Blessed For That Part

©. May 30, 2023. All Rights Reserved.

Love at first sight

Could be blindly trusting someone

With an extra key to your home.

I’ve heard more women

Raising children in fatherless homes

Is too good to be true.

“You’ve not gone through

A fatherless home” they say,

So allow me to love it like Rome.

Nobody interfere like Debby Downers

Bending my bones

While my blood is blue.

I’m black, but my thick skin

Can turn purple from candy dye

On my middle-aged tongue.

I didn’t ask to be born,

But I was born for this life

Like “I can and I will.”

I breathe like an afterthought,

Then see food in the kitchen

Like I’m forever young.

From running water for my lungs

Like daybreak to nightfall,

It could all be too real.

I have parents

And I’m blessed for that part.

All of the undisclosed thoughts

Like “Are you on my birth certificate”

Comes around.

I’ve yelled when nobody was around

And embarrassed myself alone

Like it’s art.

I have a mother figure,

But am still reserved

Like an underground ultrasound.

Like I wear polychromed half smiles,

I’m misunderstood,

But my parents have my heart.

I don’t think I’ve felt a romantic love

With terms of endearment,

But I’m still blessed.

Throughout the curses, my crawl space

Was guarded like I’m foredoomed

To hold a push broom.

I prefer privacy,

But would love you during your infirmities

Like the best.

I’m lesser than

What you expect me to be

Like shoefiti on the streets of doom.

I have parents

And I’m blessed for that part.

What’s worse in this life:

To have no parents

Or have parents and still be a failure?

The self-blame is

Like unsearchable compliments

And I’m not a potty mouth,

But how much love

Could have a severance

With a doable heart for how you were?

I’m not clever with words,

So I’m not singing on my knees

Just to go to the south.

I’m a child of God in a world

That’s full of wretched and depraved

Men and women.

I’m a whistleblower, who’s waiting

For the trumpet to sound,

Then it’s all better.

The deeds I’ve done feel

Plentifully mocked and I’m forgiven,

For I’m born again.

I have parents and I don’t want to fit

In society,

For I’m a winner.

I have parents

And I’m blessed for that part.

More Than A Stud

©. May 24, 2023. All Rights Reserved.

Legend has it that you

Were sleep-laughing,

Then laughed when you opened your eyes.

Legend has it that

Miracles run in your family

Like forgiveness.

Like you’re a barber

And salon stylist without trying,

You’re a franchise.

The seats are soft

Like Trinity cream

And you’re like a dream that I access.

Someone is your secret admirer,

Still like a young stud

Is in the wall.

Realizing you’re not an object

Or an obstacle,

You’re a kind woman.

As unreal as a galactic rose

Visible through

An open-top mall,

As unreal as a heart nebula

Breaking from your patience,

There’s a plan.

Try to hire

Private investigators

To find your secret admirer

Or accept the

Ice cream-shaped eyelets

On your pricy custom-made footwear.

Accept the haute couture

And luxury fashion

Unlike a phone number.

Accept the spaghetti crop tops

And parachute pants

For all that I care.

Accept the tailor-made dresses

While the stud stuck in the wall

Grows older.

Accept a car and a mansion,

But don’t forget

The box of yumminess.

Read the billets-doux

And you could be with someone

Who’s over your shoulder.

Your tummy could be shaped

Like a boulder while I help you

Put on a dress.

Gravity doesn’t care

That someone is helping you

Like the words “I do.”

It’s someone else,

But you’re happily adamant to your heart,

Like it’s sewn.

I accepted rejection

Before I received it

Like it’s best for you.

Like your hair turned blue

From the rainfall,

Mine is hidden in a place unknown.

Legend has it that I’m more than a stud.

Legend has it that I’m more than a stud.

Your shoes would be lowered or risen

With the hinges on brims

On the collars.

You could be far

As if though I was wrongfully placed

On the no fly list.

Like they’d try to have me

Take a plea bargain

For thinking about others.

More than others,

I think about you,

Even though there’s many years I missed.

A sure-fire way

To grab your attention

Is to be another color,

But it’s like you’re still staring

At a wall,

Not seeing the stud behind it.

Do you love that I’m

An African American aesthete

Who’s older?

I know you love the fine lines

And form, but you’d know

“I’m not a counterfeit.”

Do you love the space

Between us

Because I can feel you getting closer.

Feel my texture

And know my value,

Like a reserved mastermind unknown.

Move along,

So that I don’t bore you fast,

But at least I’m not a poser.

