Glass Staircase: art

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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Tuesday, May 5, 2015

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

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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Tuesday, April 28, 2015

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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Thursday, April 23, 2015

||

for OLN

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Monday, March 9, 2015

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

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

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

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Saturday, February 28, 2015

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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Wednesday, February 11, 2015

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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Tuesday, February 3, 2015

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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Monday, January 26, 2015

X̶̷̸̲̲̿

X

Hair: like bondage

              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

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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

My bread is soaked in the harsh realities of today...how ya like yours? Tell us, for Poetics @dVerse

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Monday, November 3, 2014

The Beauty.

She is the color of Swahili Aphrodite laid

against the night sky—not limited to darkness.

She kisses the sun red

to blend the bloodshed
down to a matter of perspective
so her view of the world isn't so bad.
Her presence brings a tear to the eye
like raindrops that distort your
reflection on the edge of a pond.
She dances off the high of long-winded
debates on heaven and hell's existence
while running her hands over loved
ones whose time has yet to come.

All after washing the dirt

of religion from her socks
one last time in the same
bathwater she used to
cure her loneliness.

writing from the perspective of the dead for Poetics...

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Monday, October 6, 2014

The Significance we Miss

Comfort in your own skin

love that only comes from within
yet, a lot of us are searching
not knowing where to begin
instead of analyzing flaws
appreciate the beauty in anomalies
like the pastel pebbles that line sidewalks
and cradle blades of grass.

Dodging blessings we think we don't deserve
like a native's refusal to do the rain dance
in the middle of a drought.

Beyond the aggravating rituals
I learned to love,
how you carry yourself
is peace brought into existence
amidst the world's chaos
like a drink of clean water.

We're writing about the little things over @dverse...

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Monday, July 28, 2014

State of Humanity

Care to hear the author recite this piece of lyricism?

Pollute you like some trash in the desert sand
Leave you wonderin' what it feel like to be a man
A mystic a leper a lord until you realize you just a human being

playing dozens with dogs and
Get ya head bitten off like a preteen bully
Taughtin' motherfuckers in the prison yards

My conscience clear like Peruvian diamonds
In ice water streams

Genocide in the palm of my hand
I'm livin' the American dream
Israelis digging graves with the dirt under my nails

While Nigerian girls jump the gaps between

My knuckles as I hold the peace sign and ball up my fist

To crush the Boko Haram like the drops on Gaza Strip

Me myself and I as a conglomerate
Providing arms in the war on civilian terrorism
Make the kids swallow bombs with a smile and call it heroism

The aftermath is lying in a bed snakes
As they let me admire their hiss
And spat acid in my face and the only side effects

Was it hurt when I took a piss
Irrelevant adolescent thoughts of hide n seek
And hatin on what was unique
But no remorse to bubble in this pool
Of nostalgia
Even face down the water seems bleak

Get high on Poetics - DMT at d'Verse Poets...

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Monday, July 14, 2014

Metamorphosis (A Painting)

Dear heavenly father,

my mother is my number one fan and her good feelings

are my faith when I'm short on patience

you birthed me mama but when you said the

words, “This could be a poem,” that's when the legacy began

Like a book without a 1^st 2^nd or 3^rd chapter

but of continuous prose without punctuation

deciphering Schoenfeld's watercolors

revealing//passionate//canvases of pure romance

in red//pale flesh//blue//with sky hues

numbering page after page of Miller's rapid scenery

amplifying the language of insects

and even the smallest encounters are painted

in grandiosity with a final transition

to Wheatfall's black & white subtlety & power

reminiscent of the strength in Van Gogh's
Wheat Field with Reaper and Sun

*it's the three year anniversary of d'Verse Poets Pub and we're celebrating all this week...*

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Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Contradictions (Die for It)

You call me a visionary but I'm just a martyr for truth (*my truth)

You tell me this the shit that I should breathe for

If that's the case put me on the cross carved

From trees that shadowed the poets' graves and call me the savior

But I would just burn alive because

I ain't sure if I would die for it

I write the sky as I walk the desert sands

X'ing out check points with fingers of the modern man

So they can't throw stones and riddle my

Path with glass or disconnect my chrome

Browser enlighten the internet

While the iron curtain shadows my home

You can't call me a genius because I, “Seek wisdom,

Not knowledge. Knowledge is of the past

And wisdom is of the future” but

You call me a visionary though I'm just a martyr for truth (*my truth)

You tell me this the shit that I should breathe for

If that's the case put me on the cross carved

From trees that shadowed the poets' graves and call me the savior

But I would just burn alive because

I ain't sure if I would die for it

So is this the shit that I live for?

If you have to ask then you don't know me

But if I have to ask myself then I get down on bended knee

And pray to the lord “I hope this isn't a curse for

All those times I spoke of niggas, bitches, hoes

And Jesus in the same poem. PS. I call a woman a woman

And if I didn't then I couldn't bear the thought

Of calling myself a man” but

You call me a visionary though I'm just a martyr for truth (*my truth)

You tell me this the shit that I should breathe for

If that's the case put me on the cross carved

From trees that shadowed the poets' graves and call me the savior

But I would just burn alive because

I ain't sure if I would die for it

Nowadays we measure success

By how many haters are waiting to see us fall

Instead of building each other

But people from this generation beg to differ

So these are just thoughts of a young nigga

Stuck in the past, that's all

But still you call me a visionary

Though I'm just a martyr for truth

For d'Verse - Meeting at the Bar

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