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Posts tagged: love

Your body is a temple I hope I’m worthy enough to pray to.

free write

when the poet in me is restless I make beats.

when the producer in me is restless I write poems.

when both are alive I aim to make love

but love is never created or destroyed

only shared, because love is matter.

love matters. love is all I have.

it is all I know. its all I will ever know.

its all I have ever wanted, all I will want.

I speak in music and dance to words.

I write for the rhythm in your heartbeat

and compose for the language of your tongue.

My fingers communicate for your eyes and ears

yet all they really want is to know if we feel the same.

Mama’s Man

Like the shoelace

the bicycle becomes a memory.

So does the time with the car

and the tire, and the time

you smelled breakfast but mom

was still in bed. Or even if that didn’t happen,

or if he wasn’t yours and was more hers

you remember each time

he sat with you, or talked to you

even if it was about basketball

or your mother, or violence,

or manhood, or standing up for yourself.

Whatever it was, you remember that,

regardless if his name was brother,

uncle, grandpa, friend, that one guy

or father. You remember each memory

that you one day want to be remembered by.

Hold me up to perfect, I will fail unashamed, but up to dedication to your joy, there will be none higher
Poem That Came To Me
I believe in you, says the face to the mirror.
You were not made for defeat, said the god to its creation.
You are greater than your fears, said the heart to the brain.
Love starts and ends here, said the heart to the body.
We are tired but committed to keep going for you, said the feet to the person.
We are a work in progress, worthy and deserving of boundless love,
said the face to the mirror.
These parts, these things that make you, all a result of some prayer,
all blessings to those who meet it.
You are the only owner of you, yet, such a gift you have,
to all that have your presence.
Your body, your body, your body, your body, yours.

And despite what we’ve been through, my fault and the fault of others,
I can say without a doubt that I love you, said the self to the mirror.
Love starts in a place others can’t see or control, within the confines of you.
Love is being blindfolded, and told there is a either a cliff or lover before you, despite his you walk forward.

You are beautiful

not for what I or anyone

else sees but for what

and who you are.

The Girl That Cried Fire aka When One Becomes Arson aka How to Love a Phoenix

My love for you insults my ego.

These feelings for you are humbling.


In class I had to teach a lecture

on the burning of old Montreal.

It became a speech on the first time

I knew how to properly love you.


I know I’m supposed to have written a few verses for you.

Instead I want my obituary to read only your name repeatedly.

This is the only language I know how to pray in. Once I’m gone

I want it understood, I wasn’t living before you came into my life.


When you smile I see reverse oil spills stretch across your face.

You gorgeous pollutant you, redefining every concept of beauty.

I’ve seen what kind of ugly the world puts on women like yourself.

Some would say the only compliment fitting for you is disaster.


When not given her freedom, Canadian slave Marie Joseph Angelique

burned down forty six buildings in less than three hours. When wounded

a woman needs no savior. This I know, I was an ember, an infant, watching

in awe at the magnificence of her creation. Wearing this same look

draped across my face whenever I’m with you. Seeing, listening, speaking to you.


How to love a phoenix? Easy. Become the flame.

I long to be nothing more than your match,

the liberation of your happiness.

Don’t you see the candles I lit for you?

Some call it home, saying you can see it from space,

saying that the city never stops burning.


I’ve learned to love my own demons

enough to be guardian angels for you.

My chest swells in your presence.

I have grown so large now, a wildfire

fueled by the experience of you.


How time seems to stop.

How gravity resists mattering.

How there are no more physics.

How I see your beauty with closed eyes.

How your ideas sound like recreation.


I know the truth so well, how it sounds like a lie.

I understand why you may be careful believing me

when I say I love you. It’s hard for me to believe you exist.

Dreams normally come true, they don’t usually become people.

Music…art…your body, all of it is poetry. All of it is a metaphor for how divine things multiply.