The Gift of Flowers

A lost love found me, in you

like a lioness with belladonna in her eyes.

Your stare was poison on the tip of a rose

you had me smell that evening and

I fed into the fluidity of your presence,

like the sun chasing shadows
in an open field. 

for d'Verse

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Rope

Beauty lies within the controversy of undiscovered love

Echo – Love

Flawed, so they separate for the art

Echo – Apart

Bound by darkness for the sake of metaphor

Echo – Ignore

Tortured poets live and die by their own hand

Echo – Withstand

Drowning in hopes of infinite light

Echo – Spite

Gravity defied, only to add more weight to the heart
Echo – Art

for dverse

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Light.

Originally from my Instagram  

Muse: @kweenkreyol

For dverse

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Untitled III

the fluidity of night

ran smooth like a train

on brand new tracks

I dream of riding

that train and one

of the cars being my home

complete with

a mail-order bride

a rare find like

a white boot with

no scuff marks

and the curves

on her body

matched the

dramatics of her
heavy german accent

for dverse

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Untitled II

I believe the words

these walls echo

when God speaks

in sign language.

Love is immortal

as the essence of a mother

no matter how many times

it has drifted away like buckets

in a river where everyone
washes their hair.

for dverse

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The Holy Ghostwriter

if these words could uplift

themselves from the page

they would praise you
like a pastor on his knees 

for dverse

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Untitled

when my crown fell into the 

flames, I went down with it; 

I put it back on and endured 

the pain until the crown 

became a part of me; thus, 

my personal hell was now 

my kingdom. 

Posted for dversepoets; 

originally from my Instagram.

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You

Calla lilies black as the night sky
bring me to the bed
we once laid in

Your mouth grazes my back
like bison in the meadow
your nutrients seep
into the pores of my skin
as I lie in the afterglow
and you sleepwalk
into my dreams at 2am
awakening me
from these memories

for Insta-Poetics

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The Words the Dead Speak

for Frank Stanford

You are the darkness

that backs my shimmer of hope

like the night sky to a red moon

like the woodlands

to a wolf in slumber

Death brings sober words

to drunk characteristics

Death reads the stanzas that

fall from my fingertips

in a language I find hard

to understand

as I see a lock

of curly hair fall

from beneath its hood

The closest I'll ever get to hearing
your voice

©2015 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

For Poetics.
I've written plenty of poems dedicated to Frank Stanford;
I wouldn't be the poet I am if it wasn't
for copying his bold style until I was comfortable
enough to find myself artistically. 

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The Dayz

I'm from solitude drenched in wonder, faith

and determination; bein' man of the house

while retaining the heart of a child

long walks through lush lands

and livin' for late-night hangs

I'm from a time where 'I'

brought thoughts of self

and not losing ourselves

in the latest iphones

I'm from momma's meatloaf,

mashed potatoes and gravy

followed by banana pudding

goodnight's, I love you's,

and say ya prayers sealed

with a kiss

I'm from Hip-hop

hi-hats over hard-hitting

bass backing rhymes of bitches,

hoes and who got the fattest ass

to conscious streams of Amerikkka

and poets revealing their darkest days
with every 16 bars acting as a therapist  

*for dverse

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||

for OLN

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Strap

I bathe in a washtub

surrounded by grass and weeds

I take buckets of water

pour them over my head

and act as if A God

is purifying my sins

but these riches are

damned by the poorest

of bastards with souls

as cold as the leather

they wish their daddies

beat them with. They learned

pain is love and I ain't

talking about the sting
of discipline

©2015 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

*For dversepoets - MTB .   

It feels great to write without thinking again. 

I really want to take my work in a more natural 

direction: smoother similes and less

choppy metaphors while staying true to my core. 

Not saying the super complex writer in me is dead, 

I just want to be great at both styles. 

