by definition,
lust is
extreme ****** desire for someone

by nature,
lust is
uncontrollable...
I'm attracted to my thirty-seven year old male teacher
and my eighteen year old male coworker
and the quirky girl who sits behind me in history,
what?

by religion,
lust is
a sin, punishable by Hell,
whatever that is.

lust is unavoidable,
but socially unacceptable to act upon.

In an instance,
I felt a calmness sweep across my body.
My body free of any restriction.
Her being my release.
Sweet liberties
Utilized by the touch of lips.
A period punctuated by perched lips.
Released in ounces of color.
The way she loved.
My tongue swirled around hers.
Fingers wrapped around her waist.
Brown peach flavored skin.
My addiction a place for her to stay,
Her bag broken down; piece by piece.
A home away from home.
Until the day she left.
I consulted family, I reached out to friends.
They say that she's no good
They say leave her be.
Truth be told
My vacancy left colorless.
Bland.
My tree grown fruitless
Revealed to me in bitter hunger.
The realization of perception.
Nothing left to fill my hands.
This vacancy punishable by death.
A ****** filled by her alone.
My fingers around her waist.
Her love sticky, sweet.
Swirling around my tongue.
My eyes left low
Anticipating her return.
They say that she's no good
They say leave her be.
Truth be told
I haven't spoken to them since

She married off to a village chief at age of 14,
But only after being chopped of a ******* in a Maasai
Ritual of FGM, chlitoridectomy or you name it,
For the African elders strictly marry circumcised virgins,
What a ritual so pernicious that my nerves panic with fire.
She gets into a marriage now, Male sided marriage,
Where women and distaff are seen, but not heard whatsoever,
It is her well rounded buttocks, sharply ***** *****
Tight thighs and sweet sensuous moans to be made in bed
That matters most, but not her thoughts not even human feelings.
She starts of her day by morning glory; early morning *** at 5.30,
Then she jumps of her bed, whether sexually satisfied or not,
She goes straight for her broom then begins sweeping,
And scrapping her house, the main house then the kitchen,
No brassiere under her blouse or lingerie under her skirt,
For you never can tell when the chief’s cloud will accumulate,
Into thunderous rain, ready for planting and planting,
She then prepares porridge from millet and sorghum
Or Soya beans, ground nuts and simsim for the children
To take before they leave to school, both her children,
And those sired through out-growing by her husband,
Then she goes at the cow shed to milk her native cows,
Which she milks by dodging ceaseless kicks from the angst ridden cow,
She sings and whistles hymns for the cow to calm and stand balmy,
But coincidentally her last-born baby, three months old boy,
Named after the paternal grandfather wakes up,
Starts crying and croaning for attention, suckling,
She shelves milking aside, and rushes to pick the baby up
Not because of anything but lest its crying may disturb her husband
From sweet morning sleep, it is so bad and punishable.
She picks back the baby, using a shawl as a cot,
Then comes back to the milking shed, to resume her work,
Only to come to a surprise; the calf un-knoosed itself
And has suckled its mother’s udder dry, foam frothing
At the mandibles; she picks two litres of milk to her house
To the kitchen, starts cooking for her husband, two calabashes
Of tea, over spiced with milk and Kericho tea leaves,
As the husband is called to a treat of mellifluous tea,
She jumps at washing her husband’s clothes;
Unmarried brother-in-law passes by, and runs back to his cottage,
Scoops and brings his grimed Jeans Levis Straus trouser,
Also to be washed by his in-law, as the woman belongs
To the clan, to the entire community but not singly to the man
Or the husband who married her, she washes it minus qualm,
Lunch hour knocks, she rushes to the kitchen and cooks,
For the children are about to come from school, they must eat
Eat on time, if not declare this woman a public disgrace
Who can not cook for the community, forget of the children,
Evening comes; she cooks again, her baby still on the back,
The husband complains of the food being not delicious,
Salt was not enough, she did not put in pepper; a stupid woman!
She accepts her mistake and apologizes effusively, or else fire!
She goes to mend the bed for the husband to rest, plus the baby,
She goes out behind the hut to take a bath,
The husband has not yet constructed a bathroom,
For fear that evil neighbours can plant there voodoo
It can **** the husband to forego his wives and cows,
She comes back to her bedroom, when drying herself up,
The husband goes up in libido; he forcefully shoves her to the bed
As the giggles desperately, he jumps on her bust, minus foreplay,
No single kissing, pinching, nor fondling of the breast or even kissing her
On the stunted *******, he penetrates her mechanically, like a block of stone
He introduces himself deep and deeper into her,
Then he releases warm ***** into her, before even she is aroused
He falls asleep like a log of wood, leaving her wide awake on a flame
Flaming ****** desire, burning and torturing her like an abyss.
This rhythm repeats like a circa, on a pattern of regular basis,
She endured and finishes one year without getting pregnant,
The husband gets self-suspicious and irritated, very irked,
As per why the woman on whom his cows were wasted is not receiving
His very powerful seeds, to become pregnant, to carry his son,
He beats her up, ruthless flogging and kicking, kicking her buttocks,
Insulting and lambasting in heavyweight measure, down to ash pit
She apologizes and promises to be pregnant in a fortnight,
To which the man accedes; but…but…but let it be
That you miss to be pregnant, I will chase you away,
I will repossess my cows, I squandered on you
In payment of your pride price; dowry
To marry a reproductively better wife.

