You’re eyes are black and white
They make me think you have an old soul
They remind me of classic films,
Of the dusty keys on our piano
Different races but no winner from competition.
I wonder
What these sunglasses will do for you

I met this girl at the bus top across from ironhouse condiminums on west broadstreet, and we started talking and I took the wrong bus just to talk to her. I didn’t even have the right amount of change to give to the bus driver. I needed $1.50 and I was thirty-five cents short. So I walked up the asile and asked the cute girl with raybands and lavish brunette hair if she had some change. She smiled and gave me a quarter and a dime. Excellent, I’m in. After I gave the bus driver the bus fair, I leaned back in a chair and I talked to her about literature, writing, reading, poetry. Her name was Anna and her favorite book happened to be “Catcher and The Rye,” she had stacks of notebooks from grade school until now, and she journaled each day in the morning.

We stopped at Willow Lawn and I said: bye. I recommended to her some novels and I wrote down my email on a ripped out pocket book journal page. I passsed it to her, saw her hand close over the note. And then, as I got off the bus, noticed she crumpled up the note.

Later on, I came across a free sandwich, some bowls, a coors light, and a deep tissue massage (my friend is a massage therapist in training; half black; half white; #winning). So imagine being twisted and getting a deep tissue massage with creamy oil lotion. She had this cushioney tan bed to lay down on and relax.

The two girls Rachel and Rachael sang with perfect pitches these great lyrics. We smoked sticky icky *** from a bowl and a plastic orange ****. I pulled up on the carbueretor and vacummed the mushroom cloud of smoke into my lungs, sending radioactive pleasure into my body. A bowl and stem apparatus. Mouth piece. A water pipe or a **** was smokey jazz brass saxophone. The black gas washed by murky water and condensed icecubes sent me spiraling down.

So, I ended up riding on the GRTC bus, smacked sauce, and I wrote all these great ideas, and weird *** descriptions of the bus interior. Went home, changed clothes, swag black VCU shades with neon yellow sides, and a fresh Kanye West Bear shirt with Japanese eyes and shutter sunglasses. I walked down Shafer street and came up to the compass and Hibbs hall. Outside there was a crowd of people freestyle battling, and I enterered the contest. I became a compeitior and I was the challenger, there was no champion yet. I won one round, lost a round, and then went O.T. sudden death overtime. The whole time I was still high, I was carrying around a VCU Cary Street Gym aluminum water bottle with a black insulated sleeve. So I ended up losing, my friend tapped my shoulder and I said whatup and we walked to subway, and I got a foot long Buffalo Chicken sandwich.

We went to his friend’s townhouse on Main and North Harrison Street. I drank a cup of Pineapple and Rasberry Burnetts *****. We went down Cary street, and took a right on Pine Street and then we went to this Delta Chi Fraternity House. There was a kalidescope discoball with rainbow lights. A bar serving jungle juice from an orange gatorade water cooler. I silded my way into the dance floor and turned around and say this girl who I knew. She was someone I taught tennis to when I was an instructor in high school. Needless to say she got extremely attractive. So I was dumbstruck and trying to process all this **** in my mind, and I told her straight up, “Aiight we’re dancing.” And wow. I taught her to stroke the ball well from the tennis lessons. She wore these pink ******* bunny ears and a white dove cardigan and a black halter top, with a dark mini skirt.

(Verse 1)
You're upsetting me on this balcony,
as our friends smoke my **** and drink my beer.
Drove my Honda to see you in Albany.
Giving you the time you need, then you run dear.
Chasing my roommate around the living room
,with your pants around your waist, you're wasted.
Tasting the dude's face, you're in a giving mood
;Want to dance? You asked in haste, getting naked.

(Chorus)
Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult *****, because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-*****

Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult *****, because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-*****

(Verse 2)
Is this what you want; a relationship that's open?
Talk to me. Listen. No, look at my face.
Guess I wanted your heart, cuz my heart was broken.
And beyond repair. But you don't care.
I walk away from the crowd and onto balcony.
Wonder if I should have stuck to learning alchemy.
Because magic is easier than assessing intentions
Of a man who can't understand his own to mention.

