#13 Night

What is it about a new moon?
The way it keeps the stars company,
giving them something to aspire to.
It's stingy.
Only gives half of itself on some days,
and a quarter on others.
But when it's full,
it's beautiful,
bold.
The sun is the same every day,
it shines, and goes.
Never changing.
The sun is never different.
But the moon,
the same moon,
can be new at times.
It must be fun,
to only give half,
or a quarter.
To be beautiful and
bold, sometimes.
But more importantly
to know,
that without you
there would be nothing to look forward too.

12 Rounds

I'm fighting
Dukes up,
protecting.
I have my okie-doke ready
I'm riding the ropes
prepared for the back and forth.
I'm shuffling
weaving left and right.
I'll show you my chin,
dare you to touch me,
catch me,
control the tempo.
You have thought about how you were going
to cross,
to jab,
to uppercut.
I let you do what you think you want.
I want you to wear yourself out,
chase me.
I'll slip your best shot.
And when I counter,
you'll go down.
Not because I'm better,
or stronger,
or faster.
I'm just more prepared.
While you were contemplating your moves,
I was reacting.

#10: The Last Leg

Sometimes
I feel
The only thing I've ever completed
Is this poem.
Even that's still...

#9: I’ve always had a problem telling time

I.

Optimism is a curse.

The issue is,

knowing something’s coming,

is not knowing when.

II.

Difficulty arises when there’s no guide,

and the hands are too short to tell the difference.

III

There is nothing worse

than arriving late,

to the wrong location,

knowing the directions are in your other pocket.

IV

I’ve always had a problem telling time,

it never listens.

#7: Love, Actually

I have determined,
There is a difference between
Loving,
And loving unconditionally.
See, love is in love with being in love,
It's a selfish emotion.
Love sends a "get well soon" message when you're sick,
And drops you off, then texts to make sure you got in safely.
Love likes to look good,
And makes sure you look good when you're with it.
Love listens to you complain,
tells you congratulations on a promotion,
And buys you a drink for your birthday.
Love knows your favorite things,
ignores your flaws
And supports your vices.
Love tells you that you're perfect in the morning and kisses your forehead,
And says you can do nothing wrong.
Love encourages your triumphs,
But unconditional love supports you even when you fail.
It tells you when you're wrong,
And even though it tells you your breath needs a touch-up in the morning, it kisses you
anyway.
Unconditional love makes you want to improve just to make it happy,
And still loves you unconditionally if you fall a little short.
It understands why some things mean more than others,
And goes out it's way to find new things that you'll like even more.
Unconditional love sings you happy birthday at midnight, and buys the whole damn bar,
if that's what you want, then watches you sleep til morning to make sure you're ok.
It sends you a dozen roses to your desk to celebrate your accomplishments,
And makes you completely forget about whatever the hell it is you do at that building
downtown, when it walks through the door.
Unconditional love likes to make you feel good, looks damn good while doing it too, and
even digs how making you feel good makes love feel good, and likes how that feeling
looks good on you.
It walks you to the door, and has counted the stories and numbered the windows to make
sure the light turns on in your apartment before it leaves (even though it would never
admit to doing so),
then calls to tell you goodnight when it gets home.
Unconditional love is so in love, it wishes for thousands of dollars in loans to go to the
best schools, 12 years of sleep deprivation and brain cramps, malpractice insurance, and
specialties in everything possible on the off chance you come down with something so it
can be your first, second, and third opinion.
Love is a selfish emotion,
In love with the idea of being extended to catch the falling,
but moving aside afraid the strike will make it fall too.
But, unconditional love...

Unconditional love will stretch.
Bend.
Contort.
To secure what's hurling towards it, and
fall to cushion the impact.
So, yes.
There is a difference between loving,
And loving unconditionally.
Everyone has loved.