Anwar Ibrahim
Convicted of ****** in 2008
Acquitted in 2012

The Court of Appeal overturned the acquittal
He is currently serving his sentence

An aide to Anwar
Said he was sodomized by Anwar
******, even if consensual
Is punishable by up to 20 years in Malaysia

Anwar responded the complaint was politically motivated

Support for Anwar grown stronger
His wife is battling his conviction

Some say that political rival Dr. Mahathir
Will recover from his decrease in popularity
And remain in control
Because he helped Malaysia through a though economic time

Although it seems as though Anwar is gaining support
From a majority of the Malaysian people

Human rights groups accused Malaysia's government of using
An anachronistic colonial era law that criminalizes
"Carnal ******* against the order of nature"
To persecute Anwar

Anwar leads a three-party opposition that has become
Increasingly popular in the predominantly Muslim nation

This is not just
Anwar has been wrongly accused
I will pray for his wife
And his supporters

Stay strong Anwar
You are an innocent man

Tired of living in a false paradise of consumption,
suffering everyday our labored prostitution,
trade in your hours for a handful of scraps,
smile while your master puts the cigar out on your back,
this is the workers symphony,
aching joints, aching psyche,
smothered in whiskey to **** the pain,
our autonomous freedom we'll never regain,
slave till you die, laugh till it hurts, your meaning in life, to merely survive,
collect your checks week after week, creative minds stomped out, just smile and drink,
be a good slave except your fate,
it's just the way it is boy get back in your place,
we gravel in dispair, they spit in our face,
we waste our lives away,
on our hands and knees but we just smile and drink,
thinking about breaking these chains,
it's punishable by law,
authority laughs when you die slow for your keep,
with your eyes wide shut,
don't wake your slumber,  
it's all a bad dream,
just go back to sleep,
and forget life's blunder

Arachne’s Shadow

Silver spindles manifest, each one
unique; artistry
at the tip of eight long
fingers--crafted carefully to
catch curious creatures;
trapped by the allure of Circe’s
web of lies. Glistening
and bright from distances, yet
dead upon impact; sticky, dull.

A corner, so decorated with
cobwebs and dust; Arachne
spins her loom in the dark, a room,
that is used seldom, with the exception
of the dinner show;  always
on time, 8 o’clock sharp. Witness
the cunning I lack, benevolence
she disregards; a fly—simple in intelligence,
but chaotic when trapped
in a small room; nuisances
that need dealing with.

Once caught, the struggling ignorant
victim chokes on
mistakes of days past, cheating on
a test, beating the ******* boy; observed
errors of judgment, punishable by death.
Every victim is different, but each is caught
screaming, praying, gasping
for life, only to be
muffled, hushed, stifled;  No remorse
during mealtime.

I find myself in love with you
   You have known it all along, as well
We spent many naked hours together
As you taught me to be confident
   Secure, in who I am, in what I do
In who I am with you and what I do to you.

Having dreams of our sexuality, whatever that is
Having dreams of desire
  desire for the married, it's no "sin"
Sin is just another three letters man has defined
Defined with a meaning so great it's punishable
Punishable by even death to some
    And "die" is just another three letters
Another three we let determine eternity
Why, oh why, do we let the smallest words have the most and longest outcome?

