the world is so backward
being forward puts you behind
looking upward, toward the heavens
hoping to find an outward shine

I donte wante to rush nothing
I donte wante man to rush to slip his slippery tounge in Ma mouth.
I wante man to rush wit ring on ma finger first
And be a dedicated boye
A husban.
Not a man who donte takee kare of his chika

Twisted sheets, mind on stutter
Unable to sort through this midnight clutter
Put it away for tomorrow
But what to do with my gnawing sorrow?
I circle soft blue on color book pages
Hoping the repetition eventually assuages
The raw edged reality of lonely dark hours
Filling the void with Crayola flowers

Ducks bobbing on the water--
are they also, tonight,
hoping to get lucky?