*shoutout to @LogicDriven for the title

#6: No Excuses

I am not gay.
I am not intimidated by you.
I do not have a pressing date to my wash clothes or hair.
My car is not in the shop.
To tell the truth, I just got an oil change, and my fluids topped off.
I do not have kids, so a babysitter isn't needed.
I will not be out of town.
I may or may not have a boyfriend, but that has nothing to do with my response.
Girls night out is on Thursday,
And yes, I drink or dance on occasion.
I do not have plans.
No one I know is having a birthday, marriage, baby shower, anniversary, or retirement
party this weekend.
There is nothing pressing for me to watch on TV.
I'm sure there is an important sporting event on,
But that's besides the point.
I like to go to movies, and dinner.
I really like concerts and plays.
I would probably be impressed with your taste in any of them.
I'm sure you have a job,
And a car.
You are probably comfortable in your skin,
And I know I'm comfortable in mine.
I just had my eyebrows done,
And I've looked good all week.
The weather's nice,
And I don't have to work early in the morning.
I have something to wear.
I actually just bought a new dress that would look good on me on Friday night.
I would love to go on a date,
But I simply do not wish to go with you.

#5: After 7 Years...

I've always asked the question
what was it that I did
to push you away.

I was demanding
I needed so much of you,
drove you to do more.

I expected you to do what you said,
and sometimes what I said,
or not say it at all.

I wanted you
on all fronts,
and in all ways.

And for 7 years I have wondered,
pondered,
contemplated.

Was I too demanding?
Did I expect too much?
Did I want what you couldn't give?

I simply demanded
for you to live
up to your own potential.

I expected you
to be accountable for your actions,
to love me enough to tell me the truth.

I wanted you
to be the best you,
to be happy with where you were.

And all these years,
I've blamed myself
for expecting what I wanted you to demand of yourself.

And while writing these words
I realize,
it was me.

It was you who was afraid to be successful.

It was I who pushed you away.

#4: Music As A Lover

You caress my auditory impulses,
make me love you in intricate ways.
I can't control my desires
as you pulse through me.
I can feel the beat,
as you beat incessantly,
I push you louder
so I can feel you in me as you surround me.
Pause.
Let me grab some water,
I don't want to miss a high or a low
just want to bump you 'til the speakers
bust.
And keep you rolling
I can hear you go in, and out,
and in, and out,
a rhythm that soothes me.
You blow me.
Rewind.
You blow me with experimentation,
introducing things that I've never considered before.
The fine stroke of a string as you play my drums like a guitar,
slow and sensual,
understanding the delicacies of the first time,
gradually, gradually rising,
daring me to keep up
as I strain to match your feverish pace.
Sometimes I have to catch my breath after you take it away.
When finished you leave me so satisfied,
begging for frequent repeats,
always longing for one more hit,
jonesin' for you to fill me,
fulfill me,
pour into me,
your depth,
your length,
your
girth.
The vast array of understanding that abounds in your aura
I dig how you dig me
How you have memorized me,
always approaching me
with the perfect melody
allowing me to fall into your groove
move with you.
Match your bass
leave me open to reception.
I want you like this forever.
Loving you far into the night,
into the morning,
and beyond.
Spreading,
growing,
learning you.
Becoming a scholar of your ins and inbetweens,
so I can shout your name so loud the neighbors come knocking.
Just trying to understand what we have,
what we have is priceless,
although I pay for you,
go down to my last to satisfy my need for you,
and sometimes you give it up for free.
I love everything about you,
I rise and fall in you,
on you,
and with you.
I want this release,
new or otherwise,
for the rest of my life.

#3: Music As a Friend

Always there...
I mean always.
No fair weather.
Delivers like the mail man,
rain, sleet, hail, and snow.
I can't describe it,
and I can't escape it.
You change your clothes with my moods,
scream when I scream,
cry when I cry,
and make me laugh when I forget how.
I replay you,
over and over again,
so I can feel your emphasis,
memorize,
quote in a way so my jargon is palatable.
Sometimes I am chaotic,
moods up and down like the head nod to a perfect beat.
And you stay with me.
Even on those days when I don't know what I want,
just pass you by,
unsure, unable to commit,
and you simply find a way to comfort me.
There is no need for words with you.
You understand,
you know me, in all the right ways.
And this is why I love you.