What have we done except create roadblocks
Barriers from our own freedoms
Like all the state lines I'd have to cross
   To get to you
To not be here, to not die alone.

There's a three that is quite the opposite
   You.         Her.          Me.
I've never felt something so welcome
Something so perfect
Why it couldn't be, well, that's on me.

But I need you again, Magic Healer
Show me again how to be your lover
  To love myself, again, too
Love myself inside you...... Us....
Us Three.

Carla told me to infiltrate.
To ignore all the precautions,
And breach my resistance under a full moon.

After all, she said, your sadness isn’t a disguise.
Your gloom is genuine, although prefabricated,
Surely you see the blueprint.

You have planned your demise since childhood,
Carefully constructing a fortress of self-abuse,
You don’t self-medicate, she said, you obliterate,

And then you wear your inadequacy like a crown,
As if to say no one feels pain like me.
This blow of sorrow, your prevailing wind,
The smell of burnt hair follows you, your melancholy assaults.

God, I can sense your anxiety blocks away, Carla told me,
Even if I’m baking chicken *** pie
And drinking breakfast tequila,
There is always this gust of despair.
And your current ability to fester a modest nausea,
In everyone, everywhere you go,
While amazing,
It only convinces, even your intimates,
That you have begun an irreversible decay.
Jesus, either you act now or you will disappear, Carla said.

You have one option, Carla told me,
Confront yourself and
Think about death honestly every day.
It is the only way for a depressive,
A man in a life jacket, she said
To survive.

Comfort yourself early, before dawn,
Curl up with your litter of pillows
And in that storm, that tornado you pretend is a bed,
Lie still, stare at the cracks in your ceiling
And search for spiders, Carla told me.
Wait until the disappointment of waking up alive again, subsides,
She said,
And while the sounds of the toilet you left running all night,
Convince you of the futility of self-improvement,
In this hollow moment,
Allow yourself to passively, selfishly, contemplate death.

Do not conjure up the act of dying, Carla said,
It is deviant and corrupt and insincere to rehearse your final moments,
And as you know, she continued,
I have no inherent objections to suicide.
After all war is mass suicide
And where would we be without violence,
Jesus, nothing would ever get done, so no, she said,
This is not that at all.

And God knows with your ego,
If I tell you to think about death,
You will descend into hero worship, she said,
Or worse, martyrdom and quest,
No, Carla said, imagine what death is like,
Think scientifically about what it means to be dead.

I will never get out of bed, I replied,
If I’m encouraged to wallow.
If I roll over before I wash my arms and feed my birds,
I may recoil forever.
You know I have an addiction to thought, I reminded her,
An adhesive meme,
(Why did that woman throw her cat in the garbage can),
Will arrest and detain me for an entire day.

It’s worth it, Carla said,
I want you to understand the carefulness of death,
The miracle of pain in absence,
The cessation of doubt,
The sudden end of futility and horror,
And I want it to absorb you, all of you,
Until you become reassured of its tenderness,
The fairness and equality that ends all things.

There is no need to frustrate,
To pray for significance, Carla advised me,
Free yourself from heroism and
Your self-destructive pattern of wishful thinking.

As it is, the number of women you sleep with and discard
Should be punishable by jail time,
When will you learn that fulfillment will never be a number.

And your attempt to write a novel,
Is tiresome, the delusion insulting,
The pretense unforgivable.
And the lies you tell,
The anger you express,
Mostly from a stool,
Undermines everything you claim to be.

You have a mirror,
Probably one that hasn’t been cleaned in a century
So use it,
Study the creases in your face,
Your boxer’s bruised eyes,
Jesus, why do you always look like you’ve just lost a fistfight.

I stared at Carla, my cup of coffee warm between two hands.
Ok I get the death is my reward thing, sort of, I said
But how do I salvage any joy at this point,
Is my life, my whole ******* life, going to be a stockpile of misery.

Christ, you are a perpetual novice, Carla said,
And I have the feeling you are about to drool,
Listen,
Death isn’t our reward,  
But to those who corner it,
A well worthwhile prize.

