The Tortured Poets Department has a writer’s division that has to approve every poem before it goes out
And my mind is tired of being held hostage
A loose-leaf definition of writer’s block was once defined by the utter of: I don’t feel like writing, this isn’t good enough, my hand only works for the remote today
Then she interrupts my train of thought to ask: why have you never wrote a poem about me
It’s not that I haven’t
There are 100s getting as comfortable as you can be in the waste basket
The last poem I Kobe shot, Melo made, and Curry posed to the trash can started like this:
An eye lash is trying to make your cheek more than just a Sunday service sanctuary
It wants a home
I know you’d like me to remove it
But who am I to destroy a home
I can’t help but think how beautiful you look with that eye lash
As it rests there like a pair of doves flirting on a branch not far away from me
What are you starring at, she exclaims
Oh, nothing I reply, today I’ll let the eye lash remain
On
Your rosy cheeks, kissed by my dead rose petal lips
Reminding you of the time we went camping and you hated that you smelled the outside
You hated that you smelled like outside
And I kept teasing you but hiking, visualizing, and tenting next to nature is maybe the closest thing to
Falling asleep to your beautiful
Falling asleep to your beautiful
Falling asleep to your gorgeous
Ugh, I can never find the right words to describe a tenth of your gorgeous
And it makes me want to drop dead out of frustration
Because the writers need to feel exactly what I do when they read:
Holding her hand is to get a glimpse of forever before I die
Holding her makes my heart resemble the flight of a butterfly
Holding her hand is to hold my battles in the palm of my hand and make them cry
The writers consist of a delicious various assortment of personality; often referred to as me, myself, and I
Every time I get ready to seal this poem to you the writer’s block me from letting you receive it
p.s. I haven’t learned to love myself enough to love you…

Black is the new poetry my dear
Authored by our ancestors so I could have a voice that is heard beyond the volume of fear
The ink has always been dark so see with your ears
Black is the new love, now let your heart hear
The strength born from blood, sweat, and tears
That grew into a sunrise of a smile, my dear
My darling I keep your Melanin near
And your beauty adds depth to my mirror
The reflection tells me weapons are forming but they will stay in the rear
Because,
My black is the sunset to my depressed anxiety to steer
A blooming future in the right direction never to veer
Toward negativity, my dear
My black is the armor that never cracked, from the roots of scars and ignored facts
My black has always got my back so even if my eyes close you will still see this color, add a period to that!
My black is a promise painted like a rainbow you’ll never grey wash my faith, peace never cracks
p.s. my black has wings that sang…

Have I really been working on myself or did I just change from my work clothes to something more comfortable
Is this depression or is it just the pigment of my skin
Can I defeat you, detach from you or are you so fingerprinted to my thoughts that I’m simply running away from me
Sometimes I wish I could just escape me, myself wears a mask, and I am tired of getting dressed up just to still feel down
I’m black said my mind, I live in the shadows of sadness watching the sunlight from a distance
If only the heat from the suns smile would kiss me, maybe it would melt away my sadness
I’m black said my words, followed by you’re different, they won’t accept you, you don’t fit in
I’m black says the mirror looking at a reflection of depression
I get so lost in my waning emotions my waxing moon can barely breathe
It’s so cold that even the rays of light feel sad
I’m black, I’m depressed, I’m black, I’m oppressed, I’m black I’m obsessed with the idea of my feelings living on equal ground
I’m black, I’m depressed the two interchange while beginning to sound the same so much so I took depressions last name
When I look at me I see one broken piece
I can’t find the rest of the lyrics to my song, maybe it’s because the writer will never finish it
Maybe it’s because I didn’t cry enough to water my heart
I’m black, I’m dirt, but my soil is killing the last remaining rose
I am a rose with bloody red regrets for petals, I put my failures on a pedestal
So, every time I tried to look up it got me nowhere
I’m lost and I keep letting the grey line give me directions, because there’s a thin line between joy and happiness, and in the middle is pity where you can find me
I’m black so they think I stole these 5 minutes of happiness, and so what if I did everyone deserves 15 minutes of fame and mine is coming soon
But right now, I just want to smile and actually feel the laughter hold me instead of the facade that hugs me like a long embrace
This morning I stopped running and looked depression in the face
My mind is not yours it is the Lord’s
p.s. let the battle begin

