Earned For Love

©. Apr. 4, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

What is you

Times 365

I’m not a counterfeit;

You can have a fit.

Someone must know

That courtesy is alive,

Because you do not

Have to carry the one.

The irony that

I see all 50 states,

Seeing pictures

To show us how it all looks.

Thats what friends are for,

Here like interest rates.

I’m undatable

Like my schedule is full.

Like smothered with advice

From unloved gurus,

Now, my best friend ever

Is a dating coach.

Gardyloo! You’re excited

For revenues

Like face palms

When the money gets deducted.

My heart is

My favorite muscle on me

And your heart is long overdue

Like checkouts.

The goodbyes and badbyes

Still need currency,

Removed from the crevices,

But they’re nowhere.

Tyranny is asking

For your tax dollars.

You’re not free

When there’s authority around.

Miscount money

And somebody has answers,

Figuring out

A solution to get rich.

I used to miss you

Until you mistook me.

Have it known

That I was complete while alone.

What have you earned for love

If you’re not Holy?

What have you earned for life

If you’re not living?

Hours to Summarize

©. Mar. 20. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

How I know that I’m giftable,

But considered replaceable.

I can sit down in one position

Until my buttocks hurt

And I know that each day

My property is confiscable.

If I’m to dress up, you’re going to see me

Wear a black shirt.

Sometimes, I would like to grow

An Afro, but I shave instead.

I’m not buying a wig

Or shaking a 500 pound hand.

Talks drain my energy

Like I’m punch drunk and everything’s red.

I’m bald headed and that could be

A style you don’t understand.

I think that I would like ocean blue eyes,

Even though I’m black.

My flair could be underrated

If I could buy what I want.

If the air is overrated,

I’m a pyromaniac.

I have an astigmatism

And maybe I seem nonchalant.

I prayed to God for you

As soon as possible like water,

But I wanted you purified,

As I would be purified.

Holiness would be from God

And not a man, nor a monster.

I do not need you like a song

With every language applied.

I’m starting to feel like

I do not like music every day.

The cost of beef is free in rap,

But I’ll take frozen hot wings

And rock is mocked,

So you are not hardwired for me anyway.

I should eat veggies instead of red meat

And their hues have kings.

I could be sitting on comforters

Inside of wrapping paper.

I could be sitting in indoor swing chairs

And outdoor nightmares.

Rebuking nightmares and naysayers

With eye-stares, I prefer.

I prefer fairness and promises

Oddly in rocking chairs.

I think I’m anxious at times,

Overthinking about pro-life.

I’ve watched my future and lost my childhood

And now, it’s nowness.

I’m part of the bride of Christ,

But don’t want someone like Lot’s wife.

I used to be awestruck by actors,

But this is real like stress.

Relinquish your sugar bombs

And disrupt the mainstream music.

Even couch potatoes can be successful

At what they do,

Searching for work,

Recording their voices with a profile pic,

And being rejected by thousands

Of companies they view.

I don’t have brain fog

Because I don’t have to keep up with lies,

But I do have to keep up with the lies

Of other people,

Prepared to lie on me

And wanting acceptance in disguise.

My life story can take many hours

For me to summarize.

Before You Fall Asleep To This Poem

©. Mar. 3, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Marinate my mouth with wet words

That’s dreamt of.

You can blow me off,

Then you can blow me up.

Blow me further

Than the windswept birds in love

For I’m a light sleeper,

Hearing things afar.

I’ve blocked my mother

On social media

And I feel like my best friend’s

A storm chaser,

Reporting the breaking news

In India

When I was watching

Overnight finales.

Before you fall asleep to this poem,

You don’t have to care about this poem.

“Do tornadoes ever hit

The news network?”

Why are news reporters

Outside on TV

During tornado warnings,

When jobs, I’d shirk?

Dear news reporters,

Your jobs will replace you.

