May 17th (Part 2)

Sometimes, in utter dismay, I attempt to paint the picture of who you are to me. It’s an attempt to fully and in a commensurate manner, express the position that you hold in my heart and who exactly I see when I look at you.

Laying aside every form of nay sayings that may have been purported over time, I have come to embrace that you are the most phenomenal part of God’s creation that I have had the privilege of getting to encounter on a personal and intimate level.

Each moment that I have to stare into your brown soulful eyes; a moment to break down each and every barrier that I may have put up to protect my heart, is always an opportunity to catch a glimpse into your universe and experience your prized presence. These are those moments that the very concept of time ceases to exist. In that brief and intricate moment, I experience everything yet lose the same. My sanity is set aside, my manliness is undesired and the very fabric of nature that dictates who I am pauses and takes notice.

teenage_love_by_cookie_lovey-d5kd24fI get so engulfed and consumed in you that I stay rooted, unable to move. I can feel my feet but, for some reason, they choose such a moment to express their rebellion. My tongue gets heavy; my tongue and throat immediately get parched; my palms, surprisingly, decide that this is a perfect moment to demonstrate that they can get sweatier that Lebron James in the fourth quarter. My diction gets jumbled as I try to express myself in a cool and calm way so that you don’t see just how nervous I am. All I can ever afford to do is smile.

Every morsel of mine screams in unity for me to stop looking into your eyes. It’s funny because this is the one moment that they have all come together in unity over a matter. Sense tells me that I should look away, even for a brief moment, so that normalcy can resume. Normalcy though, in such a moment, looks like a disservice. For all at once; I am everywhere and nowhere. I am lost yet, I am found. I am collected but I find myself unsure.

Your eyes search the very essence of me, as though there is treasure to be found. Looking and prodding deep within, searching and enlightening my soul like a candle stick in the thick pitch of a deep, cloudy night. Your very gaze sends shivers down my spine, ripples through my very self.

I am usually stronger than this. I am a man; a strong one at that.  I have a strong resolve and when I decide something, nothing deters me from the same.

Then why is this happening?

It makes no sense. I fight within myself, trying to release the strength within to break free from this grasp you have on me. I have need to be free yet I feel so right.

I feel you embrace me, despite your being across the room from me; I feel the print of your lipstick on my cheek and your fragrance fills my nostrils, yet there are tens of people between us. They are several here with us, but it feels like it’s just us. The scene may be full but I only see you. The tarmac beneath us vanishes and it’s just you and I; caught in the current, gliding free with the air between us feeling like miles.

I long to touch you, place my head on your heart and bare myself to you. Break down every wall and let you into my fortress just so I can get the opportunity to tell you that I have been searching for you my whole life. To tell you that you have been all that has occupied my mind the last 12 days. Thinking about you and searching for you. Picturing how my life would be with you in it. At some point I quarreled myself, chastising myself for thinking so inappropriately about you.

Yet as you stand across the road from me right now, it all comes back; the thoughts, dreams and desires. I know I should not cross. I should walk away and leave you be. But I cannot. My sanity depends on this; I cannot let myself down this time. So I do what I know how to do best: resolve. I resolve to cross the road. I resolve to meet you again. I resolve to do what I did not have the courage to do so before. I resolve to be me.

I feel woozy. I feel the rhythm of my steps begin to disappear. I keep going; closer, closer and closer still, until I find myself before you.

What do I say?

Shit! I clearly did not think this through. “She is looking at me in anticipation; what do I do? I cannot turn back now (clearly). I can do this. Let’s just keep it simple.”

I stretch out my hand, open my mouth and say the only word that I can say.


May 5th (Part 1)

In all fairness, you have to agree that when one falls in love he falls out of his mind. No one is a greater evidence of this than yours truly. I mean, I am fallen out of my friggin’ mind. Indeed they say when you find the one; your heart will give you that nod of recognition.

Like it was yesterday, I remember the day I laid my eyes on her. A day like any other is what I thought it would be. After much pestering and coercion I was finally convinced to leave the comfort of my bed, skip breakfast and hurry off to town to meet my cousin. As I headed to town, all I was thinking about was how I was going to kill her on sight. I would then tell her that it was over for us as family; it was not her it was me; she should move on and forget about me; maybe even find another family member to make their life hell. It was a decision I had thoroughly considered and it was best for us to go our separate ways. I was then going to buy her lunch and probably go shoe shopping with her (*sigh*).

