locked inside a spotted mind

And then something happens that jogs your memory ever so slightly.

And then ever so slightly you begin to remember.

And then you remember.

They were purple.

They were scattered and red and purple at the outskirts.

They started to dissipate to yellow and at the edge they were almost green.

You could count them.

They formed constellations on my skin.

They gathered on groups on either side of the nape and wrapped forward.

There were ten groups in a familiar pattern.

A pattern most recognizable at the bottom of sandboxes and painted on mother’s day presents.

Except these were bigger.

These had more force within them.

Too strong for the naiveté imprinted in sand.

To strong to be of anything other than rage.

They were painful.

They constricted passages.

They disallowed breath.

They strangled.

They strangled and I collapsed.

I collapsed in rage.

I collapsed wearing blue.

I was blue.

I was rage in blue.

It jogs your memory when you see the same marks on someone else’s neck.

backwards

Just thinking I
this is my thinking eye
this is my eye to the sky
this is I
me
thinking my way to the stars
better yet to mars
better yet even far,
further away from here
like the tears
I’ve spent years
Distancing myself from
like now they’re stuck
like they don’t fall
like rough
like a desert
we cant crumble
we are of pieces
like crumble
like cakes
like apple crumble on cakes
like weddings
like cakes
like we’re forever stuck on top of cakes,
like we’re the obedient sugar statues stuck on top of cakes
like stuck
like my mind is stuck
with the rest of the world
with the unimaginative
with the stagnant
with the tangible
like stuck behind bars
I’m scarred
from the inhibition
I’ve been conditioned with
conditioned to believe
I’m less of me
like inhibitions really mean what we think they mean
like they’re really real
like reality
like really how could he
like how could he
cause me to believe
I am but a substandard version of me
of the woman my mother made me to be
like ingrained in me
ingrained like grains of sand
impassioned with time
and hardened
like glass
like crass
like the hardening was inevitable
because she
like we
like we’ll continue to be
are
the backbone of
our
nation
despite what they’ve made us to be
she carried me
like on her back
like in her womb
like working harder than every man I’ve met
like any man
like she
like we
like power
like strength
like perseverance are we
like women we are
like we are women

circles
I have wanted nothing but you
I have wanted you for years.
Since before your smile grew up.
Then i decided i wanted to hide in your heart.
Even when I had you I wanted you.
Even then, It was always like you were just out of reach.
Just as now, you are just out of reach.
I am relentlessly hopeful
Delusioned with the thought of you in front of me
I am hopeful that you know me
I am hopeful you know you can make me happy.
I think you underestimate the courage of your love
I think you underestimate your ability to make me smile
Or do I overestimate?
Is it an overestimation if my heart only understands your eyes?
Am I mistaken that my love can only find its smile while reflecting pieces of yours?
I have wanted nothing but you.
A whole you.
I have wholly wanted nothing but you,
As a whole
Wanted you to be whole enough to give of yourself wholly
Wanted for you to love me relentlessly
Wanted you to show me
Wanted you to know that these tears matter
Wanted to know what matters to you
I have wanted you closer
I have always wanted you closer.
I wish you were closer.
I have wanted nothing but for you to know that I always want you closer
I know this feeling
I have been here before
unbalanced, unpredictable
I have never liked it
You are my balance.

Blank Canvas

Dear Winter:

I for one, am not mad at you.

Your chilly breeze engulfs my spine

and trickles down my back.

A quick change of direction and

you are frolicking through my hair.

My eyelashes rest on your spirit

as it dances around these cold streets.

I cannot take my eyes off of you.

Your teardrops freeze as they fall,

feather like,

swirling in the air with

no identifiable direction or pattern.

They only desire movement

until they've reached the ground.

You carry with you

dropping temperatures

and something about you

makes people want to sing.

I've been singing for weeks.

Or perhaps its that

i've been singing

because winter is a season of cleanse.

Leaves fall.

Their absence bears clear silhouettes

of tempted trees ready to start anew.

Their absence brings clarity to their purpose.

And the clarity serves as a reminder

of the possibilities to come with a blank canvas.

Conveniently, the new year comes amidst you.

making space for those new possibilities.

so thanks.

by this time next year

i hope that i will have built a belief in myself again.

hopefully by then, that belief will push my fear aside

and i'll begin to paint my own canvas.

Until then, you've come to soon.

Yours Truly,

An admirer

if i ruled the world...

Ode to the Asymmetric Penis

strophe:

What are you looking at?

What? What is over there?

Were you planning on landing a plane over there?

Why are you incapable of looking at me?

antistrophe:

That vein popping out of your forehead looks upset.

You look like the prepubescent version of you

Stand up & watch where you are going

Do the job you were made for

epode:

Damn. Pause.

That shit really is Slanted.