I’m no fun, but you nail the stud

To hang a painting

On the wall alone.

I know I look like a poser,

But “Ouch”

Like another nail in the wall.

Give me putty and pity,

But don’t get your hair dirty

From what’s icky.

This mural could’ve had machismo,

But this mural

Is still standing tall.

I know my worth,

But your arms are like demolition cranes

With a hickey.

Please don’t watch the paint dry

Because you may paint over me

In 20 years.

I could be vandalized

With graffiti from the

True blue and red people.

I could be scribbled on

With crayons from your children,

Then hear many cheers.

I could be more than a stud,

But you don’t think that I think

That we’re equal.

Legend has it that I’m more than a stud.

Legend has it that I’m more than a stud.

In The His House

©. 5/19/2023. All Rights Reserved.

Title: In The His House

Medium: Mixed Media

Size: 16 1/8” X 16 1/8”

Date: 5/18/2023

Prayer In A Cell Room

©. May 15, 2023. All Rights Reserved.

There’s a type of love

Where if you were

Sentenced life in prison,

Someone would marry you,

But how often would

There be the oxytocin

Produced from much-needed

Snuggle sessions?

Make her feel young

Again like there’s

Backstage kisses

At a live concert with revenue.

Make her feel like

Smiling is a profession

Until you hear her

Sincere confessions.

She could be not guilty

Like her body count,

As if though she had feelings,

But not love.

You could be

Too busy defending

The awkward relationship

Than enjoying one.

“I don’t need permission

To love your sister,”

You say, but any love,

They dispose of.

Say you’re dating a prisoner

And you’re bombarded

With questions

Like she owns a gun.

Maybe she does

Own a gun, but you shut your eyes

In supplication

And feel better.

Maybe she uses her hands

Instead of a loofah sponge

And has sweaty palms

At times.

Try to protect her

From the cruelty,

Then she learns to fight

And feels like a monster.

Sometimes, she’s numb like a puppy

Ate her food stamps,

But the masses think

That she’ll say rhymes.

Ask her how she is

When you write to her,

Then tell her how you

Learned to make a pizza.

Wow her with your knowledge

As if though you read

A plethora of books

Your entire life.

The odds that she’s talking

To other men are unlikely,

Though she may want

Your moolah.

Get to know her

Like your abstract thoughts

Convincing you that she could be

The perfect wife.

Write to her about

How your pupils dilate,

Increasing in size

When you see her face.

“Guillotines were invented

By a physician to be

A humane

Way of dying.”

Maybe she wanted

To know about that,

But you think that she prefers

Some breathing space.

It does smell in prison,

But if she gets free,

Would you confirm your love

By supplying?

“An assistant executioner

Slapped a victim

And that’s just

How humane it was.

Then somehow, the victim

Made an expression

Of rage causing

An ongoing debate.

Doctors would tell

Imminent victims

To blink after being

Executed because

They wanted to know

If victims could still move

After execution”

Reads her roommate.

She snatches the letter

As if her roommate

Is reading hieroglyphics

In the gloom.

“And guillotines were used

As a form of

Euphoric entertainment

For the masses.

Guillotine operators

Were national celebrities,”

She reads

In her cell room.

She knows you like

A prayer partner

And wants to show you

Off like pricy sunglasses.

She’s laidback like guillotines

Used to be toys

And conjugal visits

Made illegal.

What’s the

Bare maximum

You can hug

At a contact visitation

And what criminals are

The police,

Cold like chunks of ice,

For locking up a model?

She’s mistreated

By the world,

Yet treated as if

She’s on a day-to-day vacation.

Let her work remotely

With equal pay

Like the outsiders

With independent skills.

Give her the liberty section

Of the room,

So you can rescue her

With good lawyers.

She’s not a science project

In utopia

Like the masses

Yelling when she chills.

She’s an ambitious woman

Unlike another,

But they compare her

To destroyers.

If she got a

Luxurious prison,

All that you can give her

Is your awkward time.

Release her and she has your world,

But will she remain the same

Woman in the letters?

Others were reading

How the romance started

During bedtime

And that should be a crime.

You’d pay for her to have

An open-for-use kitchen,

TV, and what else

She prefers.

You’ve noticed the guillotines

Outside and pray

That you’ll be with her

In the second life.

You can hear a prayer

Of intercession,

Then you’re ordered

To let go of her hand

By the undefiled men and women,

Careless that you want

To make her

Your future wife.