However, as I was about to discover, today was not that day. I saw my cousin as she approached but today she was not the lone ranger I had grown accustomed to. She was with someone. A friend as she would later introduce and boy was she a sight!

She had these amazing braids on which she fell mostly on one side of her face, giving her that seductive yet mysterious look (if you were to tell her this right now she would probably deny it on her life), she wore this blue jeans that hugged her just right; not too tight to expose too much nor too baggy to hide her curvaceous figure, she had on a white top with these bright blue flowers, a simple wristwatch which did much to express her modesty and slipper sandals.

She walked up to me, held out her hand and with the most beautiful smile said hi. The grip was oh so wow; her palm was soft and perfect. In my mind I was wondering which moisturizer she used because I would have loved to have a swing at it. She smelled great; her fragrance giving that serene and peaceful ambiance like only a field of blooming flowers could give. One whiff of that could send one into a blissful trance which they would not desire to come out of.

I looked up and was met by brown searching eyes which danced at contact with mine. The contact was short lived but felt like an eternity. At that particular moment, I felt my guts churn, something in my tummy leaped, I broke a slight sweat and my confidence instantly vanished. I looked away quickly so that this weird sensation would end and, to mask my nervousness,  broke out into laugh while looking at my cousin. All the while all I could do was ask myself, “What in the blinkety blank just happened?”

I could feel her eyes on the side of my face and I found myself longing and tempted to take another peek into her eyes for statistical purposes, you know, to gather sufficient information for the formulation of a workable hypothesis in regard to what had just happened.  At this moment I was a nervous wreck; I could not open my mouth to speak for I was sure my words would fail me. That and she looked so learned and sophisticated that anything I said would only confirm how uptown I wasn’t.

*To Be Continued*

A Post About Me…

I have a quest, an adventure: more like a desire;

A wanting;

To be somebody, to create an insurmountable effect;

To make a statement;

To escape the clutches of normalcy; the curse of a mundane, arbitrary existence;

To carve out a niche; to create an identity.


I have a longing;

To trudge the road that leads to destiny;

To mingle with greatness;

And dine with success.


I am tired of this hunger;

Of the scratching and gnawing;

Of the cry that echoes deep within;

A deep seated fire that will not be quenched;

That accepts nothing short of extraordinary;

A desperation that no pep talk can quell.


I hear the voice of destiny;

I am enticed by the seduction of purpose;

By the wine that flows from her lips;

And the honey that stems from her breast;

I dream of her by day;

And desire to sleep in her bosom by night;


I am coming;

I am on my way;

Oh great enchantress;

Your divination has slain me;

And your spell has ensnared my heart;

Stand in awe and watch in marvel;

As I slay the dragon.


I think I have been unfaithful to my gift. It’s really been a long time since I sat down and actually took time to cultivate and nurture it. I have spent too much time indulging and concentrating on other things and I have abandoned her.

She is not happy: I know this because when I was still a good partner, she was uncontrollably jovial and would, without hesitation, jump at me without occasion; almost tackling me to the ground, like a hungry lion on the tail of a wildebeest in the Serengeti. She had this glow about her and when she opened her mouth to speak, milk and honey flowed out.

It was captivating: she had this charismatic vibe to her; at any one point when she was ready to bare her soul, you couldn’t help but drop everything and give her your attention. Talk about having a hold on you.

She was always, and I guess she still is, very open with me. I always got the juiciest of stuff from her; the kind of scoops that Perry White would kill for [If you don’t know who this is, then what are you watching?] It is the kind of stuff that reporters and writers compromise their integrity for; the kind that in no way could be obtained legally; like the original painting of the Mona Lisa or shots of Barbra Gordon in the bat girl suit at comic con. She only gave me the best; beautiful masterpieces that by far surpassed even my greatest expectations. The kind of creations that every author dreams of, that Shakespeare, upon hearing, would cuss while turning in his grave for not having thought of such in the first place.

I have had with me the very best that any person in the literary arts could have searched or hoped for, but I have taken her for granted. I have denied her quality time and no longer get intimate with her; I no longer tell her how amazing she is, despite my seeing it every day; I don’t even listen to her anymore.

