no….f-ing way

…poor doggie

Dear Mistah,
Dear Mistah,
 Dear Mistah “No Sex,”
                Cuz laying naked next to u on the phone was as close to unity as we’d ever get
                Even after the physical connect
                        You shun my bodily cravings
                I was always impure. -Compared to u
Dear Mistah “I’m accepted into every art school in the country”
        And all the good ones international

                Makes a collage out of the letters
                        Takes a lighter to it and let’s it burn
                                 All the letters between u and I.
                 You let us burn
                Let us burn
                Let us burn but
                                I
                                 I lit us on fire.
        Because he treated me like he treated his art work.
                        Never date an artist
                                They’re all liars
                Cuz they’ll put their entire life into you for a few months…                         few weeks then,                              

Drop kick you into the gallery
                        Put you on display for all the world to learn
                                Here we are…Two Artists
                And we let us burn

                        Flamed straight to the inner queer in both of us
                Dance midnight into 2pm
                And I Shoulda given u a reason to stay.

                        Not to leave
                        Not to dream a figmented parchment                                                                                     with someone else’s pencil
                                                        Scripted on withered fingertips
Dear Mistah,

Caught me on bad days..

or worse days,

and made them the best days
Dear Mistah “Wonderfully Cursed Gift”

 with the crafted cool tounge tip

that was always able to strip me raw

run me naked

and see who I am behind my walls.
                                        I liked my walls
                        Before you invaded
        Mistah trump player
        Pulled out your cards
                My heart was ur table
        So you spaded my cracks corners
        Broke me down to build me on splintered lashes fallen from heavy liquid you caused
                                                Paper cuts with rain drops
                And yet it was me.
                All me.
        I caused us to be Mistah and Me.

 No longer we tramping on stamped out stereotypes

                I fight…

                        for the teardrops that made you scream

                You loved Me
                        On a tattered napkin in Dunkin Donut wars of who  can stuff the most ice in our mouths
                        I love you mistah

Mistah

Mistah Ice Cold

        Cuz u always won
        15 ice cubes versed my 7
        Let it melt
                Let us melt and burn at the same time
                        Cuz brainfreeze isn’t half as bad as a burnt soul
        Skin dripping down a melted hearts color coded reflections

Dear Mistah Blue

Mistah red

Mistah green

Mistah any color u wanted to be

who tore my fucking rainbow from my thighs
                AndI tried
                        So hard to love me

                even when I couldn’t deal with my life
                                                        Trying to love you
Dear Mistah Perfect
        Mistah artist
        Mistah “you’re not right for who I am”
Dear Mistah Always Blue
        Cuz you were too much of an artist to not be a tortured soul

…So…Dear Mistah,
        How can I say…I should have given you a reason to stay
        When I should have just not given you a reason to leave
                When I thought I gave u a reason..for both..
                                        -Me.

Arched in words that would last all of the 30 seconds she loved me.

15mins of me loving her so fiercly she cried an orgasm that wrang notes into my soaked thighs.

30 months of angered moments, 

Scripted quickly into swirling fingertips printed on tattered backs

Hands trailing down ragged lines of sanity.

10 Nails digging to find redemption in her sweat

I bet she doesn’t even remember my name,

My real name

The one I signed loosley between her breast

Among chest full of handprints before me

…there were so many.

Lover-Friend-Lover-Friend-Lover-Friend-lover mostly

For I loved her in ways only a first heart could break

Between the madness in sheets wrapped around caramel skin that came poisin

I Drank.

As I whispered into her womanhood: 

Do You Love Me,

Today?

For she told me some nights before she turned her back to me

Hands trapsing necks nape as if to say 

‘I love you today…But tomorrow,

Tomorrow may be different

So take what you can get from this…”

So I loved her,

for 15 minutes at a time.

Hoping that maybe in my systematic kisses

Today would be forever,

or alternatively,

her 30 seconds would stop in mid -oh

And she would string together a chorus of scarred nights that sang she loved me permanently.

But 30 months of trying only birthed pain laboring everytime her loves ink ran dry

Penning me down with pencil lined lusted times

For I knew I wasn’t the only one.

Daybreak parted and she would be gone

Leaving me to wonder…

Would She Love Me…today?

