my thoughts are spiraling and inspiration is festering inside of my belly forming metaphorical butterflies that flutter and flatter my thoughts to come into existence but the hands in the frame refuse to move wisely so i must submit to my priorities and make a bed for my thoughts to lie quietly with peace as their cozy pillow and unity as their comforter keeping them together as one.

eighty-eight.

no words.

i can almost feel each letter and syllable of

every word i think to speak trickle down from my

mind to my heart through my throat to my tongue.

as soon as it reaches my tongue, i only taste the blood from

my heart through my throat and the words fear being exposed

to air - they would rather stay blue than to turn red.

i become mute.

my thoughts become faint.

and they lack voice.

they have no sound.

and i speak with no words.

eighty-seven.

caged bird.

beautiful wings gracefully flapping.

creating a rhythmic tune behind its song of chirp.

behind, inside, undermined by black bars that enslave this bird.

that captivate this bird, this bird is flapping aimlessly.

nowhere to go, no escape.

nowhere to go, no escape.

harder, harder, faster, faster, its wings flap.

angrily and impatiently, singing hymns of freedom.

its owner walks in 3 hours after his purchase.

finds his lovely songbird layed out - lifeless.

birds are not meant to be caged.

birds are not meant to be enslaved.

eighty-six.

musical ride.

close your eyes.

hit play.

vibe.

memory ride on

a musical train

with tracks made of

treble clefs.

beats banging in the brain

past experiences visiting the present.

opening the box of memories like a present.

because these lyrics bring your spirit to her presence.

and the beat goes on.

musical train packed with

an instrumental, so name-less.

vibe.

hit play.

close your eyes.

eighty-five.

injustice.

the bell still rings when i think about diallo.

those boys were supposed to be in blue, instead

they rolled up on you like a common citizen in unmarked cars,

boldly claiming that they were some legit policemen.

they shot at you with their machinery.

blasted you countlessly with fatally steel bullets.

blasted you with bullets made of prejudices.

blasted you with bullets filled with no remorse.

penetrating inside of you both a cold, cold death.

they were just protecting themselves.

doing their duty.

even after maliciously MURDERING you,

they were acquitted - sentenced to walk away, free.

but the lives of your family members and friends

were placed behind bars of torment and misery.

and still, you were in the wrong because you were

coated in a skin so deeply and richly colored.

you were a target and they were at practice.

this was the cost of you being an innocent black man on the streets of NY.

and the bell still rings when i think of diallo.

eighty-four.

in sync.

when your energy decides to hop on
a roller coaster and it soars towards
the ground with high speed, colored grey -
i swear i feel as though my energy hopped
the same roller coaster yours did and their
hands are flying up with gloom cutting
the wind with their invisible digits.

i pray for you and his spirit too.

eighty-three.

today.

yes.
finally.
it has come.

that feeling that you feel when you feel what you feel that you haven't felt since the last time you felt that feeling that you feel when you feel a certain feeling that inspires other feelings to feel.

uh huh.
completely.
it has arrived.

you know, that feeling that you thought you lost when you lost what you thought was yours but was never yours in reality because it was like vapor in truth and in person you felt what your mind thought you could feel when you never really could feel what only your mind felt because it wasn't real.

ok.
so.
it has happened.

i can't stop feeling that feeling today. i feel as if you physically lifted up my blinds and as they rose, i rose and my energy was at its highest high and i felt everything around me center and rise.

just.
like.
that everything rose.

and today, this face is painted crystal clear.
not a blemish of sadness insight or in thought or in heart.
and today, this feeling is right.

it came from Above.

eighty-two.

there she was.

he sat on the stoop with a bouquet of flowers in hand.

behind him, she stood at the height of the stoop, in silence.

he hung his head in between his legs, the bouquet held its posture.

behind him, she stood at the height of the stoop, in lament.

his body collapsed and became one with the cold ground, the bouquet maintained its figure.

behind him, she stood at the height of the stoop, in tears.

eighty-one.

languish.

on the very tip of my tongue is

a speech that speaks a languish

that only i am able to repeat.

a languish that only i can analyze

and read and rewind and recognize.

the type that only my eyes would be able to memorize.

and when i speak this speech, i'll watch the ears of the listeners

weep and their minds fill with confusion and

that will inspire me to smile.

because i've always known that no one would ever understand.

eighty.

in response to.

"What's wrong? If I may ask..."

"i just want to be."

"Well, I'm not sure what you mean exactly but I hope you can be..."