Confined in my home,

I’ll find my sustenance,

Reading about coupes,

But cannot afford one.

Like browsing the internet

With zero cents.

I used up all

Of my digital money.

Before you fall asleep to this poem,

You don’t have to care about this poem.

I’m the happiest owner

Of diddly-squat.

I land a job

And someone inboxes me,

Wanting to know everything

As if I’m hot,

Confused as if there’s foot washing

In heaven.

She insists to exchange

Cell phone numbers.

This task did not take

A rocket scientist.

I could spend days not enjoying

My slumbers,

Waking up at 2:00 A.M.

To text my love.

Before you fall asleep to this poem,

You don’t have to care about this poem.

Before you air kiss me,

I think you should know

That my gums bleed

Whenever I brush my teeth.

Hey, you can call me

Before it’s time to go.

I like texting too,

But can video chat.

My dad thinks

I should join the military,

But brought up

How soldiers are getting gunned down.

How’s it on your rooftop deck

In Missouri?

If you’re a cheater,

Save me the misery.

Before you fall asleep to this poem,

You don’t have to care about this poem.

You could even be

A serial killer

But your prayers could take me

Out of hospice.

Thank you for understanding

I’m a healer.

I’m not dying,

But you take my breath away.

You’re a model,

Helping me study for school,

Working hard

To get my Bachelor’s Degree.

I’m a working progress,

Strong like a footstool,

I have

An undergraduate accomplishment.

Before you fall asleep to this poem,

You don’t have to care about this poem.

Why are you asking me

For money today?

Do you still want to talk

Over the cell phone?

You’re a hairy catfish

Waiting to betray

Like you have bail money

And don’t release me.

I’m self-destructing

Before the tornado

Arrives at

The predicted destination.

All you can think about

Is money, so go.

My halo will not go

All thanks to the earth.

Before you fall asleep to this poem,

You don’t have to care about this poem.

I’m not exalted

On your things to-do list,

But you should know,

I was invigorated.

The facade you wear

Is what makes you dismissed,

You don’t exist

And I try to undo you

From the hours that were once ours

Full of Ahas,

When I would drag the sunset

With my bare hands

For a passion that I felt

Has a good cause.

You stimulated

My interest before.

Before you fall asleep to this poem,

You don’t have to care about this poem.

Better than dying

Surrounded by women,

You’re asking for money

That’s in smithereens.

All I have to do

Is leave my heart open.

I guess the news lied

About the tornado.

Like my kingdom partner’s

In a tornado

In another state,

I’ve wasted time on you.

You’ve snatched the typos

Out of my thoughts that grow.

Guess who does not care

Who is a nervous wreck?

Look Book Pic

©. Feb 27, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Title: Look Book Pic

Medium: Acrylic on Wood Panel

Size: 18” X 18”

Date: 2/26/24

A poem is painted on the back:

A lover’s loophole finds

The brevity of tolerance.

Vales and valleys are photographed

Mostly when she’s on them.

Gales are blowing the rustling leaves,

Lulling the lightning.

Glimpses at her should make soldiers sodden,

But they’re fighting.

Someone is trimming their nose hairs for her

Like she’s bathing

In myths made out of liquid sugar

And lesser-known love.

Desensitized to the wars

That burn the look books, there’s kings

Like they dig in her pockets

To coin the word safekeepings.

References to sketch her are not enough

To perfect.

How many artists draw and paint her

To attract her?

How many poets amuse her

Like life on sofa beds.

How much further can she tread,

Hanging onto lifelong threads?

Her eyes say her favorite vegetables

Are onions,

But her mouth says they’re golden beets,

As they can taste her scent.

Her heart is like scrambled eggs

And her brain is overcooked.

She memorizes cook books

And her stay is overbooked.

The sky is ruddy and unwanted by all,

Except her.

She’s perceived like a high performance tool

Used frequently

And watched like cities dance

On her plastinated organs.

