Spending a month in a hospital teaches you a lot about people.
The doctor that told me to shave my head or she wouldn't treat me,
The nurses that spent forever chatting to me
And giving me supportive advice about how my illness doesn't define me.
The woman who was given a terminal cancer sentence
And chose not to pay attention to it and defied it anyway.
How she sat next to me on my bed,
Told me that all suffering is valid,
And just because I'm not dying, doesn't mean I don't get to complain.
How she complains more about her skin problems
Than she ever complained about her cancer,
And that's OK, because pain rarely follows rules.
I never even learned her name,
But she gave me the words I hold most closely to me
On those days when I want to fall asleep and never wake up.
I'm allowed to scream and shout and rage against the pain
And the unfairness of it happening to me.
I just have to make sure I know where the line is
Between giving my darkness a voice and pitying myself.

my words; my weapon
my thoughts; my trigger on this paper
my canvas, my heart
my consoler; your thighs
my comforter; your chest
my escapism

your mind; my escape
your body; my fortune teller
your energy, your special subtlety
your hands; my resting place
your eyes; my luminous path
my mine

Little black boy and black girl wear your natural hair with love
For years we have been told that our natural hair was *****, *****, bad, and ugly
But the truth is our natural hair is strong and beautiful
Little black boy and black girl wear your natural hair with love
Wear your lion's mane and let the world hear you roar
For years we have been told that our natural hair was *****, *****, bad, and ugly
But the truth is our natural hair is strong and beautiful.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

Since I was old enough to speak,
i promised to love you till the end of time;
and now i'm praying for the end of time to come quickly,
so i can stop loving you.
Why?
because i dont break my promises.


Some part of me got lost in your apron;
Where you hid your cigarettes.
No I’ll never forget, cigarettes lit,
pots blackened by the thick smoke from the stoves.
Your majestic pose over the cans as you churned your latest recipes to life.
I just wanted to be like you.

Now you're there,
as fragile as a worm in a brine pool.
Laying in that hospital bed,
the white sheets stained by your spews of black blood.
The doctor said your lungs have given way,
I still cant believe that you're leaving me.

So this is my story -
My life's tale.
I am a strewn, temporary divorce seeker;
Fierce when the missus asks for a penny,
Silent when she sets food on the table.
In the winter, I complain about the cold
But in the summer, I complain about the heat.
When the missus asks that the leaking roof be fixed,
I simply laugh and set out to mock her every action.
But this spring, pneumonia has caught up with me.
The room is flooded, the mosquitos are livid and the fleas are my most loyal acquaintances-
Asleep while I'm awake, awake and ******* fast away at my blood while I'm asleep.
The missus has left me.
I am no longer a temporary divorce seeker.
I am a sad, lonely, bitter nobody.
To keep the tears away, I lay directly under the dripping roof.
As the rain washes away unending flowing tears,
I become aware of my condition.
Condemned to hades, long dead by the pages undone,
My only hope is that it be without the cruelty that is rain and spring over there.