I don’t want you be puzzled by outcomes anymore, Carla said,
Do they like me, do they hate me, do they even know I exist,
You must stop chasing and being overwhelmed,
Be consumed, be rebirthed by the attractiveness of irrelevance,
Empower yourself with insignificance,
Forgo your Causa sui willingly,
Surrender your need for meaning, purpose and story
And go sit on a bench for a year, nothing more.

You must allow the softness of death to befriend you, Carla said
And when you do,
You will stop being impulsively afraid of everything,
Perish your self-serving search for an absolute truth,
Accept your limits without choking on your limitations,
And your confusion will degrade, she advised.

Carla frowned and turned away from me.
Usually a crow flies by when we part.
If you **** yourself, I want to be there, she said.
She undid the top button of her coat,
Took off the necklace with the crucifix and the picture of John Lennon,
Threw it into the East river,
And squeezed my hand as brief and sudden as a ghost.

A Monday Poem
I always forget:
Is today the first day of this week,
Or is this week the first week of today?

This subtle reordering reminds me that structures we place on pedestals
And signify through complex rituals
Are banal and meaningless
As traveling for some unknown, still, despised enterprise

And yet:
To ignore the difference between a month, a May
Or more particularly, a week and day
Is offensive,
Punishable, even, if maintained
By being made redundant at a job we hate
In the same way days become weeks
--Or was it the other way?—
We slowly fall into line

Our whole civilization is founded on such times
Delineation between yours and mines
Months and seasons, seasons climes
Climes and seasons, suns and shines
Generations and centuries,
Januaries and Februaries

We maintain our separation
And produce indoctrination
With the idea that Monday is a rhyme
Which ends with giving more than half your time
To the owner who insists
With pleated pants and flinching fists
The difference between week and day
Is a year’s labor
Handing out stock animal’s salaries
To the ones who know the difference between
Week and day.

No one tenders their own opinions anymore,
They just succumb to a majority.
Seeking enlightenment,
Punishable offenses of opening eyes.

Everyone is a vessel,
Filling themselves with the "right words,"
Rhetoric chains them in ignorance live on television.

They've snuffed out the flame,
We let them,
Because you listen and never speak.
Because you fear thought,
Fear isolation.

Free thought as a weapon,
Free speech as a banner,
Free people as a rebellion.

Challenge me then,
And challenge each other,
That we may more respect one another.
Not that they agree but that they contribute,
To a nobler enterprise,
Of living to offend our brothers.

If the world is moving forward,
But we are all still the same,
Can you call it progress?
It's a regress to nothingness.

We're void of conviction,
Apt to choose sides,
But not to make tides,
When we create a new one.

At chaos is peace when we disagree,
Seek peace in discord,
Seek agreement,
But never resolve it.

Dissolving ourselves,
And what we should hold dear,
Is when we lose ourselves,
When we dwell in fear.

An echo in time reverberating reaches me again and again - - louder each succession

The silhouette of a suicide splatters the pavement just over my shoulder

-A piece of trash to be thrown away.

But disregard this dismissal, I'm still with you now.

This stain's presence is undeniable though, you know this has to happen eventually...

I feel as though the truth itself is captive in all this, for to speak it's name is to summon it's awful presence.

-A punishable offense to be met with seizure and entrapment in the name of greater good (Bah!)

Tell me though, who gave you the right to take the right away from me?

Perhaps one day you'll learn to understand this; that not all choices are given, some are simply ****** upon you.

The option is optional, but the choice is not given.

Satin runs from dried stains
in torn reminders of convenience
Morning tastes of stale sweat and disappointment... again

Displaced retribution is a punishable offense
sentenced in hangover flashbacks fusing pain in lust heavy deviance
coddling complacency, impaling the nuisance of a persistent past

That serrated double edge glistens with humility and humiliation
licked clean by ravenous canine
flinging leftover apathy on unwitting pawns

Feeding on the deceptively needy
blinded by intoxicated cliches
mistaking release for emotion

Condemnation bartered in stolen commodities
Toilet water hydration reconstitutes enough to bleed
behind neuropathic armor and addiction to the nether

We Shepard children,
we raise them on farms.
When it's time to ask them for identity, they form into clouds.

How can we ask them to identify self in an overcast?
Can you see an adult when they experience rain?

I see children in coats holding hands, Staying in line.

I see the Shepard staff,
Still at large.

Automated to wind by reaction.
Punishable and feared.

Straight line children
Along the fence

Straight line children
Group project: independence.