The fall of man sees the rise of man

And abundant plans.

Sun-kissed Sugar Revamped Version

©. Feb. 20, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Title: Sun-kissed Sugar

Medium: Acrylic on wood print

Size:18” X 18” 

Date: 5/22/22-2/19/24

I decided to paint the poem on the back of the wood panel.

Poem:

What if I told you that 

“I love you at

Mutual degrees Celsius,” 

But I befriended

Hesitation to avoid

Rejection from my love? 

You were perfection with good grace,

Ingrained in my mind,

Then I found Jesus. 

The woman I’d have children with, 

Far away has friends

And a lack thereof. 

Sun-kissed sugar. 

Sun-kissed sugar. 

The pocket door to everything more, 

We lack adventures,

But have progress. 

We had belated blessings, 

Then they came early,

Fulfilling our households. 

I can seep my hugs in your skin

And live within,

But how can I express? 

Loved more than

An entourage of reverence,

You’ll see how my life unfolds. 

Sun-kissed sugar. 

Sun-kissed sugar. 

How you include me in your day,

I can’t seem to 

Get over chapter you, 

With full-flavored lips

Having an aroma,

I can only imagine. 

Skin as real as silica sand, 

You vanish in my dreams,

But look brand new. 

Wherein will we meet, greet, and treat,

Loving more than kissing kin

Without sin. 

Sun-kissed sugar. 

Sun-kissed sugar. 

Wanting more than

Amorous advances,

We’ll both receive the Crown of Life. 

Would heirlooms fall

From the heavens for us to cherish

Or must we work hard?

Prosperity isn’t a necessity 

For my love to be

My wife. 

The ounces your hyped heart weighs 

Are the seconds it takes to

Take my bank card. 

Sun-kissed sugar. 

Sun-kissed sugar. 

Sleep and Salaries

©. Feb 15, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

By the time I turn ageless,

I want to be a best-selling novelist

And a renown poet.

I’ll use 100% of my brain

Instead of just the right or left side

Out of hesitance.

The stories that I tell

Can feel like polygraph tests

With an authentic source of euphony.

My posture will tell you that

I can articulate every word

In the English dictionary.

Fans will thank my innovation,

Unlike 5-star libraries

That never respond to my emails.

I will be cheered for my dialogues

And sentence fluency

And my autographs will be worth homes,

But I will not sell my soul,

And I will worship the mediator

Between the Father and men,

Dog-tired, harnessing your happiness

Until your eyes are the color of grape sugar

That’s a ten.

My writing will have the bone-chilling longevity

Of wedging your foot

Into relationships.

Wedge your will into relationships

And do you mean that it is

A legal will or a free will?

You could not like me any more than you do,

Then there is the concept of love,

Tickling the ears.

Wait until you find out that I bulked up

On the words that you put into my mouth

For ageless years.

I’ve lost sleep and salaries.

I’ve lost friends and families,

Writing for my endless dreams.

I bulked up on sincerity

Like the equivalent

Of running out of bleached toilet paper.

Worrying will be eradicable,

Even if you have an undershot jaw

Because you’re you.

Talk me into an ice cream headache

And tell me that I’m supposed to utter

That it’s a brain freeze.

Succumb to tuberculosis

And I don’t need the king’s evil

Because I have the Lord who sees.

While I’m writing, you could be glowering at me

While gloating, across the globe

Like sold out tickets.

I am not a loquacious man

Using who and whom verbally

While reading kiss-and-tell novels.

Forgive me if I do not write

Like the doting work wives

That are wearing the face of kumbaya.

What if I talk like coming-of-age stories

With cars running in garages

Because of the law?

I was told that you’re supposed to write

The way you speak

And thinking too long about a subject shows.

I convince myself that the rich buy vowels

Like buy one, get one free,

Restricting the ways you speak.

Graphite colors my writing hands,

Which are dirty fingernails and when I type,

There’s autocorrect.

