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August 22, 2004
she's gauzed deep
in her intricate tales of anonymous
protagonists
and broken promises
gathered in the corners of her eyes
and under her fingernails from where
she's scratched out her niche
in the backs
of men stupid enough to fk with her fury
they only teasing her canal cause
aint a man yet long enough to
tap that which be wasting away
in
half hearted
notebook fillers and
heart felt soliloquies
that remind her of masturbating and how it makes her cry because she just wants these dumb niggas to understand her language
and how
her words be few these days
her lungs are too tired to be creative
and she's given up selling her complexity
but she still writes subliminal passages
in between each & every readily accessible line
articulating where shes been and where shes going
consigning her soul and steadily knowing
that it's all but hopeless
letting herbs hit with no protection, & no focus
and she knows its a conflict of interest
but its something about being touched and how
(being blessed with a vivid imagination)
she can make believe these moments of willing surrender
into picket fences and pretty babies and reperations and food on the table
and love
she remembers when it was knuckleheads
on the front stoop of her
brownstone that had foul mouths but
good hearts and
were handsome under their bubble coats and
how these niggas now be
mostly ugly
and the vividness of that past
makes her lose faith fast
but
i see her
and i want to hold her hand
tell her that it's still me that wants to be her boy next door
her best friend between her sheets
of looseleaf on which she been
writing all the wrongs she been handed
and
im scared 'cause
i know shes jaded
and
her skin is dirty from fingerprints of niggas thinkin they made it
and im looking like everybody shes ever hated
somn im working on.
