To be able to say “I did it.” To be able to tell a story-- All to please those who want to be, I say: “To hell with you.” My words, My thoughts, They are mine. In this city I feel that; I embody that. For my heart bleeds... Just not the same blood as yours. No, my heart pulses a thick black liquor-- Intoxicating my every thought, every move. That drunk man... You know the one everyone avoids? Yeah him-- The one being step over in the street, being judge? His stench so hazardous it makes your stomach shrivel to the size of a cut umbilical cord. Purges you of all appetite. Yeah, that same man who sits in his own pool of piss and vomit? He is me-- He is the free thought-- He gives no fucks. What exactly do you think of him? How you belittle him, He could give two shits about you-- Because, his movements are free. His heart is like mine-- It bleeds to intoxicate. His story transcends your world -- My story excels your thoughts. Only when you can accept that will you understand. To be able to say; "I did it." To be able to tell a story-- All to please those who want to be, I say: “To hell with you.”
Category Archives: Poetry
Intimate Affair
Tracing
from the fingertips on the left,
down to the wrist,
pausing—
pressing with light pressure
to feel a faint pulse.
Continuing up the forearm,
passing the pit of the elbow,
gliding over the blemishes,
yet nothing seems to go unnoticed.
To the shoulder
allowing the nails to scratch away
the protruding bumps.
No immediate pain.
only a reminder from the nerves.
“Keep on moving.”
Across the torso.
From the shoulder.
Lay the fly away hairs down and
pull out the stuck ones.
Over the pit of the elbow,
down the rest of the forearm,
at the wrist,
pausing—
pressing with light pressure
to feel a rapid pulse.
Up the fingertips on the right,
stop.
The left-hand tilts its fingers to the right,
interlocking—
The right-hand’s fingers twitch,
responding—
Between the two’s pressures,
one’s knuckles will give away.
Sweat forms
in-between the new joint.
The ritual has started.
And when it ends
with forced separation.
One, will go on
seeking more—
the other, will rest
unresponsive—
Unknown Scent
On Sundays, he slaps some Old Spice under his arms, and takes exactly 4 light dabs of his father’s cologne. He isn’t a man of God, but to fake it he dresses in his Sunday best. People know when he is coming— a failed attempt to mask the pungent smell of sin— choking people for their attention. When he would arrive for church He could never find a reason to step inside. On Mondays, It’s nicotine. Did he smoke— or is it his buddies? Did he light it— or was the old lady in the apartment above? It sits in his hair, fuses with the fibers of his clothes— His lung will find the answer with the faint orange light that flickers in the night. On Tuesdays, he knows he needs a shower to wash away Sunday and Monday. He has been called into the office; a report to the higher ups. He must be fresh— his last bar of Dial mixes with his mother’s peppermint body wash. He needs to scrub any hint of his private life away— in order to maintain even the slightest sense of his security. On Wednesdays, It is dank. The day that calls for relaxation; his friends will come over and share, from morning to evening. Letting the mind wonder on its own, enjoying smoke swirl through the air, his neighbors will leave letters at his doorstep pleading: ‘Come on man…’ On Thursdays, An old fashion Dark-amber bourbon will burn his esophagus. The sweetness of the sugar will give him euphoria. He will mull on the loss of himself. His finger will play with the orange peel as he finishes his drink. A 2nd will be bought. Then his memory will fade. On Fridays, With sweat dripping from the base of his hairline, down his neck, trickling into unseeable places. It draws people to dance with him— This is club number 3, or was it 4? A haze he is left in, intertwining with an unknown body. This leaves him in different forms of ecstasy He will leave his buddies for the night embraced in the arms of Hedone and Peitho. On Saturdays, It’s a different person who isn’t in the bed next to him. He rolls over to stare out the window recollecting his past two nights. He can’t tell if his nausea stems from his daily intoxication rituals or the lingering aroma of Bath & Body Works perfumes. He brushes the thoughts off from his head, ties the hotel bed sheets around his waist, stretches and repeats.
Unknown Scent was recognition through the Agnes Scott American Academy of Poets College Prize as an honorable mention in 2022. This prize recognizes and appreciates the honorable mention poem submitted each year to the American Academy of Poets Prize as well as recognize the excellence and promise of the writer.
Amoeba Writings 