Got Faith?

My hunger for knowledge has lead me to taste the bitterness of existence. I've learned that religion is like a prison to the seekers of wisdom. I should know because I'm serving a life sentence. And I have been since birth, though in my aging, my faith has become more and more my excuse. It has become something where I can take all the problems I should have to deal with and place them on the Lord's shoulders. It's become a substitute for my trials and tribulations. Instead of study for an A on my test, I'll just pray I'll get an A on my test. I know that it is wrong but my faith has grown too strong. It has made me an idealist; though I love the feeling of thinking in some transcendent way everything will work out without any prior 'working out', I know it will get me nowhere. The only thing that has kept me from a complete ignorant euphoria and kept me in the house that night I was thinking of sneaking out to go across the street to the girl house because she whispered over the phone, 'if you came over, you know I'd wanna fuck you , right?' is a six word sentence indirectly told to me while I was on the X2 bus. "Imagination is the fabric of life". When i fully understood the meaning of this it was like cumming for the first time. I heard somebody say this on the bus. Of course nobody I was with heard it--just me. I believe it's because I was the only one who needed to hear it. For some reason the words keep me in somewhat of a reality. They make me interpret causes and consequences. I don't know why because when I hear 'imagination' it makes me think of being free when all the phrase did was keep me restricted. I think more than anything the phrase made me think.....Imagination is just ideas. All religion and faith were ideas until people started killing over them and forcing them upon us. My Ideas are my faith. It takes a lot of responsibility but I think it is best. So I fail that test that I didn't study for I can't say 'WHY GOD?', taking all the blame off myself. I can only say 'WHY ME?'. Why didn't I have the idea to study....wuwuwuwu. Do you get it? My ideas are my faith. I have faith in my ideas. I believe in God... but God bestowed my intellect upon me and he wouldn't give me anything he didn't have faith in. So if he has faith in my intellect--he must believe in my ideas. AND so must I.

Sumn Slight

I'm sitting across from somebody who I don't really care to be with. Yet, choose to be with because of boredom and the way she looks. I guess the depth of her beauty could make up for the shallowness of her heart. She's one of the girls who dislikes other kids simply on how they dress. If they aren't wearing the right labels then she wouldn't talk to them. Since this is how her mind is set up, she makes sure she is fresh everyday. She made sure no matter who she runs into they would complement her on her outfit; like somehow the outward validation on something as trivial as apparel would make her feel good about herself. And it did. But I really can't talk; sometimes when I buy clothes I wonder if it's for me or the public's eye. I'm wearing Prada sneakers, a jacket from Neiman Marcus, D&G cords, and of course a bow tie. I can't talk about her without talking about myself, especially since I'm sitting right across from her in this overpriced salad bar in Gallery Place. She twiddles her fork around in the 14 dollar salad I bought her; trying not to look fat or just trying to piss me off. Either way she was accomplishing both. Every time she doesn't take a bite I wanted to just knock the fucking salad bowl on the floor. When she was not NOT eating, she was checking herself out in her pocket mirror--making sure she was as pretty as she was 5 seconds ago.
"Are you done?" I ask her.
"Yeah." She says, getting up from table, salad bowl in hand. "Thanks for the salad, boo." She says, giving me a kiss on the cheek and walking toward the trashcan where she would burn 14 dollars out my pocket. I just watch her as she throws away the salad. I get up. She straightens out her jacket and I rub a small smudge off of my shoe. She positions her skirt just right and I brush off whatever lint or debree may have fallen on my jacket since I've been sitting down, though there is none visible. She makes sure she is fresh and I make sure I am fresh. Together, we make sure we are made for each other or at least look like it.

I'm Not Black Like....

I’m not black like go-go,
Not black like basketball,
Or gangsta rap
I’m not black like conga drums,
Not black like tribes, hunting
Or Kwanzaa
I’m just black like
If it were 1742,
I’d be a slave to.

See Me

What do you see when you see me?
Or do you even see...
..ME?

Do you see a humdrum slave
quietly, picking cotton for his master?
Or do you see Nat Turner
hatcheting the heads off the white men
that ensalved him?

Do you see Huey P. Newton with a
proud black fist clinched in the air?

Do you see Bob Marley, the musical revolutionist,
guitar in hand, legendary singer/song writer?
Or do you see Bob Marley, the weed addict,
blunt in hand, ganja smoke slowly escaping his mouth?

Do you see a black man or do you see a man?

Do you see Martin Luther King,
the political activist, leading the bus boycott?
Or do you just see him when he gets shot?

Do you see pookie?
Do you see Tookie Williams
pre or post childrens book author?

Do you see a dead beat,
no good, abusive, drunk father?
Or do you see a dad that goes
to his kids every basketball game,
every PTA meeting, and helps with the homework?

Do you see a poet or a rapper?
Do you see a scholar?

Do you see my Uncle Lewis that's in jail for life?
Or do you see my Uncle Clyde, millionaire, set for life?

Do you see a gang-member, driving up your block,
shot gun out the window, doin drive bys?
Or do you see that man on the street
that's always tryna sell u bean pies?

