Monday, January 26, 2015

X̶̷̸̲̲̿

                                                                              X

                                                                 Hair: like bondage



                             it
              wraps            wraps
                   and        and
                        wraps
                  and        and
             wraps           wraps    
 
   around the arms and
not only stops movement
  but it slows down time
 
 
 
Bound by the hair on God's knuckles, it forces 
 them to reflect on every memory they
wish they could forget; thus, the
enjoyment in pulling out
your hair is found.
 
 
 
I know it hurts but continue sipping love nectar
until you're unrecognizable
 
    
 
 
 
be my bitch                                                                                          be what I'm looking for
 
 
                                                                     
 
 
 
 
and water me
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
©2015 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
for Poetics
 
        




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Monday, January 5, 2015

Chapter One

Dig spoken word? take a listen...


Her heart was like a Polaroid camera
Old fashioned take her home to mama
Kinda love but instead
Of embracing her ambient light
They keep her in the dark
And never bothered to see her pretty picture
Go figure; she's not commercialized nor modernized
Like Retro Jordans for midnight release
She's more of an umbrella in the pouring rain
Searching for sunshine
Like a widow who's at her peak


But will they ever know? No.


In the age where Instagram on the iPhone 6
can replace a true photographer's weapon of choice
And the poet's mentioning of writing love
Letters gets a roll of the eye
I'm steady asking myself why should I even try?

Why even... when

The, “if you ain't fuckin',
then you ain't fuckin' with me”
State of mind is the reason why
Romance is dire need of resuscitation


Memoryscape by Nick Gentry 
 
We're gaining inspiration from artist, Nick Gentry for Poetics
 
 

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Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Meditation



I gave you the light that revealed the constant stranger
Turned relic to keep my faith from wandering 
In the land of waning freedom 
Where our daily bread 
Is down to crumbs like the bottom of a toaster 
Because each slice is devoured by the field talk 
Of itchy trigger fingers 
These elitist hands play magic tricks 
And with each puff of smoke 
Another slain nigger disappears into
The magician's hat faster than 
The swipes on a fogged mirror 
After washing away the blood 
Of the innocent and plagued those  
Poetically looking for temple
To express themselves 
In a world that condemns nudity 
Of the spirit so I hide my tears 
And let them rain on my innermost thoughts 
 
©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
My bread is soaked in the harsh realities of today...how ya like yours? Tell us, for Poetics @dVerse

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