Sling: separation comes

To a sudden stop

Just for you to live

In a perfect land.

Fanny Pack Guitar Sketch

©. May 11, 2023. All Rights Reserved.

I Don’t Want To Be Funny

©. May 11, 2023. All Rights Reserved.

Your discomfort begins

At my poor attempt

To make you laugh.

I can make you smile,

But you will not laugh,

So at least I tried.

And you cannot keep a smile,

So you are not

My other half.

The guidelines to master

Myself do not consist

Of a bride.

My words may sound

Like a regicide,

So I overthink this.

What type of woman

Doesn’t like a sense of humor

In men?

Greetings: are you offended yet

Like you’re doomed

For the abyss?

These happy thoughts

Do not make me funny

And I’m funny when?

They tease.

Hey, freeze

Say cheese.

Play please.

Whoa, I don’t want to be funny.

I don’t want to be a joke.

Diamonds meeting with

The most photographed

Cubic zirconias are given and stolen.

The tunnels at a beach

Has Dear John letters cluttered,

All of the way from the sandy shores.

You can forget your age if you love her

Behind her back,

But it’ll be frustrating then.

Make yourself at home, Mr. Fiduciary,

Who is expected to

Hold countless doors.

Attempt to make quinoa

And orange chicken, tuck her into bed,

And hand her a corsage.

Open the blinds until she has vitamin D,

Then give her

Educated compliments.

Invalidate yourself and stay friendly,

Loving her from the front and back

Like a massage.

Be gone, honeypots like a parasite cleanse

That’s been taken

On all of Earth’s continents.

Congruent corners are

Overly demanding for social butterflies,

If they obey.

She’s one-of-a-kind,

Lesser than God, more than small talk,

And has a presence of solace.

Your untold stories resonate with her

From the deep serene

To the puffy clouds at bay.

She doesn’t argue,

But she has infrequent disagreements,

As she is nearly flawless.

The world is overbearing

And she is overwhelming,

Full of warmth and compromises.

Her visions are fortified,

Engrossing public displays

Of touchiness from her presence.

She could’ve went to prom

With world championships,

But she chose a future with surprises.

Surprise: you’re not a comedy genius,

But she’s a living present

With a moral sense.

Your discomfort begins

At my poor attempt

To make you laugh.

I can make you smile,

But you will not laugh,

So at least I tried.

And you cannot keep a smile,

So you are not

My other half.

The guidelines to master

Myself do not consist

Of a bride.

My words may sound

Like a regicide,

So I overthink this.

What type of woman

Doesn’t like a sense of humor

In men?

Greetings: are you offended yet

Like you’re doomed

For the abyss?

These happy thoughts

Do not make me funny

And I’m funny when?

They tease.

Hey, freeze

Say cheese.

Play please.

Whoa, I don’t want to be funny.

I don’t want to be a joke.

Early For A Cop Story

©. May 3. 2023. All Rights Reserved.

Welcome the news

To another cop story.

A cop stops a man

And the rest is dirty.

A man who was raised

With no time for feelings,

Had time for work,

Which wasn’t drug dealings.

This can happen

In any territory.

This is a full-blown concern

And it’s early.

He was neither cuddled nor coddled,

But grown,

He was raised by orphans,

But had no cell phone.

The cop is around

To interrogate him.

It could be that his name

Is a pseudonym

And it could be that he can’t feel

His hip bone,

Somehow mistaking

That for a kidney stone.

It never crossed his mind

That it was not real,

But the cop is allowed

To yell and to feel.

He’s not allowed

To be passive aggressive.

His music wasn’t loud

And he may not live.

He could travel the world

And eat his next meal,

But he can’t sit

Without her wanting to kill.

Without a camera,

The cop can take fire.

As if he doesn’t pay child support

Or hire.

As if the child’s not his,

But he explains it.

All he wants for now

Is for the cop to quit.

The cop raises her voice

Like a towns crier,

Then aims her gun

Like show biz, just to retire.

“Where are you going,”

She says like mother wit.

“Home. Where are you going,”

He says, but gets hit.

She enforces a law

That she doesn’t know.

Exhausting like she’s chasing him

In the snow.

The harrowing event

Makes him have a fit.

She looks in the backseat,

Just to babysit.

While his tangible knowledge

Faces the ground,

His sister gets a lecture

Because she’s found.

“Cops are here to protect,”

She says with a smirk.

Her unruly behavior

Destroys her work.

Years pass

For her to be guilty like a hound,

Bound to tell him

They “can reach a common ground.”