(The Truth is God) is Energy ...Searching... ©2011

I cannot worship your god…

Nor can I make your god Mine…

My God must be my own…

For He is The Creator of me…

And if you believe that there is only one god,

Then don’t attempt to give me yours because I have Him already…

God created us in His image…

In turn we created him in ours…

Then we started worshiping ourselves and our own philosophies…

(The Truth is God) is Energy

Men call Him, He, because it’s MAN’s interpretation…

Women refer to Him as He because He tells them to follow Him…

But (The Truth is God) is Energy

It dictates emotion and influences but never forces us to do anything…

Which is why so many misinterpret Him…

Because He allows us to…

God and science are not at odds yet we position them as such…

God in fact is the ultimate scientist that will forever puzzle us…

We are pompous enough to believe that we can answer every question God poses.

God is humble enough to watch us try…

(The Truth is God) is Energy

*Punctuation intentional*

If Love...

If Love shall ever come again,

A knocking at my window…

I’ll serenade her with a song that leads with a creshindo…

My voice will be of Pendergrass,

My touch will be so gentle…

If Love shall ever come again,

A knocking at my window…

If Love shall ever come again,

A pluckin at my heart strings…

I will grab a pad and pen,

And write her while a harp sings…

Assure her wrong is in the past,

And right is where we’ll start things…

If Love shall ever come again,

A pluckin at my heart strings…

If Love shall ever come again,

A dancing to my music…

I’ll unplug the drum machine,

And play her my acoustic…

Deep like bass, her eyes I’ll gaze…

We’ll synchronize our movement,

If Love shall ever come again,

A dancing to my music…

If Love shall ever come again,

And taps me on my shoulder…

I’ll turn all the way around,

Forever, will I hold her…

Forever will I cherish her…

Her name, will be our symbol,

If Love shall ever come again,

A knockin at my window…

...Her Silhouette in the Mirror Mirror the in Silhouette Her... ©2010

I caught a glimpse of her silhouette in the mirror…

With the wax spinning…
Writing wax poetics…
With the wax dripping…

Blaq visions from blaq eyes follow blaq thighs across room…
Listening to 4’5’s…
Bird’s tune…

Sepia’s the mood… Smoke consumes
the ozone…
Kinda Blue tis the moon…

Her body twas cold work…
Yet hotter than end of June…

Hard to keep my cool…
Let alone not drool…
But no sweat…

She’ll get wet long before
I do…
I swear,
I swore…

If all weren’t fair in love and war…
She’d be cheating with the way she moves…

Sippin a Stella as she grooves…
Second hand smoke mellows as it soothes…

Body shaped like Chello when she’s nude,

“We should roll like Rello, Me and You”,
I told her…

Cappuccino complexion of Folders…

Pull me close, feel my heart's osmosis...

Are chemistry’s real like Haiku’s from soldiers,

The closer she is,
The harder to focus…



The closer she is,
The harder to focus…

Are chemistry’s real like Haiku’s from soldiers,

Pull me close, feel my hearts osmosis...

Cappuccino complexion of Folders…


“We should roll like Rello, Me and You”,
I told her…

Body shaped like Chello when she’s nude,

Sippin a Stella as she grooves…
Second hand smoke mellows as it soothes…

If all weren’t fair in love and war…
She’d be cheating with the way she moves…

She’ll get wet long before
I do…
I swear,
I swore…

Hard to keep my cool…
Let alone not drool…
But no sweat…

Her body t’was cold work…
Yet hotter than end of June…

Sepia’s the mood… Smoke consumes
the ozone…
Kinda Blue tis the moon…


Blaq visions from blaq eyes follow blaq thighs across the room…
Listening to 4’5’s…
Bird’s tune…