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Her Confession

She's like a work of art from Nancy Lorenz
her pussy is a gold pour box
with holy water soaked lips
that could wash any nigga of his sins
if his kisses start at her feet
a masterpiece of luxe Egyptian-toned
canvas-wrapped flesh
but as we all know, art is subjective
some would rather project
their insecurities onto sculptures
that in some way mirror
what they view as an ugly scar

Shame the black men who scowl
and run like headless chickens
at the sight of her bouncing
deep mahogany breasts
and those who don't mind taking
a late night dive with intentions
of finding an ivory pearl to last
a lifetime and as soon as they get theirs
they assume her river is ran dry

She's a tired goddess

Still, I promised her that nothing
promised ever holds up
like implausible foundation
so she put wings on her back
and vowed to never accept another
from none of these fuckin men

She said
I won't be returning
the favor anymore
tar from the tips
of these niggas dicks got caught
in my lungs every time
I took a puff of that toxic love
instead of flying
I was caged like a canary
in a coal mine

©2015 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

for dverse

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His Confession

Time ran away from me while chasing wants

I thought were necessities

obsessions with pussy money and weed bled on the floor

of the confessional this was the first time

he didn't mind asking for help

the art of compromise

but before hand bad habits

from the nuisance of itchy palms

lead to the scattering of regrets

and he continued

the mother's baby I took her for granted

and I lost the only thing I ever wanted

in the beginning and in the beginning

the writing was on the walls but

it's like I stabbed myself in the eyes with the pens

so I was blind to the fact that I had it all

he said

She was the virgin mary

and I was judas on my life

ready to betray god if

this bitch decide to have my baby

devilish

devilish

she said

how'd it turn to this

how'd it turn into this

the whites of your eyes turned

into dark lies and what's to hide

in a home when the glass is tinted

and your soul is cut from the world?

He said being an artist is too big a responsibility

for some art is the only thing worth believing in

that means someone out there believes in me

the way one might believe in god

and I can't take the pressures of believing

in myself because that would make me my own god

so I'll stay in disbelief

like america being the richest country

yet we got millions with nothing to eat

just food for the soul when it's dark and lonely on this road

they call the life of an artist

usually plagued by a dead end and suicidal thoughts begin

to take over when those world wide sales were dismal

and international success didn't take over

that's why my sweetest dreams are my nightmares

and it's so hard to focus when you're not there

and I lose it wondering if my muse will ever

end up face down on the pavement before I do

the importance of preeminence

can be fatal if you're not passionate

and it feeds off you

©2015 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

for d'verse... what's your confession?

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At First Sight

I watched you like a play in a field of strawberries.

I imagined you were telling my life story to an audience

full of strangers; and I, too afraid to have a seat.

So, I studied you from afar and resorted to
reading lips as if I had gone deaf.  

for OLN @dversepoets

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A Love like No Other

A landscape was created with every word I spoke;

you're like a canvas begging for another stroke.

And like a sign from heaven I hear your hum;

so, in meditation for the wolves, my bones they broke.

Not a holler in my heart for it beats to your drum.

I hope you maintain faith in me, or my flaws I will become.

The goddess of my kingdom, royalty is what you bleed;

even the trees love the taste of your breath and then some.

The call of your name fulfills my every need;

forever together when I plant my seed.

You're the reason I awaken from my nightmare;

like a dove symbolizing peace, I am freed.

My dreams are woven with your hair;

sleep becomes a necessity only when you're there.

Of all the possibilities we could share,

I just want my dreams woven with your hair.  

Written in the rhyme scheme of AABA-BBCB-CCDC-DDDD for MTB

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Dyin' of Thirst

your heart is like a frozen waterfall

and I'm climbing your icy depths
without a stitch of clothing
because I can't stop thinkin'
with my dick

these hard-ons

don't faze you anymore
'cause you know me so well
you know when pain is hidden
in the inky-blacks of my eyes
or maybe it's just you're
used to typical niggas
you read me like an open book
sprawled out on the floor



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

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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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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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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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