Sheep in the big city: Chapter Two

All I want is to fall asleep without bed bugs trying to crawl into my ass like a nigga who won't even consider getting finger fucked. All I want to do is to prepare one fucking meal without an audience of disrespectful cockroaches always loitering harder than city rats on street corners. All I want to do is to walk down an alley without a Zulu nigga dwindling my whole existence down to sex organs and tits. All I want is a man who understands the level of trust it takes to admit that I'm scared, that I've never truly done this love before but I still want to try because his heart moves me in that way. All I want is a soundtrack to my life movie that doesn't involve gunshots and the intermediate screams of displaced souls consigned to oblivion. All I want is to breathe air that doesn't hold the fragrance of lost hope, shattered dreams and despondency.

All I want is a home away from home. A lighter spirit, courage without spirits,a reason and some gawd damn fumigation.

Fucking hell.

Comments

Options

There is absolutely nothing wrong with having options. In this day and age that has actually almost become the new "norm". What is VERY wrong with this new normal however, is having people feel that they are at liberty to treat you like a disposal commodity just because they are not at a place to understand the different emotional needs of the next person. So to the ladies, I implore you to distance yourself from a situation that requires too much of your energy all in a bid to be the cool, laid back and understanding option that is so much easier to deal with than someone fathoming that you are an individual who thinks, acts and feels with decisiveness and intent. Yes, I myself have different people who fulfill different needs at any given time but for each of them I practice both empathy and thoughtfulness devout of any semblance of selfish desire to fulfill momentary wants. .

Art For Art's Sake

I am a romantic and I am a writer. I could write a library's worth of love letters about a single glance from a passing stranger. Emotion, vulnerability, brokenness are the only things that truly move me. Some writers question your authenticity when all you create is based on feeling. Feeling low, feeling dejected, feeling hurt. But ask yourself, if your art has always been your therapy before you were brave enough to give voice to your fears and tears then who really is the better writer? Does it even matter? I've been questioned/doubted for my writing style since I can remember. But if it is MY ART. Whatever it is, how do you doubt the validity of words coming from your chest as opposed to your mind? I'm not trying to sound "smart". I am merely trying to find healing through expressing pain in pages. You might think, "one trick pony". It's cool. I get it. But you can never assume to judge me because all I've ever related to is ...

Save Me

They smear stains on my truest form Scotched fingerprints on every crevice of my brittle soul They fall like rain over any surface that defines the essence of my being Weak knees quake I don't ever breathe I break Save me Space encloses me in an asylum that houses stray thoughts They haphazardly attach to the cracks in my voice Sinking feeling I am barely living Save me Night terrors await from behind my door They take me everyday and I can't sleep anymore They nurse me against ghosts from the past They whisper "It will always be just you and us" Save me They drive me to drink On the verge of collapse I linger on the brink The weight of the world crushes my shoulders They throw bricks that hit me like boulders The ground seems to open up so I barrow below Time catches up and my heart beats slow Save me They drag at the seams of my clothing They stire the dust waking sleeping dogs that lie I suffocate cries under my pillow The fea...

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