*steps outside of me*

i want to be everything positive that i think.

i want to be the sunrise when your eyes rise.

i want to be the reason why flowers blossom.

i want to be the songs birds sing outside my window.

i want to be the eye lashes that flutter because they're flattered.

i want to be the butterflies that tango in the stomachs of lovers.

i want to be the body in His armour that stands firm, without fear.

i want to be the headlights that strikes and shakes the deer it meets fright.

i want to be the tune and the melody that is on repeat in your mind.

i want to be the letters, the words, the syllables, the bars and hooks when you rhyme.

i want to be here. right. here. and there when i don't want to be here.

i want to be near. very. near. and far each time i don't want to be near.

i want to be the grip in the palms of love and of love and of love when love touches Love.

i want to be the digits that intertwine when love and love come in the face of Love.

i want to be the image that is permanently stapled to your memory.

i want to be memorized in your mind when i mesmerize your mind.

i want to be the dance that dances so swiftly across the street at night.

i want to be the rhythm that keeps us on beat when we reach our high.

i want to be the key that unlocks the innocent prisoner, that sets them free.
i want to be the tears of joy that roll down their mothers cheek.

i want to be the smile on a sad face.
i want to be the moon on an early day.

i mean what i say when i say i want to be.

i mean every word i say when i think of how and what i want. to. be.

i just want to be.

seventy-nine.

lethal weapon.

in his hands, a bag of

coke.

from it, powder bleeding red blood

crystallized chains confining his mind

dust being cut by his master and his

eyes are pasted on his movement .. shaking.

unaware that he is holding fatality.

the lethal weapon in his hands, he is using.

to commit homicide.

the victim: himself.

seventy-eight.

wherever.

doesn't matter if the camels hump

runs dry ... our spirits will collide

and carry on this ride towards a

distant land that is unknown with

no name - only hands to feel and

lift and caress and embrace the

curvatures of the distant land that

is nameless to us.

free. this is how i feel today.

seventy-seven.

up above.

thunder clouds forming up above.
forming with frustration and anguish.
sounds of grief and pain, thundering.

rain falling with words of disdain
contained in each drop.

drops of blood from these thunder clouds above.

i hear your anger in the sky.

i feel your sorrow running down my side.

my umbrella is too weak and too fragile to

protect me from your feelings.

too small to comfort your disdain.

too caring to melt away your resentment.

so i stand in the midst of your emotions
and watch your feelings roll fast.
hit the ground, splash, and separate.

i'm waiting for them all to evaporate.

seventy-six.

really, i do.

this hair ... it's growing so much.

it's even growing on my nerves.

but i love it.

sincerely.

seventy-five.

my first song.

what if

i could no longer speak and

i lost the connection i have with words

so, i could no longer write.

all i could do is hear.

and all they would be able to do is

watch the music run from my eyes.

that would be my first song.

seventy-four.

just thinking.

thank You, God for creating # infinity.

i drove through Your drive thru and ordered it;

cool breeze and sunshine.

You said to wait while You prepared it, fresh.

so i did.

and when i received it,

my bones relaxed on the blades of grass.

i felt ok.

captured by a butterfly.

seventy-three.

night walker.

prowling around mysteriously.
paws prancing delicately on the cold pavement.
blending in with the black light.
in a black sight with night vision.
glaring eyes.
laser eyes.
reflecting eyes.
they walk around on their own.
looking for a predator to prey on them.
purring for attention.
night walker, blending in with the black light.

seventy-two.

reaching it.

seated in the face of the cool moon.
distant stars winking at my presence.
twirling and dancing gracefully before me.

midnight sky watching me protectively.
sending me waves of the wind to chill my heated mind.
reaching closer towards me, pulling closer to me.

moving me to sleep.

seventy-one.

restless dreams.

(originally typed 13 aug 09 @ 12:09 pm.)

dreams don't sleep 'til they meet reality .
rather they toss and turn .
plead and yearn for
our reality to reflect our restless dreams .

sound screams haunting our sleepless slumber .
ambition avoiding achievements that need to be attained .
courage cuddled closely underneath our calloused feet .
goals going gone to a desolate desperate land .

dreams don't sleep 'til they meet reality .
rather they fight and fuss .
push and punch
our reality until our restless dreams wake up .

peace.

seventy.

slumber II.

you've created a long distance between

my body and your presence at the bottom of the day.

i feel you lurking around me

teasing me refusing to please me.

there is a special place for you, right here.

in the center of my eyes and eye lids - come here.

i've been expecting you all day long.

let's bridge this distance and call it even.

sixty-nine.

enveloped.

dear inspiration,

thank you for being apart of my life.
thank you for stimulating my mind.
thank you for tracing the voice of my words.
thank you for creating visuals through my silence.

thank you for trickling down my spine

and leading me down a road of observation

with appreciation.

