Tin woman, why do you kiss me back?

Why do you kiss me back?
Sista, you can’t give me what I need
Instead you only provide me with signs I misread to be something more
But instead of green lights to go forward
They are just misguided detours
Sex with you is a weapon
Leaving my chest open with a heart still beating
Seething for you
Searing like the steaming hot love scene we embraced
Dripping love oil from my lips to my face
Hot bodies gliding, releasing inward frustrations
It was needed, but only because I was convenient
A fool to your love, a toy for your baby boy
You played me, used me, and abused me
But why
For every tear that came to your eyes
I resigned to be your handkerchief
A Kleenex, a shoulder to brace your neck
For all that others did to you, I tried to mend
A light unreal lover and a deep true friend
Like a night without stars you could see clear through me
And all I wanted to do was be with you through the twilight
At night, drive to be by your side when you would arise from any nightmare
Just to be there
To put you on my back and carry you over hot sand
To pyramid castles, this man would build, just so you could touch the sky
To prove it was not a lie
So you could find something to equal your beauty
How could you do this to me?
In the presence of darkness you forgot how to love
But still want to be loved, hugged, and kissed
And with your lips, you turn Judas
And kiss me back, but like a tin machine you are empty inside
My queen somehow at some point was left by the way side
Like the Tin Man leaving Oz, you are left without a heart
So you can’t give me what I need
And I don’t need to misread your motives
And you don’t need to misread mine
The light has finally turned green for me to go
And you are left behind


Soft Small Frame

Rain drops fall, splattering as they hit the ground
Masking the sound of quickly moving feet
A faster moving heart beat,
pulsating, vibrating a small frame body as it presses against an alley wall
Catching a breathe, pausing for a quick rest
Thunder sounds, lightning strikes high, splitting the night sky
Heaven cries, sorrowful tears indeed
Looking at her hands, water rolling from face to cheek meets salty drops
Young black seeds in hard earth soil grow solid like stone
Home grown to be hard like diamond, but many with a soul soft like cotton
Touched by God at conception, and kissed by the devil at birth
Earth is in its last days, and they are in a maze of confusion
Delusions of love are passed over for lust and sex
Regrets are made in the throngs of passion
Passion draped all over the hands of one young woman standing in the rain
Looking at hands that had just come from caressing soft brown skin
But not knowing though his body was within hers
His love was only between her thighs, her eyes regret the day they first saw him
And try as they may, they couldn’t wash away the memory
Flashbacks and visions of all she had seen of and in him
These things proceed and all of a sudden the rain gives way to sunny days of happiness
Picnics, six months of indulgence in a world that was not hers
Lured in by his charm, holding on to his arm everywhere they went
Seemed like a sign outwardly of his inward content
But content is sometimes only contempt in wait
As he played her with Veronica, Suzanne, Lizbeth, Shawna and Grace
From massage to manauge, from discrete circumstance to desecrate indulgence
His fingerprints on their bathroom mirrors punctuated his deeds
Tendencies are ironies in wait
Because as was his practice, as was his fate
She had left in a commotion as Grace came to confront him
Seeds that he had let grow inside her, how could he have lied to her
Her fingers on prints of pictures taken by a camera phone of a friend
When he was showing outward content in the arms of Suzanne
Perhaps one could have been seen as a confrontation of short will versus high heeled determination
But now, prints clutched in her fingers, him inside this young girl
When nightmares hit the real world, you get stab wounds to the tune of 143
The rain fell violently, a relentlessly hard picture caught in a soft small frame


outside room forty three

Through assimilation, simile, and metaphor
We see into project corridors
Outside door 43, the lampshade shakes violently
Intermittently like car blinkers, the light flickers
Her concussions would lead to significant repercussions
Conscious I am, so consciously I see
Crackhead logic of addiction, leading to contradictions
I love you so I beat your ass
I love you so I feed you with the very same substance that kills you
Give you a needle and expect you to show gratitude by falling to your knees
Crackhead logic often misreads life’s simplest signals
Those that aren’t subliminal,
As fresh and obvious as drool on a new day’s pillow
Rest in peace is engraved on the tombstone in concave lettering
An unfittingly calm setting for a life so turbulent
Violence has a scent that is revolting and interesting just the same
Small children, growing up around it, inhale it into their brains
Where is resides and festers
The leading cause of rapists and child molesters
See I understand
The story does not always begin with the guilty
And society is so used to Court TV that it lacks sympathy
A sympathetic ear, a sympathetic heart, a sympathetic mind, forget it
So when her little son, pulled back the trigger, while cocking the gun
I saw self defense when others saw negligence mixed with vengeance
The fact that, as he lay bleeding, the young boy repeatedly punched him
Was justification to me, while others saw it as fruits of cursed semen
the prequel tales of a young demon
The light flickered outside room 43
His mother came home and called the cops
The jail bars close on a fourteen year old and our story stops


