Poems

Women’s Plight

Posted on by A. Long

 

Change is a bitter strange fruit

that shapes at my crevices

the hurts sting

nothing is static tree

the world opened up for me

whispering sweet things and

promises that are easily broken

can i change back

shed knowledge for ignorance’s bliss

i can’t do that

Adam’s rib is in too deep

heat chases me across the plains

grazes my thighs, moist

the inside of a pomegranate

is that how i taste

The sky quakes with hate

as the All Mighty desecrates the landscape

out cast

lone harlot

He pushed me aside

to stay in It’s good graces.

 

 

Bleeding Hearts

Posted on by A. Long

Under the cover of night he slips in

married slaves rarely saw each other by daylight

rutting in darkness

they memorize the contours of the eyes

the pulsating warmth just below the skin

he nuzzles in

to distract from the pain

rain comes

cloaked in wet blankets

to steal my energy

but i don’t want to sleep

i want to see what mysteries he’s keeping

what frustrations he’s brought

beneath the mask of calm

what havoc he hath wrought

before he bites down

the pressure ripe to explode soon

from the surrounding flames

i turn to douse the

fire’s night amid the moonlight

as he creeps away cursing

a bleeding heart he leaves behind

hoping one day

I’ll give him mine.

To My First Love

Posted on by A. Long

Hello Brooklyn,

The first time it hit me that I was in love with you B, thought it was bugged how you had me. Talked about you to my friends, acquaintances, co workers constantly, like let me introduce you to this dude I knew. Come through, I’ve got someone I want to show you. It was unbelievable, that new shit. Name on my tongue, scribbling shit cross my notebook since May 23rd, birth. My foretold, my first.

Fresh, like grade school when I stumbled through the phonics of my parents language. Clumsy, children running with ice cream cones, elated by the frozen joy they’ve been sold and the elusive notion that it will all be gone soon. Ice on a steaming stove, love was dripping off my chin, Brooklyn. My style was molded to my speech in the exact shape that you picked out for me. You taught me how to think, and I didn’t mind because I trusted you mind and soul. I walked through the streets bigging you up to everyone I knew, defending your slandered name, until you took a swing and my face was your aim.

Safe to say I had to go, yet I thought without a doubt that you loved me. Who was going to take me in? This chick with an accent and attitude accentuated to suit you. This chick with secrets that sometimes came unglued at just the wrong moments.

My love laid dormant while I bounced around    from house to house  until he caught me. You know Poetry wasn’t just an affair he was my passion. I love him unconditionally because I know he’d never leave me.

Days spent after school when I should’ve been doing homework, I wrote him. Notes, letters, words, verbs, similes laid sweetly next to metaphors and phrases, quotes, scribbles, and rants. Guess he had me open. I’d wake up at 3 am with his voice in my ear, touching each one of my thoughts until they strapped suicide bombs to their chests and explode with new ideas and ways for me to love him.

We were so real that I’m sorry Brooklyn but that first thing didn’t appeal. We were inseparable. I couldn’t get enough, like platanos and collard greens.

I’ll always miss you, but

He listened to me.

Cuddled up to my natural kush, I wanted to be with him more than anything

fated to be

like a Vandross rift

like coolaid sugar stains lingering on my smiling lips

I thanked God for this poetical gift and a green notebook to hold my words down whenever inspiration kicks up.

Don’t misunderstand one day I will come back, because the voice I found with you helped stumble every word I ever wrote into existence. There is more to be done where I am. I can’t abandon him.

Just know you are here with me in the things I carry.

Love,

The Poet

 

 

The One

Posted on by A. Long

Everyday you get up for the one.

That Alicia Keys song that was kind of nice once, that’s for the one.

When their eyes feel like the only ones to have ever seen you, that’s the one.

When you can count the beauty marks on his forearm and remember each design, then that’s the one.

Remember that they like honey over sugar,

Remember that their shoulders are broad for a girl, but perfect.

The one isn’t perfection.

Remember that the one is not perfection.

The one will be the one who likes you as a person.

The one will be the one who hates tattoos but loves yours.

The one will be all you need.

Miss the one.

Hold out for the one.

Remember not to pull away,

to tell yourself the truth,

to always tell the one the truth,

because they will always deserve the truth.

The one will deserve a better part of you.

The one may be a dream, question their existence.

The one may be the one to show up when you least expect it.

When everything’s great or all hell breaks loose,

that hole in your heart,

that strength you need,

that one,

that one thing that makes it worthwhile,

well,

I guess that’s the one.

 

Sometimes

Posted on by A. Long

Sometimes my pillows

capture a piece of your scent

and I can’t sleep

I dream up cheap

imitations of my own imagination

I gather up the bits

place them into my necklace

and hit replay

to get through the day.

Melted

Posted on by A. Long

My baby don’t love me no more

maybe he never did

i melted

into the floorboards waiting

for him to come home

comb through the knots

in our relationship

married to my hair

i cut it

out, cancerous strands grew

there from where he’d grab

dig his fingers deep into the roots

then pull

snatch

take

all they do is take

your breasts your likeness your body is gone in an instant

without so much as a hand hold

cuckholded lacily held yesterdays

where’s yesterday

he wont even look at me anymore

crawling past the door

towards another chest

but i need to love to want him

don’t know if it made a difference

now its just

wanting leaving the wanted with longing

Pray for me I’ve seen too much

of these buh bye boys to men

to children.

 

 

 

We Grind

Posted on by A. Long

we grind corporate skateboards

new monetary tats

sell your time

your soul

and the soles of your feet

to the grind

the world is a series of lines

guidelines

bylines

laws

and rules

the revolution may not be televised

but it will be organized

into lines i bet

from the bathroom

to the classroom

I’ve got mine’s in line

Do you?

Grinding until my calves are sculpted enough to cut diamonds

while winding through capitalist crowds

son servant surf boards

don’t sip the vines

snaking through our lives

and these kiddie rhymes

Adam.