(Chorus)

Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult *****, because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-*****

Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult *****, because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-*****

We watched Rogue One in a theater, sitting in the handicapped seats because I had made an error in judgement. You forgave me. Nights we kept the house party bumping with Dr. Dre and Drake, as the girls and guys, our friends, grind and rattled along to the beat pulsing from the speakers. I lost my new chick, after I slept with an ex-girlfriend. This happened a week ago, on Monday and I was sober.

So I took a few days off, sleeping the nightmare away on the lumpy couch in the basement, the windows drafty and condensed. And when I woke up, I saw her face in the TV screen, her face wearing glasses covering her blue eyes, and her hair blonde. She put her hand up against the screen, breathed on it, so the glass fogged up. I moved slowly and carefully to the TV and clutched the edges with my bare hands. I leaned in closer and kissed the screen. The TV buzzed and crackled with static, then shut down, and then went black. I crumpled to my knees and put my face in my lap, as I sobbed uncontrollably. I opened my eyes. Everything got colorful.

I was sitting in a restaurant, to upscale for my taste, white table cloth and waiters rushing around in white shirts and black vests. Her face ******* up, looking annoyed and resentful. She asked me to talk. But I looked down at my hands instead, decided to take my time, and drank the cheap scotch. As I set the glass down, she crossed her arms over her chest. No *** tonight, I could tell. Every gesture she made told a story, one secured over an unhappy conclusion.

And I ended up not being a knight and going up to her castle to slay the dragon.

Instead, I burned.

At 2:30 a.m., I drink a beer,
as if it is a crushed Ambien.
I light a joint (the parents are gone for the weekend).
My girlfriend is asleep in the basement,
eyes closed, lightly snoring,
the left side of her face is covered in scars
and burn marks.

I look around my room:
white and blue Ralph Lauren shirts
hang from the lampshade,
the collars and sleeves are layered with dust.
The bookcase is littered
with shoeboxes, novels,
and poetry collections.

I take a drag from my joint
and realize my ears are full of static,
as if they had been packed
with black and white TV sets.
There’s the faint sound
of a car
passing by.

The car is a reminder: Civilization,
glass buildings,
happy hour
at my favorite hole-in-the wall
in Chinatown.
I’m naked, but
not totally bare.

All I’m wearing are blue boxer briefs,
as though it is my uniform
for my current occupation
as a poet.
The blinds are open
and I wonder if I open the window and jump out,
will anyone give a ****?

My therapist will probably label me as suicidal,
if I mention that last thought.
I think I’m just restless and idle.
I take another chug from my beer.
I’m hunched over a notebook,
and writing with a blue pen,
not because I think I’m an authentic writer.

But because my computer’s in the basement
and I don’t want to wake her; I love her.
But I can’t stand her critiques, in regards to me.
Maybe I can’t handle the harshness
in her honesty, as if it is a foreign language
coming from a stranger who I’ve known for years.
I’m not sleepy.

I’m scared.
Scared about growing up,
scared about having to stop
giving a ****,
and finally having
to care about
my life.

Dance with me,
under a raincloud,
as sunshine bursts,
like schoolchildren;
leaping through the double doors,
of a rustic brick building.
Flowerpots filled to the brim
with cigarette butts, and bad
decisions, ones made
after dancing on the boardwalk,
as the darkness shrinks away,
for the sun brightens and shakes.
Quivers—the world spinning and spinning.

A man sees a child in an old photo album of his…

He finally did it
He achieved success.
He tasted greatness
Tastes like
Cool watermelon on a warm day

Innocence
Captured in the boys’ shortness in stature
Charisma
Can’t be contained in a camera’s lens

Royal Blue Clothing
Doesn’t convey his feelings genuinely
Crimson red would suit his mood authentically
Wishes the dress shirt would fit his enthusiasm

Mentally exhausted from the ceremony
Young underachiever is so eager for leisure
Smile is wide and great, baby teeth are revealed
Moment is so surreal. Happiness is all he feels
There is zeal and anticipation for the future

Hair is brushed to the side like his critics in class
His parents hope this adorable image will last
Like there marriage of twenty years and then some
Oh what a time it was, to hope and dream
Of what it would be like to be a teen

A man looks at the picture in his hand
He shakes his had in disgust, he’s pensive
Wonders how is passion was replaced with apathy
How his life turned into a catastrophe

The moment in the picture
Was perfect
Like the frame that concealed it