I wonder what it’d be like to pick myself up the ground, after putting myself there. To not have a shadow to hide behind. No one to blame, no one to curse, no one to point the finger at except my own reflection.

Being hurt, being the victim who survived…has always been my story.

But if nothing’s wrong…and I’m still messed up, what does that say?

Does it say I’m childish, selfish, immature…and maybe…quite possibly not good enough for you?

…hm.

Argument
An oral disagreement.
Verbal opposition
Contention
Altercation
A verbal argument.

Led to violence

A place where hands to face had no distinguished lines
And where I thought the better I hid my bruises
There’d be less of a chance I’d have to rack my brain for actions of the day
Seeing if I had any reason to avoid her touch
But you see sometimes…
There were good days
I lived for those days
And that is why we stay…isn’t it?
For those good days
Where there were no arguments…

Because the few moments we strived for
Are filled with open doors and swing sets
Sweeping cold air past her cuts and abuses
Were worth it.

Sunset doped in morphine to drip in apathetic forgiveness into my brain
You see…we were trained
to never grow up.
So we remained the same.
Cast in a pool of predecessorry blame.
My father didn’t really love me either
So we act as we are taught.
Following in footsteps of hated thought,
Forgotten rot.
So maybe a part of me understood
That her picking me up from work and lingering kiss
Were her excused apologies mixed in with
I.O.U’s

Inconsistent. Outputs. Uncontrolled.

I owe you an explanation for every time I dropped water on the carpet and let her wash it with my tears
I owe you an explanation for every time I flash back to nights where my shoulders painted eggshell walls of white with red
I owe you an explanation as to why I can’t let you go on an escalator first – my fear of heights was induced by her
My fear of life was induced by her
I’ve found weakness in her vengeance
But yet I owe you an explanation as to why I opened arms to her braided tears at midnight

I was tied too tight to her inconsistent guidelines
Because if no one could see us
Then it wasn’t really there
Played hide and seek with our emotions
Covered eyes mouths and ears

And perhaps there were better ways for first relationships to go
But I let go of cartoons and held on to the animations of her mind
You see she was my childhood
Ripped from playground sets of sexual exploration
Immatured relation-ships-sank

to bloody bath tub waters
Slit verbal cists into my wrists
With every dialect she knew
Blind eyes fueled deaf mouths of split tongues where stitched ears refused to see truth

She spoke to the tremblings of my fetaled heart
Her makeup was in her kisses
Foundation of excuses
Upon mascarad alliterations

Altercation
contention
Verbal opposition
An oral disagreement
Argument

Led to violence
More than words ever should.
And across the ruins of my childhood
We finger-painted
I.O.U.

In life,

We write

Constantly

IN the beginning imitating art

Hoping maybe in our repetitive plagiarism of style our own voice will emerge screaming

Angered at the idea it hasn’t been able to speak for so long

And we fight with our selves

Wondering why we dared try to live in someone else’s journal

Even though we were only trying to provoke our reflection from our shadows

In our life were never right

Were just a pile of papers with inked dreams and blue lined revolutions scribbled fiercely across recycled paper

We are dumb, and confused and blind because we see everything

And we speak words so loud that they fade into the page

Run into each other because of our rushed sounds just trying to get every tremor of every treble into every movement

In our lifetime after our style has developed and we’ve workshopped and read

And are broke and’ve been bread to be broken

And sometimes homeless

And only 2 people on this planet can ever understand us

We will still be writers

Scratch out words verbs professing what we’ve done

What we’ll do

All we’ll amount to is …nothing.

Amongst the clutter of words are just a pile of vowels dominated by Us and Is

Selfish constantans constantly suffocated by the tight restraints we bind

Forcing our dense rapped memories that formulate these words we swear by

So we call ourselves writers

Professing things we’ll never act upon

Profound acts of conscious

Like just by thinking it writing will fly off the pages and stream at the world

But the world is illiterate

Can’t read our essays, our poems, our vowels are useless in this society

Writers don’t make it right.

And we are left to symphonies of empty choirs

Bohemian conductors commanding an arena of ghosts with a pen

Trying to bring forth unappreciated life in a world that would rather stare at a tv screen to make things brighter

Because they can’t accept our reality

Refusing to ever go farther

And we’re pushing to get people to realize

They need to worship

The writer.

i.am.ti.r.e………d

didn’t know coma came in walking doses.