inspiration, thank you for being generous.

one thing i must say, i hate when you leave.
when you secretly walk away from me.

leaving my pen mute and my pages naked.

i know this is selfish of me, but could you please not go away?

sincerely,

your instrument.

sixty-eight.

sounds.

instrumentals.

sticks knocking.

cymbals clashing.

buses screeching.

people speaking.

doors slamming.

fingers typing.

mouse clicking.

pencils scribing.

birds chirping.

moon setting.

leaves vibing.

i feel music ringing in my ears.

sixty-seven.

the sun.

these days move so quickly and so swiftly,

i wonder what type of affair the sun is having with the moon.

i wonder why the sun has to share its presence with the other side of the earth.

i wonder if there is anything i could do to inspire it not to rush

away

from me.

i blink my eyes for a split second, and the daylight has already made its

exit.

sixty-six.

morning.

tired, i rose from beneath my covers.

awakened by a song, sang by birds in

the color of the sun and the shadow of the

moon - they sang and rang as if they were my alarm

early morning, early morning tunes.

and God lifted me up, touched my face,

wiped my eyes and curled my lips.

i knew today would be a beautiful day.

sixty-five.

it's not yours.

that imaginary eraser you use everytime
to remove that delicate smile that rises on her vibrant face
is now desensitized to her lips and can no longer
be gripped by your papermate pink pearl eraser.

instead, it'll clean the remnants of the sadness
that once was drawn on her lips and make room
for that everlasting Joy she feels within.

her smile is not dictated by the presence of. you.

sixty-four.

billy harper - oh ... if only.

jazz saxophonist.

words walking within

his formless motives

of melodies in music.

playing stories with his fingertips.

painting images when his reed meets his lips.

pleasing ears of listeners, effortlessly.

jazz saxophonist.

sixty-three.

everywhere.

triangular fortitudes forming everywhere.

point a.

point b.

point three.

minus one.

plus two.

multiply eight.

divide by four.

and then create an invisible number.

creating a rectangular figure stuffed

with dazes and gazes and mazes of confusion.

triangular fortitudes forming. everywhere.

sixty-two.

gazing out.

i looked out of the window and

the glimmering of the city lights

snatched my eyes and twisted

my iris around the beautifully

lit light and held me closely as

if they were going to pull me from

my current location to nestle under

the warmth of their glow.

the city lights had me gazing out

dazing out, almost falling out

into the Lights of the city.

sixty-one.

bolder than black.

standing firm.
before a figure.
bold face lying.
lying with boldness.
colored black all over.
bold face lying.
no truth behind those eyes.
only lust within those eyes.
you are a bold. face. lie.

sixty.

he loved her.

lured her in.
layed her down.
said he loved her.
spoke the words "i love you".
said to her he loved her.

hid her quickly.
held her secretly.
told her he'll never ever do her wrong.
because he told her he loved her.
he said he loves her.

slept over.
messed around.
infidelity running free in his playground.
while she sat.
believing his words.
oblivious to his lies.

all because he said he loved her.

fifty-nine.

for real.

if he didn't have to, he wouldn't.
if he knew better - he wouldn't.

he's climbing higher but he feels lower.
actually, he feels as if he's going nowhere.

fifty-eight.

where i wanna be.

sunshine.flowers.butterflies.hummingbirds.breezes.waves.smiles.barefeet.laughter.green.dragonflies.poetry.tea.beautiful.plains.hills.tree.leaves.jazz.smooth.sensational.promises.faithfulness.trust.yellow.waterfalls.illustration.blossom.fresh.spring.blues.harmony.natural.honesty.art.three.locks.pathway.vibes.dawn.camel.oasis.life.peace.

fifty-seven.

go far.

i want to build a bridge that leads over to some type of utopia
that my heart sees but my mind refuses to believe in.
my ears hear but my feet halt and refuse to move.
this divine place of no sadness, no confusion, no hate.

i want to go to that place. so i don't ever have to feel sad again.

fifty-six.

i read you.

they say it's written all
over
your
face - the summary of your day.

like an open book, they read you
all
throughout
the day - they underline and bookmark what you say.

facial expression drawing emotional
depictions
of
your
souls scripted series - can you hear me?

close your book.
lock it up.
bury it beneath cloudy days.
saturate yourself with the rhythm of Light.

fifty-five.

drifting far.

drop one.
drop two.
dropped three bullets of tears in a bucket of relief.

believing she would be relieved - she wasn't.
she sat and starred at the bucket, hopeful.
turned out the bucket was just temporary
storage for her misery - that she couldn't
just secrete it to eternally escape it.

that's what killed her the most.