Excuse my proclaimed innocents
But it's my finest stroke of brilliance
This grievance is a hindrance
Balance lost in an instance

I am being convicted
For a crime I may or may not have committed

A judge and jury will have sentenced me before my guilt can be omitted

The crime and punishment
Aren't fitted

Because it's a punishable offence
That I never owned up to or admitted

Trial me for your sake
Truth will see me acquitted

See I seek the justice in who I am
I am not worse or better my friend

My sanity should not be on trial
Is it you or I that is in denial

I have no regrets or pretence
I have a tough skin that just doesn't relent

I have a lifetime sentence
Time already spent

The shackles and cuffs
Don't tie me to your argument

For I am freedom in a pen
Try as you might
Come and come at me again

I'll write you a sentence
You will never see light again

Torture and hang me
Walk me down dead mans row
The soul inside me
Is stronger than you could no

Beat me
Bash me
Bury me alive

My written words
Will be the parts of me strong enough to endure and survive x

(I seldom publish anyone else's poetry, but this one is so exceptional on so many levels, I had to reproduce it here. Hillary Clinton reposted it, so why not me?)

“Education then, beyond all other devices of human origin,
Is a great equalizer of the conditions of men.” – Horace Mann, 1848.
At the time of his remarks I couldn’t read — couldn’t write.
Any attempt to do so, punishable by death.
For generations we have known of knowledge’s infinite power.
Yet somehow, we’ve never questioned the keeper of the keys —
The guardians of information.

Unfortunately, I’ve seen more dividing and conquering
In this order of operations — a heinous miscalculation of reality.
For some, the only difference between a classroom and a plantation is time.
How many times must we be made to feel like quotas —
Like tokens in coined phrases? —
“Diversity. Inclusion”
There are days I feel like one, like only —
A lonely blossom in a briar patch of broken promises.
But I’ve always been a thorn in the side of injustice.

Disruptive. Talkative. A distraction.
With a passion that transcends the confines of my consciousness —
Beyond your curriculum, beyond your standards.
I stand here, a manifestation of love and pain,
With veins pumping revolution.
I am the strange fruit that grew too ripe for the poplar tree.
I am a DREAM Act, Dream Deferred incarnate.
I am a movement – an amalgam of memories America would care to forget
My past, alone won’t allow me to sit still.
So my body, like the mind
Cannot be contained.

As educators, rather than raising your voices
Over the rustling of our chains,
Take them off. Un-cuff us.
Unencumbered by the lumbering weight
Of poverty and privilege,
Policy and ignorance.

I was in the 7th grade, when Ms. Parker told me,
“Donovan, we can put your excess energy to good use!”
And she introduced me to the sound of my own voice.
She gave me a stage. A platform.
She told me that our stories are ladders
That make it easier for us to touch the stars.
So climb and grab them.
Keep climbing. Grab them.
Spill your emotions in the big dipper and pour out your soul.
Light up the world with your luminous allure.

To educate requires Galileo-like patience.
Today, when I look my students in the eyes, all I see are constellations.
If you take the time to connect the dots,
You can plot the true shape of their genius —
Shining in their darkest hour.

I look each of my students in the eyes,
And see the same light that aligned Orion’s Belt
And the pyramids of Giza.
I see the same twinkle
That guided Harriet to freedom.
I see them. Beneath their masks and mischief,
Exists an authentic frustration;
An enslavement to your standardized assessments.

At the core, none of us were meant to be common.
We were born to be comets,
Darting across space and time —
Leaving our mark as we crash into everything.
A crater is a reminder that something amazing happened here —
An indelible impact that shook up the world.
Are we not astronomers — looking for the next shooting star?
I teach in hopes of turning content, into rocket ships —
Tribulations into telescopes,
So a child can see their potential from right where they stand.
An injustice is telling them they are stars
Without acknowledging night that surrounds them.
Injustice is telling them education is the key
While you continue to change the locks.

Education is no equalizer —
Rather, it is the sleep that precedes the American Dream.
So wake up — wake up! Lift your voices
Until you’ve patched every hole in a child’s broken sky.
Wake up every child so they know of their celestial potential.
I’ve been a Black hole in the classroom for far too long;
Absorbing everything, without allowing my light escape.
But those days are done. I belong among the stars.
And so do you. And so do they.
Together, we can inspire galaxies of greatness
For generations to come.
No, sky is not the limit. It is only the beginning.
Lift off.

