I am not my skin, nor my eyes, lips or hair. I am Me: my intellect, the spirit through within that captivates judgement, belief and emotion. I am not my skin,. The color and style of my art form does not make me who I am or ought to be. I am not my eyes. Do not look in my eyes and tell me I am beautiful. Listen to my heartbeat, what I have to say. My lips do not make me. They are not my best assets. I am not the length or texture of my hair. If u I were bald, would u still feel the same? Could what you define who what I portray?
Side note~U were my addiction, I was ur infliction. I learned my lesson I want you back. I allowed to make my mistakes, I want you back by any means.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
He who does not understand the essence and nature of a woman is not who he portrays himself in respect and definition of a true man. As captured in a portrait, it does not indicate real beauty it enhances a temporary feeling and also flaws. It is she who is deliverant and educated through words and thoughts that defines her as beautiful. The choice to love and lust is his decision to fall for beautiful rather than beauty. Her disguise will trap him, but only a real man can peel her camoflauge.
"u LEFT A MARK..AND I WEAR IT PROUDLY ABOVE MY HEART TO REMIND ME THAT I FEEL THE PAST WHEN IM WIT U..EVERYTHING IS EFFORTLESS, YOU KNOW ITS TRUE. MY EYES ARe PAINTED WITH REGRET..iM WALKIN DOWN THIS ROAD ALONE, ALL THINK ABOUT IS U MY HEAD IS IN A CLOUD OF RAIN...I WANT TO SINK INTO UR SKIN..yOU ARE LIKE THE RAINDROPS FALLING DOWN ON ME"
To the Bronx, we never spent any time there and when we did we had a huge fight. Argued and screamed until I lost my voice and I would make you go buy me tea to get my speech back. Hated it.
Dear Staten Island, I hated taking the stupid ferry from Manhattan and catching the 62 bus for 45 minutes and if I was really lucky, you would pick me up on rainy days. the You were happy I was just a car ride away and I swear you had spies on the campus to make sure I went to class. I hated every part of that Island.
Manhattan, where do I begin? How about the time you took me to the Boathouse in Central Park for our Vday. That was soo sweet, but you could’ve gave me a the dress code agenda. Or how New Years, when we stayed at the Trump…O my my. We didn’t get along the whole night, but we looked nice though. What were we mad at? Can’t remember, we didn’t make love in to the new year. We jus pouted. And when we decided to finally to actually see the ball drop, it was too late, the new years had already started and we were off to a bad year. That time on the FDR, when I actually sensed ur pleasure through my mouth, it was the first time I chuckled my mouth in motion. I loved it, every part of it.
Queens, I gave you me that day. I let you have me. You met my insecurities, that
lot was our spot. We watched the planes take off and the A train to it’s last stop. When we argued, we made up with love. Sex. I slipped my tongue through your flyer and cuffed my inspiration with ur expiration. Through massaging with my intellect, I pleaded my sorrow. “sorry, lets stop fighting,” I stroked up. Yea that was our spot. And when got crazy and steamy, we would drove to the next lot. No other cars were parked, we rocked the house. We tuned to 107.5 and let the juices spill. O Queens.
And my Brooklyn, the birthplace of me, you our everything. First time we locked eye contact. First time we held hands. First time I walked out your car, first time u asked me out. In front of my house. First time I said yes. First time I said no. First time we said, lets try again. The last time we saw each other. The times we did it, the times we didn’t.
So I look Jersey in it’s eye, realizing I really don’t want you. You can’t handle me, it was good while it lasted. A brief escape from New York, a tempatation. Distraction.
And now I pray for you California because that’s where I want my heart to be. You told me, “Let’s just take it slow, we don’t have to rush. Things will fall in place.”
Not Truly Yours,