creat1vem1ndz:

To the girls who write poetry, who wish to prevail their hearts of empressement

or nostalgic tales of past beginnings, who speak through pens that bleed ink

of what they think, who only find themselves in a page of sporadic emotions.

To the girls who cry words of a thousand expressions hoping to reveal enlightenment

and impressment, who run through thoughts and walk through poetry.

To these girls who wish for answers to wishes.

Light sheds through eye lids of shades. Morning rises begans the day, I look to my left and there she laid. Smiles the face a goddess became my grace. Love, lust expresses my way with her, the day loss track of times as she would later fill my pages in rhymes. The morning I awoke black and white but locked lips shot rays of hue. Smiles the face a goddess became my grace, her hair messed in a confession of an explosive night. This morning my hands would play until the sheets sway. This morning was “The Morning” I would never forget….

I saw you lastnight so I stopped to say hi. I saw you and looked into your beautiful brown eyes. I had alot running through my mind at the time, with questions of why or should I just leave it at hi. I thought about this all before of what to say when we would meet one day but then you spoke back to me and it all just fell into place. The soft spoken words and smile on your face blended perfect with the sun rays. Just for a moment I remembered why I had loved you but not why we went our separate ways, I guess in my heart love last longer then hate. It was good to see you lastnight smiling bright in the sun it was good to see you once more but I have to let you go now, maybe I will see you again if this dream is still on replay.

Step 1: lock eyes and grab her from behind

Step 2: heart beats must hug under their own symphony

Step 3: gently make your approach till kisses lock into euphony.

Step 4: let hands inspect bodies like first times

Step 5: take a vacation down south to her landing strip

Step 6: wear legs like hats while lips play notes like flutes

Step 7: just hmm and smooch

Step 8: hit spots like clinched toes,bit lips, scratched backs and soar hips.

Her elegance smears the expression of sexual curiousity and arises upon the immediate obsession of lustful affection that she projects. She spoke melodies soothing my intracasies and made random nights a bliss. She had many faces from counter tops, back seats to silked sheets. She was an empty abyss that any woman could fill as they added to the list obtaining she as a title. We made nights thirsty and quenched with clear bottles of sin or baby making juice. Long nights spilled into shots of truth, condom wrappers and back seat stains became the proof. Every explosive climax filled windows in fog from breaths and reef clouds especially when the weeds loud. My sentiments live through she (W.A.C).

It’s that breath of fresh air.
Traveling ink swivels of history.
The solved mystery in a finer mess of experiences. Freedom of speech through a paper sheet. The longing for an ending to life’s chapters about things that matter.
The shattered soul that batters the brain with words. The window to my professed tales like my hearts past and why it’s a hollow shell. Freedom writer….

The tears dripped down her face running her mascara, I guess people can cry black. She was a fallen angel in a red dress timid to a smile as she stood black and white plain to a face. I look to the sky and seen her emotions smeared across the gloom clouds like as if her and mother nature shared a special bond. We stand face to face, I see my reflection through her regretful smirk. I must of unknowingly imprinted myself into her broken heart, the shards carried as a signature with my name written all over it. She sniffles and looks at me angry, I’m baffled until her stare ended with a verbal break and tear in my chest. I think this was a mutual decision except I wasn’t strong enough to show I agreed. (Dark nights, cold endings, resentment and refreshment) I been through it all like war I fought across a spectrum of emotions with battle scars tatted on my arm to reach a revelation. I stood there with a loss of words because my past held more chances then I could no longer give. I grew into a difference rendered into a form of intellectual art. I shifted my mind and got gifted. Black hoody, fresh tims, snaps, women, money and a classy style with a vocab that spreads through conversations leaving light hearts and impressment with all first impressions wanting chances. You could question when I changed because I see the mysterious expression on your face revealing I’m no longer the same but at some point I had to go missing for the better. Chances come rare to a dark angel as my wisdom has now grown from roots into a tree of intellectual poetry…..