Damn it!! I have hurt her

7a9b73e56b43b3fdee13166a1d0a2a6aI feel the pain she goes through and see how bad a toll it has taken on her. She stopped singing and no longer wants to listen to music. Even her dressing has changed; I am told that she has burned all her summer dresses and given away all her party shoes. Right now, all she does is walk around the house in an oversized construction T-shirt. She sits around all day, eating ice cream, and perfecting her aim by throwing knives at the portrait of Stewie Griffin that hangs in our living room.

But you know what?

I have come to my senses. I’m going back to her, to apologize to her in the hope that she will take me back and give me another chance; a chance to make it right with her; to prove to her that I do value and care for her more than anything in this world.

I am no longer just going to say how I feel but show it too. I will make her a nice diner, buy a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc (it’s her favorite), some Swiss chocolate, 200 long stem roses (the sight of roses causes her eyes to light up) and call in that favor that Anthony Hamilton owes me. I plan to lay my heart bare and vulnerable before her and hope that she will take it back.

I did her wrong; I just hope my transgression is not beyond penance

The Broken Plate

I open my eyes to the blinding lights that stream in through my bedroom window. My head is heavy, my mouth has the distinct aftertaste of cigarettes and my throat is dry. My eyes are sore and itchy. My face feels sticky and dirty. I lift my head and see the dirty outline of my face on my pillow. Sitting up is a great battle but I finally manage to sit up and open my eyes to the sight that is my matrimonial bedroom. I lazily lift my feet off the bed and place them on the floor. Looking up, I look into my wardrobe mirror and I catch a glimpse of the horror that is my face; my hair is in a mess with ties and knots, most of the make up from one half of my face remained on the pillow, my eye pencil had traced a path down my face to signify the path my flowing tears had carved out. Most of last night is a blur, with bits and pieces coming in flashes.

I immediately notice a funny smell and I run my eyes around, following the trail of the smell so as to discover where it is coming from. I bend down and catch a glimpse of my dress from last night, well, the remainder of it. I lift it to my nose and immediately discover my mistake for the pungent stench from the cloth is horrendous. One of my heels is right next to where the dress was and I notice the heel is broken while the other is nowhere in sight.

And then reality strikes…

Did Jim really just up and leave?

Seven years of marriage and all of a sudden I am cold product. Seven grueling years of pulling him out of all the gutters and pits he had gotten himself into. Seven years of paying his debts, and need I say of how many times I have had to personally call his boss to apologize for his complacency. All the sacrifices I have made not only as a woman but as a person. Having put my career on hold to help him pursue his. How I had given up my smashing body just to have his children. 4 children in seven years is not the easiest thing to do. To be a wife, to be a friend to such a man had drawn the very last of my strength. But I held on, I mean, that is what you do for those you love. You give your all at the expense of yourself. My family disowned me, my friends abandoned me and I lost all traces of a social life just for him. “Me and you against the world baby”, that’s what he told me everyday, and I believed him. And all this while I thought we were a team

Then he comes back home last night, packs his bags and tells me he has had enough. Puts his key on the table and walks out the door. I follow him out into the rain, trying to talk to him but he does not even look at me. He gets into his car and drives off, leaving me kneeling on the ground. I stand up and run after his car, shouting his name, while tears and rain partially blind me. I run till my lungs give in. Most of what happened after that made no entry into my head. Maybe this strange but strong smell on my now soiled dress had something to do with it.

What? How? Why?

These are the thoughts that run through my mind as I feel the tears well up in my eyes again. I let them flow. I begin to feel numb and heavy as all I can think of is the emptiness inside. As the tears trickle down my face, they tell the story of the broken plate that is my heart.


I am particularly intrigued by art. It’s a fancy that I have developed in the recent years of my life. I see art in literally everything: from a piece of writing to wind crafted contours in the sand. I see art in speaking and in drawing; in the birds of the air to the creatures of the see. I see it in colors and shades; in light and in darkness; in the gigantic and in the minute; in banter and in pin-drop silence. I am gifted with a proverbial antenna and an eye for art, and each passing day, I get to experience these diverse and awe-inspiring expressions crafted, carved, stroked and carved upon this canvas that we call life.

