Whatever Feels Right
I’ve written thousands of words dedicated to memories of you. How you swept through me like a tornado, left stormy thoughts encased in halos. Already knowing what the ending would be, but craving its heyday. For out of the chaos would come something beautiful. A warm sun, mid-day. The only one I could always count on before you was me anyway. They say I love too much, but I can’t help but reach for that peak even when I’m troubled by it being so far out of reach. I can’t help but want you to reach your peak in everything you set your mind to, especially as it relates to me. Luckily, I’ve always got a little time to set aside for academia, so to speak. So if being taught by hand means you’ll use my body as a blackboard, let’s chalk it up. With your permission, I’m asking to use your mental as my canvas. Let your knowledge pour down all over me as thoughts pay it forward like advances. Free flowing from distractions, writing blocked by self-possessing, carpal tunnel syndrome’s like – hand cramps and neck aches as words form like soft clay. We swapped intelligence in snide, remarks made in hind-sight made me feel like – I can drop a dope acapella, but you still ain’t seeing me, right? I felt like I was laying on a hot bed of deep despair, like I died a little death, but my spiritual reflection stayed clear. The illest beat I could ever conjure was from a broken kiss, a final lick, a switch of the hips, damn – my girl’s the shit, type of ganja. I mean, type of muse, that is. For lack of better words or emotion-full phrases; with her I want to sync lips, and dig my teeth in, and trace letters to and fro, from the nape of necks to below mid-sections. We go back and forth, and different strokes you ain’t protesting, just as long as I dive deep enough to get lost all up in it. The way I think, it’s like venom, but my passionate potion gives life. To anyone whose ever drank from it, they know my passion is rife. Or ripe – whatever letters accurately project my rhyme scheme’s whatever – I’m wrapped tight. Like a fist, gripping. Like feelings, growing. Natural disasters may crop up along the way, but are promptly alleviated, left in subtle disarray. Still my hunger builds and I strive, but vertical isn’t the only way to grow, or to thrive. No side-eyed, side-ways glances that sting, barely touching with ill intent – but bringing out the best in me. The purpose is to upend, uplift, and eventually – reinvent my spirit which is spent from not enough vent. Elation, ’cause I’ve never been afraid to fall in love, just out of. Not even the pain and what can arise from love other than what’s pleasurable can be unbearable. Like a butterfly unable to break free of its cocoon – despair ensues. So, I reach for higher heights, and slide fingers across places previously deemed as risky flights. I siphon sights and process data, then cypher fights with lyrical gangsta. I bare my all for you, and in return, you shed every thread and fabric intended to avoid your flesh reacting to another’s powerful – grip. You bare it all too. But I hold onto every love I’ve ever adorned, every trophy I’ve ever worn, from love to sports to sporting love. I hold out my hands to the one above and beg forgiveness for not giving my all. I am forgiven, for this one reason, I managed to pen you a poem, written in a journal, riddled with apologies that I could foresee a long time ago. I wrote you into existence, and now that you’re here, would you mind being more than just a spoken word or poetic blurb – ’cause when you’re gone I won’t shed a tear. I’m demanding far more. Although the other figments of my imagination have been cropped and edited they’re long gone, and I’ve anticipated my departure for months now – from writers block.