
Do you have change
Forever,”
He can be asked
Until he’s dead.
Yet, he’s not
And it’s like never.
I want a girlfriend just like you.
Yes, you.
Finding out about love
Is like
Rock climbing
With a parachute
It’s like getting back on
A bike
With a Christlike
Way to commute.
Blown kisses
Are like hairdryers
For how long
She’ll be practicing.
Walk closer
And it’s like wild fires.
He would say,
“You’re my everything.”
Could she want
What she doesn’t have?
He’s smarter than that;
She wants love.
If he dies,
The whole world will laugh,
Except her,
While he stays above.
I want a girlfriend just like you.
Yes, you.
Isaiah Lawrence 