(booing)

Free Weezy

We're just a day away now ladies and gents from the release date of our beloved Weezy F Baby and the accompanying new album. SMilE big for re-entry into society.

The best part of his latest letter: the lady

"Now I must dedicated something to the woman in the picture…

…sitting on this bed with my back against one of the four walls I’ve been confined to, all I can think of is you. Staring at you staring at me, from the picture of you that I see. I try so hard to make the picture smile. You look so serious. Seriously beautiful. You, me, we are one. Then I look further to the right and there’s a picture of “the bed by the water”… where I dream to be with the woman in the picture that still won’t smile. I sometimes talk to the picture, but it never responds. Although, I’ve been told that a picture speaks a thousands words, I only wish that this picture would speak of four… “I love you too.” That would be the perfect response to what I frequently say to it. You see, the picture of “the bed by the water” has sand in it, and the woman in the other picture has sand in her hair… put them together, and she’s there. And when I dream, I’m there with her. Shhh… quietly these four walls become that place in the picture. And the woman in the picture begins to whisper… “I love you too”… she responds!

And now she smiles. Imagination is perfect.

Dedicated to the woman in the picture.

Gone!"

FULL LETTER

http://weezythanxyou.com/2010/11/02/letter-10-the-end-of-a-long-journey/

The Underbelly Project

A Secret Art Gallery Beneath the Streets

FACT: this is the coolest thing i've seen in years

Deep in the belly of New York City lies a ghost town of a subway station, where the trains don't run, but street art thrives. For the past 18 months, 103 artists have been covertly sneaking into the space to create and display their work on the dank walls of the pit.

Combining street art with spelunking, The Underbelly Project is a real collection of works that exists four stories beneath the surface of the City. But good luck finding it.

Street artists Workhorse and PAC curated the underground exhibit in an abandoned subway station, but the exact location won't be released to the public, for fear of legal repercussions. (If caught trespassing on or defacing MTA property, they could be arrested and fined.)
Each of the 103 artists had one night to finish his or her piece. One by one, Workhorse or PAC led them to the space -- which entailed a difficult and dangerous process of waiting for the active station's platform to clear and then maneuvering through an old entrance to the abandoned tracks of yore -- where they let their creative juices flow.

http://video.nytimes.com/video/2010/10/31/arts/1248069257891/the-underbelly-project.html?scp=2&sq=underbelly&st=cse

Under

I love the new york city subway. Now you guys who are just here for the evening, the weekend, or a business trip may think I'm crazy but in all the time I've spent here its one of the places that I feel the safest. In between intermittent glances exchanged by strangers, this time is the only time when new yorkers have time to breathe. Now the air may not breath with the freshness of california's majestic coastline, but it breaths real. It breathes the blood sweat and tears of a single mother in light blue scrubs who spends her whole day nursing everyone else back to heath that she cannot find time for her own. This city breeds an infinite number of the struggling. struggling artists, struggling lovers, struggling mothers, struggling husbands and struggling brothers. Its one of the only places you'll find new yorkers with their guard down. Strangers sit within inches of each other unified in one goal. Just get me home. Underground, the perils of the rest of the world stop. You can't get us. You can't text, tweet, email, call, bbm, IM, ghat or facebook me. You.can't.touch.me. The burdens that resurface when I hit ground level are temporarily at ease. The stress is gone because for the six stops between here and Carroll street the world does not exist. And should I be so lucky to hear the, "ladies and gentleman we are delayed because of train traffic ahead of us" I know I've stolen a few more minutes for my mind to be still. Be still. Be still with an ipod that is connected to nothing and just listen. Listen with every morsel of your being. You'll hear things in that "I am old fashioned" arrangement you didn't know were there and that, for the final time will have proven john coletrain's residence amongst the best. Read. Read a real book. Pause. Look around. And the look condescendingly at the hipster elitism that resides in the 9 kindles on your car alone because you just so happen to be going into brooklyn. Feel the pages, the grainy texture of a modern library classic creased four times at the most telling places that you can't wait to get to. Ingest every word as though it is a part of your diet that you cannot be without; for missing it means you would not have made you daily nutritional requirements. Feel the authors brush strokes as he paints the image that will continue to evolve with every page. "The artist is a creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim". Oscar Wilde's starting blocks to a journey to two hundred and sixty six pages of freedom from my own skin. Damn. "Please stand clear of the closing doors". Above ground. I'm me again.

dismantled.