Step side to side
Sway to our song
Your heart is the lyrics
My soul the instrumental
Hold my hand the way Jesus held the nails
Step side to side
Nerves waltz to love
No music is needed
When sacrifice becomes a verb
I’ll hold you like the space between us is trying to escape
Step side to side
A crowded ball room that only sees us
Watching movies with the sound off
Empty hands have the fullest hearts
And the cup of my rhythmic soul runneth over
p.s. don’t forget to kiss me under the waterfall chandeliers…

I think I’m in happy…
Introvert at heart I was exhausted but enjoying myself like a good day at the gym
I had been participating in some verbal jogging when the jargon interrupted the depth of my thoughts
I wanted to go deeper, but the question brought me back to the surface
You know, that over used, over played, over copied, get out of jail free question
So, how did you feel, question mark
A mental sigh fogs my mind, as I wait for the dust to settle, I try to paint what can’t be replicated in any art
My response a cliche of my own just to joust back
In case we’re keeping score
I’m deadly competitive to a fault, laughing to myself touché
Oh, my reply, I almost forgot
The cliche runs from my mouth: the words to describe it are lost but if found it would be something like watching the American Day Dream on the big screen except you’re the main character
When your mood matches the brightness within the sunrise of your eyes and you’re by no means even a little bit of an early bird
You hear the sound of vinyl recorded melodies on repeat as you brush your teeth
The dust slowly undresses as I then get dressed
Looking for the perfect outfit is comparable to searching for these words
And don’t even get me started on shoes
The right pair will have everyone on there heels and can capture the eyes to the soul
That day my soul sang solo after the shower rained down cleansing compliments
Chanting for an encore
The volume of the claps is turned down
The dust has finally kissed the ground
And for the reveal my reflection sees a familiar memory
As my mouth curves like a rose into a shape it hasn’t felt in awhile
I’ve been chasing this flowery feeling like the butterfly tasting the flight of bliss
I grab as fast as I can, gripping the steering wheel headed to the destination
Shouting I’m never letting go
As my opposite palm holds her hand
I want to stop to picture frame this memory
I have to stop and picture frame this memory
We stop at the red light and she asks: can I borrow a forehead kiss
I respond: as long as you come back again
p.s. this is happiness, it was something like that…

There was a war within the conversation
Eight casualties reported that leaves only one left
The gun holder hears a voice cry: what do you want from me?
The gun confidently cocks a whisper: I want everything you didn’t give to me back
You see in my head you were supposed to care
Package your love as the gift I receive every second of the day
But you were so nonchalant like the fashionable fabric that hangs off the shoulder purposely and doesn’t care about any penny pinching opinions
Personality is fashion and doesn’t have to be understood
I didn’t expect you to comprehend the inner workings, I just wanted you to try
But you would rather show more interest in other things… I’m one of the reasons you’re still alive
Funny now I got your life in my hand
And I’m taking it, out like the trash today that has been sitting for too long
Anger starts to cry as the gun holder exclaims say goodbye, say goodbye, say goodbye
Can’t do it can you
Don’t make me pull this trigger
You ain’t never been about no action it’s always talk
Neither have you, you were supposed lead me out of Egypt, but you just had me going in circles of your desert mind
You were supposed to provide, but all you did was cover your tracks with paid excuses
I know I’m not perfect and I promise I did try… I’m just still hurt, and the kaleidoscope pain made me dizzy
It’s hard to move forward when you can’t catch balance as it falls, not to mention verbal bullets trying to permanently end the conversation
What do you want from me?
I want a ring, don’t casually date me be committed
I give you a release, I am your peace, but you only tool this pleasure for your advantage, making copper from gold
I’m a grown woman not one of your little friends
I want you to understand my history and stop browsing
I want you to protect me and walk on the busy side of the street
I want to feel safe in your arms, keep all the danger locked away
I’m a queen and want to be your friend to represent our royalty
I want to be your inhale and you my exhale
I’m jealous so I want to be your heart and rib
I want you to love me the way Christ married the cross, and left little posted notes on the mirror in the form of a book for His children’[
You wanted so much from me but never invested in me, us, our relationship has been life and death, but you keep it in the same breath… As small talk
Then expect me to take our conversations seriously
Well, if that’s what it’s going to be I’ll keep your letters piled up on the corner of the desk like the mail I need to throw away
Cold steel makes me spit sweat and choke on air
Kill shot, the gun is talking, the conversation has a period in the shape of a bullet
The white light gets louder as I grow older
Now what was all that talk you was saying?
Breathing heavy, is this it, is it too late?
Breathing heavy, She has blocked me
She is Poetry and my blood is the ink
I finally understand but is it too late
Breathing heavy
Please poetry take this writers block away from me
p.s. she just wants respect…