brownsugatou

Dear Lord,
Someone said...
I can't see the hurt in others.
For my own HURT is
Hellbent,
Unfinished,
Regurgitated,
Trash.

I can't deny why, but it sits
In a silent box and hides behind
My laughter and my smile.
Only to show up in my dark circles,
Shorter hair, resolvable health
Ailments, & my fat absorption machine.
So when one bursts my emotional
Bubble that I hide behind so frequently...
Yes, my rivers will flow.
I'll extract venom,
Ask why,
Blame my humble "nice" self,
And hit restart again.

Now wait a minute... humble might
Be too good of a box to put me in.
After all its you looking at me
Looking at you trying to condition me.

So okay,
I fuck up.
I fucked up.
I am fucking up.
But I'm not fucked up!

Therefore, "my tragedies" are not
Beyond me getting on my knees,
Praying,
Putting into action what
I know I can do,
And leaving the rest up to Him.
Amen.

What I wouldn't do right now,
To write right now,
About filling my (w)hole right now.

Stick with me.

I gotta make this poem
Whole right now.

No, I don't need YOU
To make me whole.
But what you got,
Can certainly satisfy my hole.

So, invite your friends -
Thrust & Climax.

I ain't playin' -
I can't wait to ride you.
Mmmmmm....
The chemistry, our synergy,
You'll feel good inside me.

Erotic heat, thigh beats,
Sweat beads and thick meat.

The DJ mixes sexy moans
With booty claps.

On two turntables he scratches.
Che-che-cheek slaps.

You call, I respond -
"It's yours!"

I call, you respond -
"Here I cum, here I cum."

And mmmmmmm...
My (w)hole is now filled...
Both sexually
And literally.

Time to relax the imagination...
And my index fingers. ;-)

The end.

If " nigga " and " bitch"
are "defined " as friendly terms then
why does " impoverished" , " sexism" ,
"self - hate" and " oppression " still
HURT? # ?

Finding It

I could have made you happy
But, sometimes
I gotta treat you with disdain.
Glorify and baptize my pain
In order to appease the senses of others.

And oh no I'm not apologetic.
When it's showtime - let's get it...
The blank stares, no responses, the Disclosure of your reflection in others, Or "You mighty" with the pen
Every now and again.
The physical words are just
The front door to me.

But my unhappiness is center stage,
Yet the view of the back door to me.
You don't see me (maybe through me)
Uncluttering the clutter that I get from The gutter - my perception.
I hit repeat and it becomes a
Consistently monstrous task
To me.

And I try to get it.
I wrack my brain...
Exactly where is the route to the X
That leads to this priceless treasure
That you see in me?

I don't want to plead, beg, scream, Prematurely sin in
Cotton sheets, and revoke my
Kindness 'cause he wasn't
A sheep - in order to get to
Happy through the veins
Of my poetry...

My sunflower choked on
Water but thrived in the sunshine.

Why does happiness have
To grow from the dirt that
Is slung at me?

*Not fine tuned because sometimes the best intentions for a poem can even lose my attention. As a poet, I just can't sit on idle thoughts for too long. Either the thoughts are captured or they are not. I see now that I have to develop patience for both my gift and inspiration.

Scared
Its a bitch when love is scared.
Love don't love you and,
Love don't care.
Frightening.
Yeah, check that EnVogue tune.
Love can hurt but, hurt ain't love.
Question mark.

Love can be scared
And neglected like an unwanted
Step-child by the
Always Crying Foul...

Why is your heart always
In cardiac arrest?

Remain open, don't protest,
Less stress.
Smile, attract, embrace
Your abundant lot.
Share, don't hog, be an asset.
Flip your dirt. act worthy,
And most importantly, digress.

Because really it ain't just about you.

"So stop ya' blood clot crying...
Owww." (Biggie/Jay-Z)

Because this "end" is real simple -
Have faith.

Copyright 2011
brownsugatou

Free in her beauty
She is not the status quo,
His vision is clear.