yeah i do. i love you. and with all of me, i stand here wanting to
beleive you when you say "I've never stopped loving you." see, since
we haven't been together i've used these words like razors cutting the
insides of my inner thighs just to make sure I could still feel. For
every word you've spent trying to bribe my confidence back onto being
there, is a depiction far from fiction engrained in my mind. so for
every word used to console me, there is an empty warehouse in Brooklyn
between my two best friends houses that collected the five hundred and
forty six thousand three hundred sixty seven tears from emotions you
chose to leave unaddressed. adjacent, there is the feeling of looking
at you, hoping youd look at me with a morsel of the pride your eyes
once held. Its sits on a shelf next to the seven days a week by eight
months coming to two hundred and forty days that i asked you to lay
next to me only for you to look at me like you had forgotten that you
loved me and walk away... every time. Next to that there are the
three thousand four hundred and fifty eight memories of me wanting you
to talk to me, to let me in long enough to remember that a year ago,
you thought you wanted to marry me. How after knowing you for eleven
years and loving you for four could you have let so many days pass
that i couldn't remember what my sense of touch felt like. why, month
after month after month after month could i not remember what it felt
like to sleep next to the man that i love. how did you not see me cry?
every day. every week. for weeks. i could not remember what it felt
like for you to take my hand in yours. i could not remember your lips.

at the end of it all i knew. i opened my soul to you and let you carry
it. i opened my chest, peeled back every single one of my ribs and
laid my heart in your hands. I have never wanted to know what another
mans skin felt like. my love is irrational. It is blind and
unrelenting. Unyielding & glaringly true. so i bear this hurt in my
words and revisit these words as they point to you. And i'm forced to
acknowledge that the only time i've been able to feel...was with you.

and still. on you. i give up. i cannot be dismantled again.

forlorn lovers, maybe

My heart is weak. I've been forced to secure beams with which structures of the stature of the colleseam were built, to reenfource the once fierce walls of my heart. Those beams now hold up the dissillusioned fears of not being wanted by the man who used to tell me he loved me. The misnomer that I, for being called something other than a woman was not of the caliber I am. Those beams have been built upon every lie and false promise that was sowed by a relationship that I poured my world into. I used to breathe for you. I am a woman who has no place for limiting love. I did not know there was a place for limits until you put them there. My heart beats plentifly. Like petals in a rose guarden, there is enough love in my heartbeats to bring a smile to each of those who stops long enough to recognize it. Its seeps difficult love, the love that once reached only knows to plateau at unconditional. There is nothing before and nothing after. It is the original feeling with its truth unequivocally stated in feeling.

Forlorn lovers. Or maybe that was just me.

why do i forget

Why do I keep testing waters that never stopped burning me? How can It be that everything you've done to destroy me I've forgotten so easily. Do if forget because of a genuine belief that things have changed of as a defense mechanism allowing me to forget what I've endured? Do I believe in people? Do I believe in me?

Blow Smoke

They blow smoke at me like I'm tryna get high from they're blunt. The hot air laiden with corporate jargon and promises of success Really have only one measure success. "how much did they like to hear themselves talk?" Their words function like THC crystallized at the bottom of dime bags and shook out to make sure inhaled. These fallible words get inhaled by unassuming youth wide eyed and capable and lift spirits or at least provide the promise of lifted spirits at a later date due to some unquantifiable success just long enough to think that shit is actually real. Until you eat your way out of the Their high. only to realize that if at least you were really high, you would have left your current mindset satisfied with the departure of hunger from your stomach. These words leave you with much less. They leave you with the idea that you may actually be a part of a structure that works but as it stands, it doesn't. Its broken and fragmented like the shattered glass on the blind street corner where your dreams were blindsided by this place that continues to rip you of your strength. The day to day deprivation of the drive and passion that once pulsed through my veins is replaced by indifference and forfeit. The acknowledgment of these newcomers is crushing. Run.

an abrupt farewell.

C'est la vie. Hoping to be reunited.

let me go

The monotony
Of life should never be
Of such consistency
You can't imagine
What you'd embody
If presented the opportunity
To be free

Tragically
I've seen my self deceased
My being taken from inside of me
Leaving a fragment
Of my "used to" me
To desire what I once used to be

I wonder
How this continues to hold me under
How I've watched my passion to plunder
Desire to blunder
Drive.to.die.

second chances

i respect it. real words really written by breezy.

...Go...

i haven't thought of you. i don't know what you did today. i don't care. i dont want your heart. at least i don't think i do...But come here. I like that there's no awkward dance around why we're here. Its instinctual. My feeble attempt to hold my ground becomes useless on touch. You can see it in my face. I know. You knew it the whole time. The momentary flash of the last time I saw you quickens my heartbeat. Then there's that unassuming chill down my back that runs up my thigh. I wonder if you'll pull my hair again this time. My skin pulsates. You throw me against that wall. I barely feel it. I feel you. Skin fused. Obsticals seem trivial. Temporarily my thoughts are only here. Go.

...Go...
...Go...
...Go...
...O...

Breath heavy. Body pulsating. Climactic sensitivity. A gaze. Eyes locked but quickly broken. The intimacy within intimacy may make it more serious.

Clothes on. Breath catching. With a smirk, "How did you get here again?". Break. Gone. Distance.

Obligations resume.