Hey,
I offer very few words often preferring that my riddles get ushered out in scribbles, it’s the chosen if not more cowardice stance but I plead sincerity. It’s my forum, sanctuary and how I speak to the world. It is how I speak to myself often where I am brave enough to part with that which I would rather, normally, and sometimes with reason, keep close chested. Bare with me if you bid, I’m still breaking into rhythm. I free write, so may encounter a misplaced line. It happens when I let my mind roam free, I don’t do properly constructed very well. I digress.
Yours smile. That laugh. Your thighs. Your nose. The way you get upset at absolutely everything. I dig that about you and was foolish enough to take it for granted. Not define really, so used to rolling with the punches I half left it neglected. Shame, a consequence I seek to amend. Alter. Be it a tad in vein. I’d rather that I have tried. But oh your smile, that laugh. I long for the Sundays that never were. What they could have been only the fates will know, you were the habit I quickly adopted and like any good habit, I didn’t see it through. The injustice of being a ***** is the role play of hindsight, retrospection, you can do very little by such except replay it, the ***** of torture I gather. A travesty if you ask me. You thought I was bemoaning the luxury of you being a convenience; I missed you for the sake of missing you. I can’t fault that train of thought, it crossed my mind and consider how it was I was able to portray neglect, valid in every sense. I’m thinking now. It pretty well could have been. It probably is but there is also the lingering frustration of what could have been. The possibility, it had barely sparked and then, load shedding. Brogues of frustration. I do enjoy you though, thoroughly that had to count for something. I can only hope
Those words still burn, how I was so comfortable with my life and my ways. I am, and reluctantly there was likely an aspect from myself adverse to the change, I gather though it has more to do with the systematic flaws I carry around at not being able to fulfil that of a consummate boyfriend. Perhaps I am selfish and unfamiliar with how one steers clear of trouble. How not to get scolded is but a foreign concept I gather, being aloof second nature. The very things I would imagine an initial trigger being the most irritable, it would then have to come from me wouldn’t it. So stuck in my ways and always expecting the conforming into my ways leaving little room for anything other than that. I gather it has to do with mine tentativeness at the matters that come attached with relation meaning that soon enough my flawed character is left bare et al for the scathing universe to see and picking it all up again, not so fun. Perhaps it’s my little defending.
To try for an explanation I am a very selfless ******* and I hate that. It leaves room for train tracks to tattoo my flesh and I think I’m sick of the second fiddler role. Friends to family and those I generally consider I may care for. It’s a part of the Gosiame matrix and I often realise or stupidly so that you get very little back. You the great guy, that is about all really. I have opened up to the prospect of relation and the thing is when I do, I really leave the door more than ajar, I don’t hold grudges but it burns. I think. I don’t wish it on any I am not fond of, and there is only so much of numb we can all endure, even I have my limit of spilt drink and the love that was. I may have opened the door to the wrong parties but then again I have never claimed to be the best judge of such. In any essence I am a toddler to these things so a little coaching and patience does really go a long way. I am a terrible human being, more so when I hate that you get jealous at what I have considered second nature before you came along and then realise that I too hold the ability at this thing called jealously, some character probably has me acting a fool in the fist cuffling cuffing fights I have imagined us engaged in. That is as far as it goes nor will I admit at being human. I like my super coo unattached unbothered aloof stance.
You came at me like a gust of wind and I got taken in by the fun of it all. I will admit to that. I wrongly imagined what will be will be as is the prerequisite if you are me and well that the roles will identify themselves. I think I am being repetitive. I am habitual. I claim to hate routine and my small comforts, in truth I probably enjoy complaining against them far more than I do being drawn away from them. In any case, you would need to be very clear if there is any fool hardedly romantic stuffings to be done because my lazy self will opt to steer clear of any pants and make out with the remote control while yelling at the tele. That day I imagined you would make your way over. In truth I thought it one of your unreasonable rants all over again, thought you’d calm down, make your way and well that never happened did it. The lack of boyfriend in me had at no junction sought to reason that she may need to get met halfway, I apologise. In my mind I had not canned our plans, just altered. I think I know better. Look I need stick it notes for the thoughts I had five seconds ago.
This is getting ridiculously long winded and moving in a roundabout way. I like that I could possibly refer to you and your forehead as my girlfriend. I like you in all you’re B Cup glory, that they could just be perfect for you. I won’t make any false promises not to anger or infuriate, as the way history runs down for us, but I will do so only in a manner that makes us unique, fun, bearable in a sense. I had a hand written letter and then you scolded and thus I knuckled down to type this, consume ridiculous amounts of this ridiculous coffee and ask forgiveness and show you that I am learning. Did I mention that I miss your ******* and the way you tend to cup them? I made fried rice and it was so lovely, can’t get over such. I’d like to give it or us a solid go, if not only for your laugh, oh and I keep getting these things that require a plus one all the time so that could be handy but more so because I want you in unimaginable ways, manners that I can’t even describe to myself. And I’d hate to walk away from what could just be the best thing to happen to me, no that smells like a line, the sexiest. That rather!
I miss thee
PS. Will you go out with me? For like real this time? In real life?

The rhythm of the burnt pages,
Of the diary of life with no wages,
Pages of old memories,
That you may consider as stories,
Which sometimes ooz tears out of me
That which I wish u knew.

The rhythm of the smokes of the diary,
That which makes me weary,
Putting in you in a dilemma,
A sophisticated dilemma.

Pages that makes me smile suddenly,
But in the aftermath, resulting in a cry,
Then I sit solely,
My tears has not dry,

I might have cried ruining my make up,
Pages in that needs to be burnt,
That which I write every morning when I wake up,
Memories I can't erase, pages that will remain burnt.

Bold and beautifully painted,
Lovingly created,
Artistically put together,
Coloured with loving thoughts.
K**eenly complete.

Don't force things,life has a way of making things work. What's meant to be will be,whenever,wherever,however.