Your love — there’s just something about it
I don’t know — there’s something about it
It just hits…different
Marvin Gaye plays through the shaky speakers
The CD always skips at this part,
But you don’t miss a beat
The smooth melody of his voice
Moves through your soul
Like a dancing cobra winding up your spine
Your hips sway
With the oceanic rhythm of the drums
It just feels so …. Alive
While you’re lost in the rapture of Inner City Blues
I watch you Quietly And wonder about you I…
Thoughts of THEM make me question who I am.
What will They think of me?
Will They like it?
What kind of sneakers are They wearing?
and why are They so mean?
The fictitious construct
that limits my expression
of who I am.
Watching over my every thought, every word.
What is it I desire?
What am I convinced They can give me?
Are They the part of me who desires to be loved?
or my fears of whether I’ll be accepted?
and if I am rejected, what does…
You know the feeling
When you wake up and wonder
If you said anything embarrassing
when you were abducted in your sleep?
If you talked to the aliens
About the perfect
Tea-to-oatmilk ratio (3:1)
Busta Rhymes’ videos?
When you feel like
The emptiness of your mind
Goes from being zen
If I am this nothingness,
How do I relate to the aliens
or to the world?
Disconnected and disinterested
In the day-to-day of society
Time has become a distorted illusion,
An attempt at awareness beyond my comprehension.
The loss of my brand
And the concept of how I am seen
What I represent
Who have I become?
How will they see me?
Who do I want to be?
The Rebuilding begins.
My slippery fingers
Grip the plastic
Of the inner tube
That my body lay across
Floating down a cosmic lazy river
Just letting life pass me by
Drifting aimlessly past…
A mosh pit of wet bodies
Fat men wearing T-shirts
To block the shame
Tormented by their own minds
About who they have become
Battered by the waves
Drowning in emotional oppression
Unable to reach solid ground
Whipping their whistles around their fingers
Daydreaming about when their real lives will begin
That slow climb to the top
Contemplator. Imperfectionist. Brooklyn