Poem #2: Surrounded

I use to pride myself in being the dumbest one in my group. Wait, let me rephrase that. I like to surround myself with people who are smarter than me. Using their knowledge to increase the appearance of my own. A perennial perpetration of elevation, if you will. Trying, striving, wanting to be better, but falling short.

I have been deemed to have “potential.”

Is that meant to be a complement or an insult?

“She has great potential”

It’s like saying, “you could be good, but you’re not.” Potential is a hard word to live up to. All I think of when I hear that word is, that dream deferred. I am that raisin. I have that sun; I’ve birthed a stance of inequity. And inequity next to genius is stagnant. But the issue is that I can’t figure if that genius is mad, or hungry; knowing that an unfed understanding is a cancer rapidly expanding. Killing the cells of upward mobility, crippling them to the point where thirst for comprehension is left paraplegic.

So I limp.

Like Jacob touched by God.

My desires for betterment burn.

So I surround myself with better. I hope for a mob action of the mind. Wanting my arrested development to push me; urging my pride to be intact. Understanding that those around me are not smarter, but smart enough to keep me around. Hoping to no longer be strapped down with potential, but with released to realization.

Poem #1: Work in Progress

I'd be lying if I said I never doubt you, but
I know that I couldn't live without you
No, I couldn't breathe,
And I couldn't see,
I just wouldn't be
And why y'all would see
is an unwatered seed
Dried up in the weeds
and in dyer need
Of a soul to pray for me
Not a parable or a prophecy
Just using honesty
It's a virtue
Say em to yourself
Lies still hurt you
I've done my dirt too,
I still do it.
I see the stop sign and I,
I run through it
Taking risks, I'm afraid to quit
But it's God's plan I should fight to fit
So the world loosens it's grip
And I can add brick my brick
To this single foundation
And at the next crosswords I'll pass with no citation
So I look forward to next time.
And while I force this rhyme
And leave hyperbole out of this diction
The non-fiction I must confess
Is that I am, and always will be a work in progress

As Heritage Streams Through Saxophones and Hi-hats I Contemplate the Breaks

My dad listens to jazz, he really listens, appreciates all the instruments,
nods his head in agreement while the notes play,
grooves with the sharps and flats.
He listens to his jazz, as boom's and bip's re-verb,
Like I read verb from the masters,
study their word choice and tone,
those tones speak to him.
It took me years to discover what it was in his jazz that acceded to my fathers mood.

Those songs that go on too long,
pauses too pregnant with forced emphasis,
like those poems I never finished.
The ones too poetic to mean anything,
phrases phrased to rhyme for rhyme,
a series of
one,
word,
lines,
that stream of words that run on unchecked by comma or semicolon simply to comply with the act of insurrection that all poems should be because poets are rebellious
It's those songs he rejected, skiped over,
didn't mention in his monthly "you should hear."

As I sit and listen to his music, I mean really listen,
I hear those C's, D's, and E flats.
I note the notes that fall, and the ones that don't,
realizing that what my father nods in agreement to,
is how the lines
break.

The Morning After (or November 5th)

In bed

- satisfied

- and exhausted

I lay,

with smile

completely unable

- and unknowing

of how to voice

new thoughts

New answers that went

- unquestioned

In the

days

weeks

months

Before this morning.

A Simple Request

I want to cry,
Be broken into little pieces --
fractions of hindsight my muse.

It is my dream to drown,
In cartons of ice /creamed future --
altered by distrust.

I need my world axis,
To tilt opposing rotation --
stopped to find a new gravitational field.

Why can't I --
be skeptical of motives;
relive past relationships
through current transgressions;
run from my feelings.

What I wouldn't do --
to regret my decisions;
to rehash old arguments;

to be -

absolutely

unequivocally

completely and utterly


miserable

or --

at least


have the opportunity to love.