Donovan Livingston
Harvard Commencement 2016

They cry about heaven
Even as they transform skin
Into sin, punishable by death
Or ****, or disfigurement
Sent by the devil for sure
Wearing tonsures and cassocks
Causing their own brand of havoc
Ruled by insensitivity
Because we are the enemy
No longer human, doomed
To suffer the ravages
Of their bad ***** training
And lack of discipline
Over and over again
On playgrounds as kids.

They did it all over again
When in uniform, warmed
By the glow of popular bigotry
Idiocy blessed by some dope,
Some Protestant proto-pope
Who thinks God has time
To engage in crime in his name
So they can blame him instead.
Little else in their head
They steal land, and brand people
Burn people, assault people
And do their best to make them feel
Their god, their way is not real
And is not worth keeping.

Sleeping at night, nobody knows how
Now that they have shown their colors
To their brothers and sisters;
That they will **** mothers and fathers
And babies and the land
And think it just grand
Because they got paid
As they laid waste,
Turned the gardens to paste
Between the toes of evil.
We the boll, they the weevil;
They mashed us under their feet
No thought of being discreet,
We were fodder for their hatriotism.

Not patriotism.
That is impossible
And totally improbable
Once you’ve sold your soul
To Old Nick and his minions,
Hell’s hand-picked denizens
Who look just like your neighbor;
They labor at jobs, like you do
And look a lot like you, too,
Especially if you make excuses
To commit abuses
And blame it on god.
Savor the rod
And abuse the child.
Isn’t hatred wild?
Always on hand.

The well runneth dry
Words like sludge
Are painfully excreted
Through thickened and broken skin
Gone is the peace from this place
All semblance of sanctuary
Eradicated by derisive battles
Of witless wonders
Still, words try to flow
The beauty in freedom gone
The art in emotion
Hindered by fear of judgment
Joy erased to distant memory
Gone are the days of unbound expression
Missed are the times of universal acceptance
Words seeking approval are skewed
Honesty is painful
Truth is rare
Their union is all I know
And it is a  punishable offense

A cupid with a golden head
A smile on his angelic face
I had to shoot him dead
Before he put me in my place

Because I've been a bad girl
I haven't loved the way I should
My paper heart began to curl
I burned it so no one else could

But in the laws of love and lust
Such things are punishable by the death
He was sent to arrow the unjust
But I was waiting, eager breath by breath

Sitting in a rose garden, quietly debating
His light foots steps began to ring
Every move I was anticipating
He reached for his bow, as I drew the string

And I killed him with his own arrow
A shot right through the head,
I've never had to love again
As soon as I shot the cupid dead

"Actually smearing grape jelly on your body and
running backwards in a cornfield doesn't sound half bad"

He said...

Looking forlorn outside a single glazed cracked window
comforted by burnt toast with jam
birch leaves laden with rain
carrying the weight of the heavens
blistered in angst and the Memoirs of The Sad
awash in the broken remnants of forgotten pain.

"in this pocket I have an itsy tiny universe
encased in an iridescent blue marble"

He said...

The Bearded Glaswegian Baptist evokes the reminiscent's
of a time before when we were all beard-less
lost in the dithering embryonic stutter mumble of life
diving gulls dunking for forgotten baubles and clear cut skulls

"I'd love to crush my ribs in this little beauty"

She said...

Stolen transmits of other worldly delights
like the chastity of a whale bone corset
strapped between the clunky and broad duty
of land licked silken shrouded soft moonlight

"so he totally set light to the kitchen table cloth
blowing out those candles and for some unknown reason
the family all gave a cheer. Thank God for Morphine"

They said...

Hiding in the sheltered shadows camouflaged in errors
mottled by the hues of indecision and impractical precision
lie the instabilities of truth in a blend of Codeine and Jasmine

"My brain cells keep fighting with each other! Poetry and Beer!"

She said...

Outcries of the exalted, bathed in salted peanuts
and yesterdays microwave meal
and the welcome stench of random ***
vibrates the very cherry of the soul and brings it to tears

"Enter the Dragon always makes me think of ******* Maggie Thatcher
*Christ that was a horrible night"

He said...

