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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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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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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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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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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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.

©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

 

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

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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 

©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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

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Flying Pigs

Jumping from pond to pond

I cannot be caught

My species not highly sought

After fish oil drains from my pores 

I almost got swept ashore

I kept my left eye clean 

And held the diamond sign under head

Behind my back 

I lied 

As night crept 

I moved vigorously into a sea

A sea of beings 

Not an ocean of glee 

A sea of beings 

Proud tidal of murder

A wave of stupidity

Coward's current

Mark my words

As the free turn to birds with blood 
So deep in their feathers

It's permanently dyed 

Red red over head under clouds a dark shroud

Gusts of wind can't see within ourselves

Relished in crowds of estrogen

Doves dive in bleach

Pigs roll in white out with trails of blue ink 
On the perfect social lawn

In military form

A straight line 

No identity 

Support the norm  

©2011 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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The Castle

Power is the mission 

Power is like powder spread over tables of confused beings

Written in chalk on the bare chests of humanity -- slaves to The Castle.

Bodies on trees in the garden filled with bags of shit

Embalming fluids water the plants that grow into dummies

Hanging over leaves that never fall 

Palms bleeding with their fingerprints on the wall 

Waiting, waiting, waiting, to be freed from The Castle.

Throne overbearing the Queen herself in neglected spirits that never left

like lightning's white strike 

Power 

The power to get another dummy to fuck

The power to reach into the skull of Death & proceed without fear

in The Castle.

Sticks pushing beautiful bones over fresh cotton

Make perfect lines in the soil for the children to bury their faces in

& see the horns of Satan through dirt's underground

Instilled in them -- fear of running from The Castle.

Chambers stained in piss 

Dogs chained to all four sides 

The scent of raw meat putrid enough to quiet any words dummies tried to speak 

Tongues turned black over looking Bible scriptures in The Castle.

Dungeons filled with lonely rejects on top of one another

Closed pures infused with the blood & guts of whom was sacrificed

While others forced into sex make more food for consumption

Trapped in steam with no ventilation

Hot breath of guards constantly breathe down the necks of 

Harlequins & lepers -- in fear of The Castle.

I turn myself into nothing; light doesn't come from my heart

Maniacs drive me wild as I can't even think of my next way of venturing out

I don't know what the fuck is to come about in The Castle

Dark rooms 

Electric chairs glow around every corner

Floor wet/feet hot/throbbing sensation in head

Dummies can't survive in The Castle.

Books with no pages in the library

I see nothing but the portraits of dead people they called "Heroes"

Searching through halls seems as if the walls are miles long

I saw a figure in the brightest window with a man made third eye

Hung from the tallest tree 

Dummy fills another bag of shit

Hiding behind a picture frame was I

Nearing the last spot on the wall trying to read engraved symbols 

Marking the edges of the frames

Out came the Queen & her most handsome dummy 

Carrying the final portrait entitled: 

'King of The Castle'

© Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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(Untitled)

Avenge 

   Avenge 

      Avenge

Fucking black nazis 

Revoked vampire blood soaked critique

Mystic beings 

Skin like dirt 

Fucking animals trying to be unique

Razor blades leave tiger stripes 

All over their faces neck & arms 

Like bad tattoos carrying broken arms 

Firing at the sky because God is a lie

He criticized the belly of their tribe

Digging 6ft underground 

They live in darkness not in shame

Killers 

Fucking maniacs 

Sick hypochondriacs

Slit wrists & fucked throats

Shitting on any believer

Swastikas branded on their foreheads 

Their leader: Sinister

They line up & resemble the white millipede

Superhuman yet hand me downs

To the master's steed 

          Avenge 

     Avenge 

Avenge 

Ruined bastards

Some lucky enough 

To stare into rye eyed Sinister

Defy & be banished

Promenading like demons 

With big shoes to fill 

Still like holocaust hills 

Slick as vulpes 

Fucking animals

Black Nazis

©2011 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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Between Yellow & Green

Photo by: Lauren Randolph 

An abstract splash

Of color in her

Chromatic atmosphere

Head in the clouds

Defying gravity

Against the pull of

Chartreuse

©2011 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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Sidewalk Television

Radio and metronome 

Paradox and wheel of chrome

Monk and whore 

John and Hitler 

Sockets and baby fingers 

TV and telescope 

Suicidal thoughts and rope 

(Ways to cope...) 

Roaches and the ghetto 

Man and stilletto 

Malcolm X('d) government

United X against 

Secrets and truth

Exploitation and youth 

Love and most 

(Just a hoax...)

Push over and mounted on

Masters X artist of con 

Jesus' thoughts ? Bible text 

Death threats and free xanax

Guns and powder 

Inside vs. outer 

Mass vs. one 

Many = one 

Those ones are the mass 

Not the ones who don't do the math 

Division is equal to hate 

Add the picket signs blocking funeral lines 

X + y = death(s) + permanent nosebleeds

But the blood is never wiped 

From their top lip + vomit bathe 

Disgusting, hip while laid

© 2011 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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Big Building View (2am)

Joyous angel tears bouncing off streetlights

Giving color to the grass below 

And giving freedom to the clouds

Soaring still yet slowing 

Moving towards the beautiful sunset 

Bathing my body

Darkens my skin in orange glow

In the moment....

I smiled as I saw jet black on my hands

Against suns high praise of me

This is my time....

I write this poem in the late hours of 2am

Even before the day begins 

I wish to freeze my toes on melting snow

Let the rain wash my face 

As I dream of my name in these big city lights

And scream in LIBERATION

SCREAM 

I want everyone to hear

I'm not afraid...

My world my soul

My art my voice

My body my conscience

Sits at the edge of this windowpane

While warmth rises from the vents

And touches my chin

I wrote this poem in the late hours of 2am 

Not knowing where 

My next journey will begin 

© 2011 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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Winter Highs

Flakes rest on eyelids

Deep exhale of ivory

Footprints give wonder

Snowfalls upon naked trees 

February calms my soul

© 2011 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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