I have been quoted saying that life is, in essence, art. The modes of expression may be different and the jargon and dialects may vary but if you look closely, to the soul and skeleton of it, you will find that they are all saying the same thing. All that is needed of you is that you open your eyes and see.

d29398e1d052ec5554f7da2d5cba3c96One of the greatest tragedies is having life but not living. It is a sad sad reality that many people are merely existing; scrapping by day by day oblivious of who or where they are. We spend too much time worrying and being preoccupied by our obligations, responsibilities and what we have no control over that we fail to recognize the very important and fundamental fact; above all else, WE ARE…

I believe that is why art exists, to remind us of the beauty behind the madness; of the peace that exists amidst the chaos and the love that can be found at the base of every remark of hatred. Think about it, life without artistic expressions would be unbearable. I mean, it would suck. Not just suck, but sucky suck suck. It would be like staring at static on your television set; tasteless, annoying and a downright bog.

Funnily enough, in my younger years, I could not care less and neither was I good at art. I concluded that art was for lazy people who, unlike me, were not good at books. If only I knew what nature had in store for me, I would have bridled my tongue and kept it from uttering such profanity. For right now I am plagued by my vision and knack for spotting creativity. It ambushes me when I least expect it and forces itself onto me. In truth, there is no such thing as too much art and I take in as much as I can everyday as though it were my last.




I love it!


I love all of it and I don’t see myself being cured any time soon. I just love how it brightens my day and colors my soul. It makes me enjoy living even when I have nothing to be rejoicing about. I see it as a reflection of the beauty that is hidden in these earthen vessels; the glory that exudes every being and characterizes everything we see and touch. It causes all things to make sense and gets you interested at the prospect of facing another day.

It is all just, in a nutshell, breathtaking…


Bank Robber

Howdy ho bank robber!

I see you there with your flashy tie and pinstriped suit

Trying to fool us, like we don’t have a clue

You come for the money, yes the one in the other room

You don’t want us to move

You know this is true

For in the even that we do

This place will turn into a zoo

From one end a roar and to the other, a boo

It will be like the Stig has come through

Vroom vroom brother, vroom vroom


*Jay Z laugh*

Come here bank robber, lemme take a peek

At that gun lying in your creek

Not that creek, you little creep

It’s a metaphor dude, chill

I have a proposal for you

Not the marriage kind of proposal, a different kind

How about you walk away, disappear into the wind

And I’ll do you a solid, you know, I’ll keep my sling

I won’t snitch and I won’t blab

My mouth will be a concrete slab


I’m glad that’s over

I almost shit myself, albeit covert

It seems that no one has a clue

Of the stink that was about to fill the room

I’m so glad this bank robber tale isn’t true

I almost got taken for a fool.

The tea girl has come through

Thank God, it is after noon.



I am not okay.

I feel as though control is slowly falling from the grip of my reigns. It is slipping through my fingers as though desert sand.

My resolve is undergoing an insurgency; it is under attack from all fronts; an all out rebellion; a declaration of war.

My barriers have been breached and my walls have been compromised.

What I have strived and struggled for so long to keep beyond my gates have laid a siege upon my conscience.


I am not at peace.

I am bombarded from the left and from the right. Attacks emanate from the expected and the unexpected.

No angle of my body is shielded: no matter how much I try to cover and guard myself, there is an opening that can be exploited.

When I think I have survived; another wave, greater than the one before, hits me in all my vulnerable.


Discouragement and uncertainty are my new bed mates.

They whisper in my ear all day and night; beckoning, calling, seducing, coercing and convincing.

They are slowly pulling me to them; to their darkness and their disparity.

They seek to hypnotize me and then corrupt me. They want me to be like them.

I keep fighting; I keep resisting; everyday putting in the fight of my life.

I, though, don’t feel as though I am winning. With each passing day, I feel as if giving in is the proper thing, the logical thing and the only thing to do.


This shit is nasty! It ain’t great.

I cannot sit; neither can I stand.

Fear and anxiety keep my stomach from food while my lisps have lost the taste for wine. My desire for the breast of a woman is long gone and their sight does not so easily beset me as it did before.


the-best-songs-about-isolation-u1I am slowly beginning to prefer isolation for it is all I have come to know.