I do not request speech-to-text

Because AI may even

Try to remember my dialect.

I’ve lost sleep and salaries.

I’ve lost friends and families,

Writing for my endless dreams.

Before we start a buddy system,

I have some reasons

Why you may want to reconsider it.

I am not an award-winning actor,

But may know about psychology

A little bit.

Because psychology can help

With character development,

Remind me what I’m fluent in.

I know English, but my love language

Is words of affirmation,

So let the studying begin.

My writing could be like a people person

That is not a people pleaser,

But I’m improving

Like I’m giving my main characters

Catchy nicknames

And reexploring my versatility.

Writer’s block is like oxymorons

To geniuses and suspects

To citizen informants.

I put the cure in curiosity

And response in responsibility

For zero chants.

My notes entail police officers commandeering

Your car and fining you

If you dare refuse.

And skateboarders hating scooters riders

And every death-defying trick they do

Is made fun of.

Breakfast smell like crayons

Because I breathe art

Until I realize that countless contests are rigged.

My faith is bigger than my failures

Like hugs during mid-sentences,

Realizing when clothes are sprigged.

I’ve lost sleep and salaries.

I’ve lost friends and families,

Writing for my endless dreams.

Taken To Prettiness

©. Feb. 7, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Ms. Taken sees the greenery.

Ms. Taken sees the scenery.

The mirror makes her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

She walks five blocks away from home,

Told that her body is a poem.

The millions make her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

She is lost and need directions.

She gave a million rejections.

Her ego makes her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

She confuses the north for south.

Traffic is waiting for her mouth.

Her neighbors make her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

The happiest she’s been

Is an unsolved mystery

Like where’s your 401(k)?

Somehow, you’re the guerdon

With an explanation

for learning angelology.

You should not have to hold doors

Because she does not

Have authority over you.

Enliven yourself like discovering

Why you don’t need glasses

To dream clearly.

Ms. Taken knows a bitter end.

Ms. Taken knows and makes a trend.

The airports make her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

She walks pass 12th street to a train.

Unstable men, she won’t entertain.

The silence makes her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

She doesn’t trust dead giveaways.

What is genuine has delays.

The selfie makes her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

Neighbors are knocking on her door.

They want to drive her to the store.

Compliments make her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

You’ve exposed the devils

Doing missionary work

Like they’ve hired dead candidates.

It seems that few are assigned

To love you,

But you are assigned to love the Most High.

Everything seems like either contests

And interviews

And you despise them both.

You’re so polite

That you’ll donate your organs

And they’ll eat your hamstrings like stir-fry.

Ms. Taken sees the ugly truth.

Ms. Taken remains in her youth.

New car smells make her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

She can smell the scent of cow pie.

And trenchermen saying, “Goodbye.”

The coydogs make her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

When she watches the lilies grow,

Every minute of time feels slow.

Relaxing makes her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

When she runs pass vegetable sheep,

She runs into her home to sleep.

The mattress makes her feel pretty.

Then she runs into the unthinkable.

How is it not weird to talk

To a puppy like,

“Hi, there. You know that you’re gorgeous,”

But it’s weird to talk

To a puppy like,

“My boss kept nagging me at the office”?

You could live with

Walking emotional support dogs

Without people greeting them.

Oh, you have to remember

To feed them bowls full of love

Or they’ll be in hospice.

Her In Black

©. Feb. 4, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

His Standards

©. Jan. 31, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Who is reasonably riveting

And revered?

Who reciprocates

With the essence of effort?

Who hates squares,

But arrive to public squares a lot,

Beseeching the heroes

In nowness to get shot?

Convince them otherwise,

But the heroes are taught.

Who shaves with razor blades

When the power is out?

Who packs the punching power

That killed Houdini?

Who bats their eyelashes

At their ideal of men?

Who is the recipient

Of royalty’s pen,

Catching someone’s fall

While grounded like a yes-man.