With the wax spinning…
Writing wax poetics…
With the wax dripping…

As I caught a glimpse of her silhouette in the mirror…

The Creator

Over yonder, the creator ponders his very existence... Inauspicious despite the gloom of life looming down atop his very soul... He contemplates sanity after finding nothing left as he turned right... Finding nothing left as he turned right... Finding nothing left as he turned to write... Something wrong... With... Psyche... might be... slightly... Insane... His pen no longer bleeds, so in turn he's... In pain... Miscarried thoughts lay still-born in the distance of his cerebrum... Wrapping at his soul's chamber door... Begging to be heard, But instead they're only felt. Like love... he longed to define it... But couldn't... Too pedantic with the congestion of conjecture... Like the lessons of a lecture spoken by spurious professor... His profession was to profess the truth that others failed to articulate... Yet he couldn't seem to profess the truth about himself... Never a fiction writer were he, even if it appeared realistic to the untrained Iris... Yet at times our truths are just as difficult to express as a lie is... So in turn his page is silenced. Like the dialect of kindness amidst the fires of Hades... As cryptic and subliminal as papyrus scroll paintings, was his understanding of his own demise... The frustration of mediocrity that his ego once denied had overwhelmed him... Created in His image, but far from pseudonym, For He created the earth and it's inhabitants in a mere 7 days... While he's been writing for 7 whole hours, with merely 7 words on his page... For what he failed to realize was that he wasn't in fact The Creator... Instead mere creation the creator creates... He was once a conduit for the music of the heavens above, Until his crescendo's fall from grace... That night of the poets death... Lofty was his ego, And so too was hades fire, For his words were never in fact his own, The Creator was his ghostwriter...

There She Lay

As the sun surrendered to the horizon,

There She Lay…

Gazing at the sky through translucent lids, bestowing a hue of burgundy upon her mind…

The hustle and bustle of the metropolis drowned out her cries,

Like ocean waves drown out rain on a windy day,

There She Lay,

The windows to her soul tinted a hue of blue, By him.

That monster that she mistook for a man so many sunsets ago,

How she longs to gaze upon the sun again, with the same aw that she once did-

As a child, back when fatherless father’s promised fatherless daughters the world-

Yet merely left her looking upon the heavens thinking, why?

Why does no man love me?

Truth is, Some did…  However, when one is born in the dark, it becomes difficult for one to see the light, so…

There She Lay…

Her burgundy lids becoming purple as the only father that she ever knew, Father Time, starts to leave her… Just as so many others did…

This is the tragedy of her reality…

Little golden girl losing her luster-

Dulled by a world filled mindless gods than those with Godless minds…

There she lay, one last time…

Leaving this earth the same way that she arrived…

Cold,

Alone,

The only father that she ever had, Gone. Father time

Leaving her as so many fathers do,

With her mother…

There She Lay

With her mother, Earth.

Nirvanna

I exist in a place where all that is poetic is justice,

Sex is for lovers only, and all have experienced a love jones,

I exist in a place where life lives without anger,

Instead, we zone in a sentimental mood, serenaded by Coltrane, as Donnie sings a song for you,

I exist in a place where we hang in urban suites, and every man understands a true woman’s work,

Where our needs and wants are one in the same, and lust is the last emotion to emerge,

I exist in a place where the faithful dwell,

And beauty lies within the beholders eye,

And the only truths are those in which we believe, and fallacies are blatant lies,

I exist in a place where understanding’s conceived through intimate conversation, and where

Hatred and jealousy are created myths of the devil’s imagination…

I exist in a place where lovers love… and when where alive, we live our life,

I exist in a place where blessed emotions are felt whenever I look in your eyes…

I exist in paradise. 

The Demise of the Poetic

It was once stated that the ink of the scholar is more sacred than the blood of the martyr,

Hence, I didn’t write these words,

I became them,

Paper, my flesh…

Ink, My blood…

The finished product,

My soul…

With every stroke of the pen, it’s like a slit to the wrist, making my paper and life grow progressively shorter,

The more I write, the more I see the light as if the end were near,

Perhaps I am a martyr,

Who’s found heaven within his notebook, where I die every night for what I believe in…

Or perhaps it is my notebook where I am most alive,

Where the pages of my life are so eloquently scribed-

In pen,

Sometimes wishing that I could erase the past,

But I can’t,

So that makes this poem,

My life,

Who I am.