I have locked myself away in the chambers of my mind, away from the icy cold grasp of reality.

Matter is slowly losing its essence; the shadows are slowly creeping in and maybe it’s my claustrophobia speaking but the walls seem to get closer everyday. It is as though they want to suffocate me within them.


I have lost track of time; days feel like weeks and weeks like eternity and beyond.

I am stuck.

I feel paralyzed and I am afraid that one of these days I will succumb to the oh-so-great temptation to doubt my faith.

In spite of all this, the siege continues and the greatest casualty thus far has been my conscience.

Life is almost drained from it and I don’t see him lasting through the night. I heard him whimper all through yesterday but by now has lost even the strength to open his eyes.


All I can do now is cry for help, hoping and praying that someone will hear

I hold on to the hope that someone out there thinks of and prays for me.

I pray that my father has not forgotten me and as we speak is presently sending his strongest and bravest knights to my rescue.

I pray that the thought of me even crosses his mind, even if it is just for a split second as he sits down to eat or as he walks through the royal courts; that he prays for me to the gods every night before satin sheets and the warm skin of a damsel comforts him from the perilous night.


All I can do now is wait.

Wait for my rescue and eventual deliverance from this prison of torment; an imprisonment that was self inflicted all in a bid to emancipate myself from my father.

My father whom, when I shall stand before, I hope shall look beyond my dirty, depraved and tattered look and that he will see his son; to the little man on the inside who cries and craves for his approval; whose only sin was desiring his father’s affection.

I hope he shall hear what my heart has been saying all this while;

“Father, please love me…”


Dear Ol’ Darkness

So it’s a particularly regular Monday evening. I am sitting on the recliner in my study listening to the ‘Blurryface’ album by 21 Pilots. It is dark all around. Lights off and thoughts off. I am in one of those modes that many have sought to grasp and yet many more have failed to understand. Well, for someone like me, it is actually highly recommended for my sanity and the safety of everyone around. It is actually very therapeutic as it helps to think clearly; analyzing and classifying thoughts and intents either for storage or incineration. In layman terms I am putting things into perspective.

It was all going great until my mind got enticed in this particular direction. My fingers refused to be omitted and thus put in a request to be made partisan to the moment. (I know right!! They can be so needy sometimes) After a brief moment or rummaging through my clustered table, relying mostly on touch and resulting in a broken glass and a few wet documents, a faint white light flickered from the darkness as my canvas, which for now is my phone, came on as I awaited the case my adversaries had against me.

If you ask me, I honestly like this particular atmosphere for its serenity and lack of content. My senses get a rest from having to take in and analyze everything. It is like spa day for them; they sit down, relax, chit chat and have pinacoladas. It is such times that I express my appreciation for the plain and regular nature of darkness. It has and always will be just that, darkness. No array of palettes, nothing fancy and no variations. Just the one shade of the same boring color.

He’s like that mail guy who wears the same dull trouser, shirt and tie day in day out. No color, no accessories, no fashion risk. It’s like he’s been living under a rock this whole time. He is predictable. He is safe. He is boring, but he is safe. Despite your colorful soul you stick with him because he will never break your heart. He may not be the kind of person I walk around with everyday because I have a very colorful soul and he will probably hush my buzz but he is not completely arbitrary.

I once tried to forcefully integrate him into my system. WORST MISTAKE EVER!! He is kind of an ass by the way. His snide remarks, dark humor and the pessimistic and tormenting nature of his silence were too much for the hobbits in my head. I had no option but to banish him. I tucked him in the neat little corner room of my mind and locked the door behind me as I was leaving. avidya

He is now like my shrink; I only go to him when life ain’t treating me so well. However, when my life is a fragrance filled flower field he is on the reserve bench because he has no place in the line up of my colorful and vibrant life. I come to him for a shoulder and listening ear when life has broken my heart and I need someone to cuss with who won’t judge me. For some reason I never listen when he warns me about her. Together, we always have lunch with Skylar Grey and brunch with Lana Del Rey.

He is always happy to see me and his eyes immediately light up when I honor our scheduled visits. On the days I cannot make it, he always so understands me. I mean, if he isn’t the greatest and sweetest friend ever. What would I do without him?