Do you see Marion Barry, your former mayor?
Or do you see Marion Barry, marijuana smoker?

Do you see Common, Mos Def,
Malik Yusef, Kanye West, or Talib Kweli?
Or do you see Soulja boy, Arab, or V.I.C?
Or are they all the same to you?

Do you see Sidney Poitier or J.J.?
Do you see James Weldon Johnson or Jay-Z?

Look at my sister
Do you see the color purple?
or do you just see the color black?

Do you see me hustlin drugs
or hustlin an education?

Do you see R.Kelly, the music legend?
Or do you see R.Kelly, the pedophile?

Do you see Michael Jackson
singing Pretty Young Thing?
Or do you see Michael Jackson
molestin' pretty young boys?

Do you see Dave Chappelle, comedic genius?
Or do you see Dave Chappelle, AWOL dumbass?

Do you see a monkey?

What do you see when you see me?
Or do you even see...
...ME?

See me as i am
not how you expect me to be

High

The tree is the root of my evil but it stems from the seed of my own stress. I get high. My fingertips are burning and I don't even feel it. I smoke the tree to keep me in the forest; shunned from the big city lights of life. I'm wearing a thick coat of bullshit to protect me from the gelidity of reality. I'm rocking the jeans sewn together by the beautiful hands of Trend. I'm wearing my patent leather Pradas just to see you look at them and wish you had 'em. I'm sitting next to a princess who wears a weave as her crown. Of course my African goddess is light-skin. She smells like my wants and I want to smell like her. Still, my urges remain subtle. My dick whispers to hormones the things I should do to her but my brain doesn't get the message. She starts nibbling on my ear; enabling me to hear my genitals loud and clear. They scream--"LET'S FUCK HER!". My brain relays some redundant unnecessary instructions to my hands, but they are two steps ahead. I'm taking her jeans off as she shimmies her shirt over her crown. I press my lips against hers. My black ones to her pink. They tasted like strawberries. We're a good couple; we're the rare combination of up to something and good for nothing. I put the joint down to focus all my attention to the addiction I was born with--the pussy. I lay my hands on her, caressing the curves of her body. She lays her hands on me, caressing the curves of my soul. She is the moment and I'm trying to live in it. I put myself inside her. Her eyes roll back as I push in deeper. I feel it too. She's taking me to a new high; she makes the tree look like a bush. She closes her eyes and moans. I reach across her to the nightstand to pick up the joint. I push in deeper; going in circles now{small ones to big ones}--something i picked up off a porno. I take another hit and put it down. I moan. She moans again; louder this time.

Prostitute Flange

She used to take money for sex. It started with a dollar for a lap dance at her friend Aisha's party and the way she moved she could've charged much more. She was good at it and she knew it. She slowly made a career out of it. Out of what? She made a career out of getting under the insatiable male hormones, taunting and teasing them until they inevitably concede when their minds realize they are out of cash. She did this through high school and half of college until she reached an epiphany. In her junior year in college at a frat party, she wanted to make this man go crazy for her. She didn't want to just fuck him for a diamond ring or a nice expensive dinner like she did all her other(what we'll call) "clients". She wanted to take an all new approach with him. She felt something that she had never felt before. She called this feeling love. She approached her love as she did all the others; flaunting her assets.
It took about a week of dating before the man told her he loved her, not love as is in just the word like many of her "clients" have used in the past, but love as in the action. He truly loved her and showed it to her through various good deeds that he'd do solely for her. She didn't know how to give love back nor did she know how to receive it. She loved the love she was getting though, so she just accepted it. Then the man made her mad, just once over something very trivial, and she dropped him. Dropped him like he was nothing but dried up love. She now roams the hoods of DC searching for new men to show that they love her and dropping them when she's bored with them. And when men ask if they could get a quickie like in the old days she would wave her hand, walk off and simply say, "Oh I don't do that no more". She would make sure to say it with a sort of smug, unearned self-satisfied tone in her voice. She doesn't take money for sex any more. After all she says she has changed. Though, the only thing that's changed is the way she's paid.

She

She lured me into the mines of her mind
where i filled the holes in her soul
and we hid from reality in the comfort of her couch
Soon as we were all alone
I yearned for her naked lips
that were drenched in the sweetest nectar
God naturally produced at birth
When we kiss,
her tongue becomes the bed where all my thoughts would rest
Soon as they were all tucked away,
Her tongue leaves my mouth so she may say,
"Let me slip into something more comfortable"
Seconds that felt like centuries later,
She emerges from the bathroom
wearing nothing but her angel wings
She is truly the sweetest eye candy
for my pupils become morbidly obese with just a slight glance,
the perfectly sculpted body,
that is hers
and only hers,
and if only words could describe her---
I'd talk forever

Life's A Bitch

Life's a bitch that's never satisfied
who had it better yesterday
but took her today to realize
Life's a bitch that likes when she dies
Life's a product raised by her environment
Life's a leader
Life's in love with those who live her to the fullest
Life's a bitch but we all make her one
Life's a bitch but I can still make her cum
Life's my bitch