Silent Cries, That Now I Hear So Clear

What happens when you ignore a woman’s silent cries?
Tears asking for more, that simply go unheard,
Covering with lies to disguise the truth a man can not accept 
Regrets, these things follow us so long 
Well after the person has left and gone 
And a man is left staring at the door, wondering 
I don’t know what it was, 
I could blame it on a thousand things 
But I just wasn’t listening 
With all the clutter of the real world I couldn’t avoid 
I just couldn’t hear her 
Too much noise in the background 
I know there was a void and I tried to cover substance with empty promises 
Thinking it could be traded and compensated 
Thinking I could return again later 
Making good on all that I swore I would 
But sometimes, for all the promises, the realities are just not enough 
And you are left, wondering 
You are left wishing 
That that front door would just open,
That you’d hear the key crackling 
And life would be the same again 
In your heart, you know that this time would be different 
That you’d make enough time, more than enough, 
For every five minutes she needed to confide in you, 
You’d give her an hour 
For every moment she wanted to be next to you, 
You’d give her a night full 
For every time she wanted to see a movie ,
You’d give her a production 
For every song she wanted to hear, 
You’d choreograph a symphony 
For every time she missed you, 
You’d be there 
Could she have really found love,
in the arms of another?
Time ticks
Wishes becoming silent tears
Memories become silent hauntings
Thoughts becoming silent fears
Feelings becoming silent wantings
The clock does tick,
And regrets, they follow us so long
Well after she has left
Well after she has moved on
With tears now running down a my closed eyes
I hear a key, finally crackling in the door  


Rounds of Conscience

He grew up on the lonely streets of New York, like a rose springing from the dusty streets
Concrete would then be his father and we would then understand why he was so hard
So cold, so bold, and so knowledged
Not college educated but with all the makings of a philosopher none the less
His stress found its way into his music and his music found its way on to bootleg CDs
Sold on Halsey St. and over on Flatbush Ave. by a guy name Leon
His songs were of a different melody, his words were of a different path
As though he was talking on behalf of all of us lost in this world, a dark room with no corners
Former greatness buried in the history of our races, apparent in our faces but not in our speech
Incomplete sentences, broken language, sort of like Creole, Ebonics
Chronicly an insult that he understood and put in his words, he was called Conscience
Nonsense he didn’t stand for, a thin, light-skin man with a frizzy little afro that would play on his piano and sing
Ringing in the ears of all would dare to hear was contemplations and reflections of a man uneducated but with a mental PhD
Harmony and lyrics were his conduit, a path for electricity to flow and provide energy
We who heard him were mesmerized as though we were plugged into his passion
His actions springing fountains of thoughts within, though his words would prove to out live him

His songs were interesting, provocative, intellectual, and motivating though he could not get a music deal
Real were his words, telling us about how American high society, white society, was worse than any drug to minorities
Poorer needs were often overlooked, as corporate America continued to build share holder wealth
They, only caring for self, stuff millions of dollars in their pockets and when a million more wasn’t coming
Had to do something, how could they live on a measly couple hundred of thousand dollars
Scholars as the are, cut costs by laying off the low wage jobs
Sobs constantly going unanswered as the system continues to play the blues
Bad news, he lived during a slight economic depression
Confession; he was really laid off and bitter because of the job he ended up losing
Refusing at any time to just let it go, instead choosing to let everyone know what high society had done to the poor black child
So while the depression continued and the poor people were wondering how they would eat
The people on Wall Street suffered as well, only taking five digit bonuses, well short of a million
Children of those would have to go without the recreations of riding in a new edition Maybach
Stop the Madness was the title of that track
I sit wishing I could hit replay and bring him back

He played his guitar to lyrics speaking of dramatic irony
Monotony in our methods of addressing the injustices were so tragic
Pragmatic approaches in his opinion would have lent to a better resolution and more good
Instead of rioting in our own neighborhood, take the problems to up town
Down then would come change, put on a definitely rapid pace, no cash needed fast lanes
Shame that his life was a three round knockout, much too short in the eyes of the audience
He had one song about marijuana puffers, heroine addicts, meth lovers, and crack feigns
Meanings in his verses were clear like water, and bullet like direct
Without fears or regrets he named the dealers by name
Trying to perpetuate change, stop constant cycles of relapse
Perhaps deceived by his fame, forgetting he was just a local phenomenon
Gone from this earth, taken by a bullet from one of the same mentioned dealers
Better term for them would have to be hope-stealers
Determined was one person that had been in the audience for everyone to know him
Honored, decorated, motivated, known through this poem

Avid Minds, Avid Listening, Avid Souls