The clouds paint moods across my views
guilty of shortcomings and regrets
wisdom circles cinnamon kaleidoscopes that I slowly drink in
my world
my country
my fellow man
my shame
demeaning each other
turning the skies grey
living in dark clouds
remorse stabs each phrase into my skull
cracking thunder down my spine
water gushing from my eyes
spilling my soul onto the hardwood floor
I can no longer read or listen
expressions shimmer rainbows that no longer exists
uttering ghosts that should have never been set free
recalling times that were no better than now
usage matters
rhymes matter
what comes out of ours mouths and spatters across the universe matters
I’m sick to my stomach
steading myself against the inevitable spray
infected by my gold longing for the sun
black in my heart where animals crater their teeth
the violence that lives in my bellybutton sits at stay while my eyes burn
there’s freedom in wanting to kill something
it releases chickens and gives us flexibility
I’m not saying it’s right or moral
I’m just saying it’s bloody
I hit the deck ,what a strange term for a dirty floor in a New York City club, I mean filthy with sweat and grim and cigarette butts and soot and high heals. My reflex put me here. My survival instincts need to get me out. The music is streamline loud thumping disco, not Gloria Gaynors “I Will Survive” but Donna Summers “Last Dance” and people are dancing, lots of people, elbow to elbow people all around me in spandex and sequence and dresses and tank tops and lots of make up even the guys, so all I can see now are shoes and the bottom half of everyone’s outfit. I’m on my hands and knees. My dress that lands below the knees is keeping my knees safe from this disease ridden floor. No one seems to notice me down here. My long nails painted neon purple are gripping the sticky brown floor. It’s dark except for flashing multicolored lights circling the dancers. I don’t come to this club very often. I’m either at Studio 54 snorting coke with famous druggies or CBGBs getting my punk on but my cousins wanted to come here tonight for some flavor. I can’t see them but they can’t be too far from me. I was his target from the get go. Just 5 minutes ago he whispered filth in my ear dirtier than this floor. I can smell my own sweat and I don’t sweat. I saw his gun. I don’t know if that was his intention or not but I saw him and he saw me and I saw him reach for his gun tucked in his pants. He reached right under his shirt pushing it aside and placed his hand on the gun and I saw it and I hit the floor and now I’m crawling towards the door.
guilty of shortcomings and regrets
wisdom circles cinnamon kaleidoscopes that I slowly drink in
my world
my country
my fellow man
my shame
demeaning each other
turning the skies grey
living in dark clouds
remorse stabs each phrase into my skull
cracking thunder down my spine
water gushing from my eyes
spilling my soul onto the hardwood floor
I can no longer read or listen
expressions shimmer rainbows that no longer exists
uttering ghosts that should have never been set free
recalling times that were no better than now
usage matters
rhymes matter
what comes out of ours mouths and spatters across the universe matters
I’m sick to my stomach
steading myself against the inevitable spray
infected by my gold longing for the sun
black in my heart where animals crater their teeth
the violence that lives in my bellybutton sits at stay while my eyes burn
there’s freedom in wanting to kill something
it releases chickens and gives us flexibility
I’m not saying it’s right or moral
I’m just saying it’s bloody
I hit the deck ,what a strange term for a dirty floor in a New York City club, I mean filthy with sweat and grim and cigarette butts and soot and high heals. My reflex put me here. My survival instincts need to get me out. The music is streamline loud thumping disco, not Gloria Gaynors “I Will Survive” but Donna Summers “Last Dance” and people are dancing, lots of people, elbow to elbow people all around me in spandex and sequence and dresses and tank tops and lots of make up even the guys, so all I can see now are shoes and the bottom half of everyone’s outfit. I’m on my hands and knees. My dress that lands below the knees is keeping my knees safe from this disease ridden floor. No one seems to notice me down here. My long nails painted neon purple are gripping the sticky brown floor. It’s dark except for flashing multicolored lights circling the dancers. I don’t come to this club very often. I’m either at Studio 54 snorting coke with famous druggies or CBGBs getting my punk on but my cousins wanted to come here tonight for some flavor. I can’t see them but they can’t be too far from me. I was his target from the get go. Just 5 minutes ago he whispered filth in my ear dirtier than this floor. I can smell my own sweat and I don’t sweat. I saw his gun. I don’t know if that was his intention or not but I saw him and he saw me and I saw him reach for his gun tucked in his pants. He reached right under his shirt pushing it aside and placed his hand on the gun and I saw it and I hit the floor and now I’m crawling towards the door.
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