Militant88

I can come up with a beginning A few words here and there, but nothing tying them Together. No correlation between thoughts after a while Just, well, a concept. I can start by talking about being alone, Being the only person from the city But then it becomes a romantic poem about The last time I had, well you know. My mind will let me begin with something beautiful But whatever it was supposed to become will never Be. It will remain like an unfinished painting That a now dead child was painting in class The day before he caught a stray bullet, And now that painting, not having yet taken Full form remains in the classroom. I began with a f

if drunken minds speak sober hearts why can't i tell You how i feel? 12 shots later i'm still trying to find out if what i felt about You really was real but it has to be, my mind don't play tricks on me this drastically, but i'm sad to see that i have even less of a chance with You than i thought. i even thought of telling You two days ago over a meal, but my heart was afraid to open a window seal releasing my inner thoughts, they get dark and even more so conflicted. i ought to have the will to speak my mind before i break open the seal to this Ciroc and this Henny and then these pills that numb up all of my feels, but never can take awa

if drunken minds speak sober hearts why can't i tell You how i feel? 10 shots later i'm still trying to figure out if what i felt about You really was real. but it has to be, my mind don't play tricks on me this drastically, but i'm sad to see that i have even less of a chance with You than i thought. i even thought of telling You two days ago over a meal, but my heart was afraid to open a window seal releasing my inner thoughts, they get dark and even more so conflicted. i ought to have the will to speak my mind before i break open the seal to this Ciroc and this Henny and then these pills that numb up all of my feels, but never can take

I'm yellin to beekeeper somebody bail me out. my people are locked in here buzzin loud like summer heat. no physical shackles on my feet, but still thousands of African descendants are locked in here. constant buzzin from the bees, those b's be black men. ironic, we're buzzin for freedom in here, while beekeeper locked us in this place for buzzin too loudly for freedom out there. beekeper knows there ain't no honey here, just a museum of innocence being oppressed, as usual.  

too distant, the age difference, the timing is unfortunate. she tells him all of this, while he stands with hands in pockets trying to find the courage he mustered up once to talk to her. he wants to at least try but she tells him the "logistics" won't allow anything past momentary. he hates that word, "logistics" it means give up before it starts to him. he wonders if she really likes him, or if it was just one thought or two that caused his hopes to get high then crash down onto his emotional ground killing everything around it like an atom bomb.

i like You, why is it so hard to say? it churns my stomach and soul when i just thinking about saying it to Your face. Your beautiful face that makes me smile and loose the ability to speak properly like i am a middle school boy with a crush. a girl like You probably already knows how i feel yet i still lack the bravery to just utter these three simple words. i like You i like You, i can write it in a poem all day but when i have the chance to say it to You i just fumble my words around like an inadequate running back. even if i told You how i felt You couldn't be that surprised. curvy hair and a curvy figure to match, truly something to

i like you, why is it so hard to say? it churns my stomach and soul when i just thinking about saying it to your face. your beautiful face that makes me smile and loose the ability to speak properly like i am a middle school boy with a crush. a girl like you probably already knows how i feel yet i still lack the bravery to just utter these three simple words. i like you i like you, i can write it in a poem all day but when i have the chance to say it to you i just fumble my words around like a football player on the new york jets. even if i told you how i felt you couldn't be that surprised. your curvy hair and curvy figure to match are trul

just one more kiss is all I need like just one last hit of morphine for the addict when actually I need to go cold turkey and suffer the painful and very lonely withdrawal

she is a guitar and I want to play songs all day long she is a black and brown telecaster and I can tell that God made her just for me every time I feel the curves touch my body. I lay her on my bed and caress her brown curves before I play a single note. I can’t always find a pick before I play, so I have to be careful with how aggressive my fingers strum. every little movement of my fingers makes her entire body vibrate from her bottom, which is on my legs, to the top of her neck. I slide my fingers down each fret. my fingertips sweat sweet sweat on each string, leaving a piece of me on her. anytime I play it’s a guitar s

perched on my window seal along with the autumn leaves are two red roses reminding me of the spring. light hit my face as I peered my eyes into the street. strange, so strange that this scenery is no longer my home. rather a place that I inhabited for most of my years. these two roses are out of focus as my thoughts are past them. my life is past the point where the roses she gave me matter, but I do find myself smelling that familiar scent from time to time.