Therefore, I am again here in the presence of dear ol’ darkness. However, today things are different; he is not happy at all to see me. When I walked in, life literally got sucked out of the room. The signature heaviness of depression is so potent you can almost touch it. He sniffles and instantly I notice that he’s been crying.

What did I do wrong this time? Did he not like the presents I got him for his birthday?

I have apologized many times for not showing up that day despite promising that I would and also for not calling as much as I had promised to. It has been a hectic few months since he last saw me. There is this girl I met and…..well that’s for another day. Long story short, I have been busy. I love him and all but he should know that I have a life too and it does not necessarily revolve around him. (My God, such neediness)

He is not talking to me. 026a6f8b1be6cfb50bc8d8cc52f10d34

He sits facing the wall and refuses to respond to my desperate attempts at conjuring up a conversation. I even brought grained single malt whiskey and a WWE pay-per-view because he is into such things but today he is not budging. Apparently it’s the same thing I brought the last time after going silent on him for several months.

“I should really be more thoughtful about my gestures of penance”, I think to myself. It is a really tough crowd here.

The warden (reality) comes in and says that visiting hours are over. I am sad but there is only so much I can do. I put the whiskey and DVD on the table and head for the door. I pause, look back hoping for even the slightest change of heart but he has not moved. He still sits there with his back to me, staring into oblivion. I promise to visit soon, tip the warden to keep an eye on him and walk away. All the while racking my brain about what it is that could be wrong with dear ol’ darkness…

My Desire…

We need to go back to the beginning when everything was still black and white. Back before we allowed circumstances and opinions to blur our clear cut sides. Let’s go back to the joy of simply being around one another; no expectations, no predetermined or ulterior motives; just me, you and the world at our disposal.

Let’s go back to when the phrase ‘I love you’ came from a sincere place. When it was not a means to an end or a door to getting what we want. To the days when we valued outdoors more than indoors; the fresh air, the scent of flowers, the orange sun and the wind blowing in our hair.

c919ef111dfb5999ef429af3bbe44788Let’s go back to the days of that naïve 18-year old teenage kind of love; to the days when sitting up the whole night talking to you was the highlight of my day, not how many orgasms I gave you. To when going for simple picnics, sharing a plate of fries, going sight seeing or window shopping at the mall was what we called an ideal Saturday plot; simple, romantic, meaningful and from the heart.

Let’s go back to when ingenuity was not only expressed in the bedroom but also in the little things that I did to sweep you off your feet: like saving up the whole week to buy that cheap necklace as a sign of my love or, cleaning the compound for the whole week so as to get money for you to go see that movie you were so crazy about. Simple things just to show you how special and amazing you are; things to make you feel loved and appreciated. To show you that it is not just your body that I crave, but the entire of your mind, body and soul.

I desire for us to get back to when communication was as simple as a toddler writing with crayons; what you see is what you get. No reading between the lines, no searching for a deeper or hidden meaning; when what I said is what I meant. Before linguistics, a degree in literature, Justin Bieber (What do you mean?) and Cosmopolitan magazine altered our perception of words.

Let’s go back to when I wasn’t so analytical of you; to when I saw the best in you; to when I believed that only the best could come out of you because you are the very best; to when I only anticipated good from you. For I have allowed my skepticism and my lack of faith in the world to shift to you, my love. All I do now is look out for what you do wrong so that I can jump in and put you down; feeding my ego by seeming wiser than you in that respect when truth is, it is just a ruse I purport to not face my own imperfections and defects.

I want us to go back to when I was brave enough to face my own fears; and brave enough to entrust you with them. When I could open up to you about anything and was not afraid of you judging me, or your perception of me changing when I told you that I struggle with things too. I struggle with depression and feelings of low self worth; I struggle with my flesh and I am greatly battling lust. I struggle with the voices in my head who strive to make me believe that nothing will ever change and this rut is ours in all permanence. I want this mask that I have erected to fall off, so that you see me for who I really am…a wounded man.

Above all, I want us to go back to when it was just me and you; when no one else was a factor. When the most important aspect of my day was when I got to see and talk to you. When many of the variables that are now present did not affect us like they do and when all the things that that bug me right now did not as much. Just us on the inside and everyone else on the outside.

Let’s go back to when it was simple.

This, is my desire…