Who is a ghostwriter

With a vesture of velvet?

Who is rectified

From kilometers away?

Who surrenders to nothing,

But their deepest thoughts?

Who holds their screams

Tighter than deserted garrotes?

Could the stouthearted know

That they can live without?

I’m not in your conversation.

I’ll reach God’s standards with my love.

Who is tarrying

When they want something from you?

Who is resilient

Because they don’t have it worse?

Who is the first to reign

With restraining orders?

Who is cursed

Like their privacy fell for hoarders?

Candidly, heroes need heroes

And some need words.

Who is smelling like Lad’s Love

For millions of gals?

Who is in a love nest,

Then hears a dispatcher?

Who trampled a Love-lies-bleeding

Because they can?

Who thinks there’s no such thing

As free love, but a man,

Careening

Into the custody of the pain?

Who is Love-in-a-Mist

With devils in the bush?

Who is a Love-in-idleness

And a heartsease?

Who don’t want them together,

But want two and two?

Who is recycled with self-love,

But excludes you?

Come from kindness

And mostly what you’ll hear is, “No.”

I Am Not Him

©. Jan 25, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

I cannot ever be Jesus Christ

And I am not.

I cannot imagine watching the world

All at once,

Seeing the rich lives

Of profane musicians a lot,

Seeing the poor lives

Of muddled minds, murdering,

And seeing if they lack faith

And if they lack works.

Flirt with me

And you’re like an honorable mention

Because I feel

Like you’re living la dolce vita.

Maybe I feel like hearing my God tell me,

“Well done.”

Maybe I’m broke and you expect

The world from someone.

Maybe having fondness

Is like signing a waiver.

I am not destined for prank calls

On your burner phone.

Marriage is a scheme

Like a sales caller, awaiting.

You could be a caring consistency

For Tyrone.

Your speeches can be

The length of a master thesis,

Being more than friendly

With your fellow foot soldiers

I’ve been stomped on viscerally

As expected.

Let me place your insecurities

Inside a kiln.

I don’t have a Rose of Sharon

When I’m rejected.

Hook me like a kaginawa

And something goes wrong.

It’s something like the fine details

Of a love letter.

Like people want me to fight

With caltrops on the floor,

I imagine they’re cassia buds

And don’t fight at all.

Like I’m pushed into a 2-foot pond,

You can see a sore.

The dives you want more,

But even the water’s stagnant.

Do I have to put on my work gloves

And fight for you?

When your music stops playing,

When I see you half-praying,

When your soul leaves your body

Will you want to watch TV?

I prefer no songs

And hear the strings of psaltery,

But how do I win

A lifetime achievement award.

With 48 hours to live,

I imagine freely.

Am I a genuine man

Or am I more than so?

My extroverted self’s,

Pushed to be an introvert.

Have the gall to hug me

Until I’m in affliction.

Search for me in the mire

And mountains with climbing plants.

Take accountability

Like it’s your submission.

Have a strong opinion

And take refuge in my arms

After I accommodated you

With short-lived smiles.

I remember when those didn’t hire me

For a job

And if I was God,

I’m sorry that the gates are closed.

I don’t know if there’s gates,

But I won’t accept a slob.

Mobs are prohibited,

Cast into the lake of fire.

You’re see-though,

So you may as well hate me inside-out.

You feel important

Like an industry insider?

Are you too important

To excuse my countenance?

Are you above the law

And are you getting higher?

Since I find you compromising

With extortioners,

I’d sentence you to hell,

So be glad I’m not Jesus.

Though I am not God,

Have you repented before death?

Are you a goal-oriented rapist

On Mondays?

Were you sincere

Because after you take your last breath,

You die, see a bright light,

And is rejected by God.

Maybe you regret the devil

Who you listened to.

When your music stops playing,

When I see you half-praying,

When your soul leaves your body

Will you want to watch TV?