The shivers of monumental disgust run like an odious puddle
thoughts go out for Dennis knitting his escape hatch
and the unpronounceable muddle that befits the grave of beasts
and the microscopic sentiments of utter shameless sights

"Except for the offspring, soap and shampoo, This [all] makes sense"

Was the death knell...

Lost in ageless rhymes in legion soaked in the punishable treason
Purified by the age of reason and magnified by the madness of time
to think that any of the world makes sense at all if this is a slice
think twice before engaging the brain, and hence
if this is normal for you then at least
I know
Im actually sane.

A beautiful woman once sang "My Love is Mine, All Mine."
Meaning no matter what I lost,
I would always have the most precious and irreplaceable thing in my possession,
my love.
I would find that beautiful lyric to be so smart, so true,
so vulnerably sweet.
This was until I had met him

I don't exactly know when he had went from
"Just a boy"
To:
My Heart,
Or My Sweet Boy,
Or My Precious Gem.
I just know that he had earned those titles quite quickly

Our time together was magical.

I was already a chronic laugher,
but with him who knew,
that butterflies in your stomach
could also make you grovel on the ground
whilst gasping for air?
Almost like cramps,
only the pain would be everywhere;
especially your heart.

One could easily call this love, but no,
I had a brain the size of a walnut.
I didn't call this love.
Everything but love,
A Bored Crush
         A Little Hyperfixation
                     A Cool New friend
Anything but that.
My love had belonged to
                       me and
                                   only
                                          me!
I would not entrust it with a man!
a man that makes me feel safe,
heard, cared for,
not even worth mentioning, protected!

If you'd asked me a couple months ago
I'd have called it absolute bull.
Though a couple months ago,
I was incredibly stupid.
To let go of such a man should be a crime,
punishable by death.

Our time together was magical,
So magical that even I am unable to
                                         glorify
                                                  departure.

How could my biggest boundary,
grow to be my biggest regret?
I have grown into finding normality in toxicity, thus self-sabotaging any beautiful thing
I could've shared with a romantic other.
How selfish of me.

My Heart,
My Sweet Boy,
My Precious Gem.
Please return back to me my love.
It has no business being with you.

My Heart,
My Sweet Boy,
My Precious Gem;
whom left me in such a rut.
How much longer should you take?
Must you make me wallow in my loneliness forever?

My Heart,
My Sweet Boy,
My Precious Gem.
You will continue to fault me,
for mistakes I was unaware I even commit.

My Heart,
My Sweet Boy,
My Precious Gem.
You have ruined this beautiful letter of dignity for me,
I care no more for my own love,
and self respect.
You are free to take it, to keep even
May my own mind, body, and soul protect yours, as you sleep.

You need not to elucidate anything to me.
I understand and will continue to grovel in my faults,
to reminisce my sacred moments with you.

Beautiful woman,
were you so true with your words?
Does my love really belong to me?
Should I even be granted such a luxury
with my wrongdoings?

My Sweet Boy, It would seem that, my love, it belongs to you.
I am unaware of whether or not you own it all, or a fraction.
I only know that my love is yours,
You replaced that irreplaceable piece,
How silly that my heart seemed to have
only started beating when, you clumsily touched it.

My Heart
My Dear Boy
My Precious Gem,
Our time together was magical
I will cherish it for as long as my heart,
                        beats
                                 for
                                     you.

Time my killer, my friend, my Excelerator through seconds minutes hours and  of the clocks mouth. Tick tock Tick tock!!! Into the next world of my life. Only two facts are certain in the vast expanse of universal matter.
Life
Death and that bit in between!!
In this time we have to find out who we are, but in this world of sheep it's easy to stay in line. Breaking free is a punishable offence, where freedom of speech is dumbed down and moulded into language more palatable to the recipient. Media tells us what they want us to hear, fear is their only real message. Our off springs senses forced into the next pop-stars message of naked, ignorance, in these so called hits. Sell your soul and you could have it all. Or just go with the flow, and u will be enslaved by a system cold as ice.

Despite all this stay strong, positive in the knowing you are doing the  best you can with the hand that's dealt. Keep driving forward, be a messenger unto the people of deaf ears and blinked eyes that there is another way and if we all stick together we are onto a winner. Have faith and face up to what is real. Knowledge is power.
Rootz Modebelu
5th November 14
00.30.