Saturday, November 27, 2010

Spray CHEATER on his parking spot....


Maturity bellows and bends to the richly fined tune of SATISFACTION.

Revenge runs through my red arteries, My Heart is skipping to a beat of REVELATION!

A choice is to be made, act like a dignified poised lady.

Don’t let him get the best of you baby.

But damn it feels so good to get my tingling keys

And scratch the words PUSSY ASS NIGGA until his Jaguar bleeds.

Ooo this bleach feels soo good to touch expensive Burberry cloth.

I'm feeling so uplifted my eyes smooth over and gloss.

Splish splash, criss crash Svorski crystal makes a splintery trance.

Another woman he has begot?

Spray paint CHEATER on his parking spot.

I BUST THE WINDOWS OUTCHYO MOTHAFUCKIN CAR.

I bet you didn’t think I would take it this far.

But honey chile let me tell u, you fucked with the RIGHT one today.

And all I got to say is aint nuttin like a woman scorned.

Fuck a heart belittled mashed and torn.

Materialistically this shit don’t matter.

Only the matters of my heart have fodder.

Destruction is a girl’s best friend.

It doesn’t boil down to who emotionally had the win.

It just matters that you broke the trust.

And now your things must come to dust.

Aging Youthfully w. Tact n Grace...I think I mightve found my place

A faded pacifier looms in the heavy laden memories of a pastime. I can no long hold on to the pacifism that resides in the things oh so forlorn. When you grow up, you mature gracefully and leave behind the childish things only holding on to them in the subconscious...the conscious mind being a sublime meld of wisdom and grace. It’s easy to latch on to the comfortable inevitable. Inside you find a warm contented space. And for however long it holds your pace you stay grounded. Grounded in the morals that supported you from infancy. Its called being an adult . And just because you have garnered this title does not mean it holds true to your essence. Your quintessence will always remain adolescence. Just because the days, months weeks, years are greater than your youth does not mean you cast away the burden of being asinine every once in a while. It means gathering every ounce of Saturday morning cartoon and funking a phony beguile. Who are you kidding? You’re no grown up. I'm a big goofy grumpy giddy gilded bewildered kid. My tongue lashes out at the dusty particles of snow drops that Baby Bop once told me were gum drops and bewildered dreams. We’ve been tricked into adulthood or so it seems. For the raunchy conservative, its all too surreal. His scandalous nature is busting at the seams. But an oxymoron doesn’t satisfy what society deems. Appropriate is what the measure is a gleam. We must age with tact, poise and grace.



I wish I had a blunt and a forty. At least it didn’t have to hide being naughty. It was naught, in the flesh, iron wrought. Id puff my dream into wonderland. Meet the bunny of my dreams. And push kick till all the ponder of life supersedes. Alas! My trance must cist and decease. Back to the tortures of realities.





Poetic Kass

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Aging Youthfully w. Tact n Grace...I think I might've found my place

Aging Youthfully w. Tact n Grace...I think I might've found my place


A faded pacifier looms in the heavy laden memories of a pastime. I can no long hold on to the pacifism that resides in the things oh so forlorn. When you grow up, you mature gracefully and leave behind the childish things only holding on to them in the subconscious...the conscious mind being a sublime meld of wisdom and grace. It’s easy to latch on to the comfortable inevitable. Inside you find a warm contented space. And for however long it holds your pace you stay grounded. Grounded in the morals that supported you from infancy. Its called being an adult . And just because you have garnered this title does not mean it holds true to your essence. Your quintessence will always remain adolescence. Just because the days, months weeks, years are greater than your youth does not mean you cast away the burden of being asinine every once in a while. It means gathering every ounce of Saturday morning cartoon and funking a phony beguile. Who are you kidding? You’re no grown up. I'm a big goofy grumpy giddy gilded bewildered kid. My tongue lashes out at the dusty particles of snow drops that Baby Bop once told me were gum drops and bewildered dreams. We’ve been tricked into adulthood or so it seems. For the raunchy conservative, its all too surreal. His scandalous nature is busting at the seams. But an oxymoron doesn’t satisfy what society deems. Appropriate is what the measure is a gleam. We must age with tact, poise and grace.



I wish I had a blunt and a forty. At least it didn’t have to hide being naughty. It was naught, in the flesh, iron wrought. Id puff my dream into wonderland. Meet the bunny of my dreams. And push kick till all the ponder of life supersedes. Alas! My trance must cist and decease. Back to the tortures of realities.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

(____________)

No thing.

Blank.



If you’re looking for something, then keep looking for nothing.

Cause right now Mindless emptiness is flourishing.

Redundant moronic empty embellishments reap the zilch that has been sowed.

I have a job to poetically blow your legitimate mind or so I have been told.

But like an impotent infertile man I keep shooting futile blanks.

And Id like to introduce you for whom we have to thank.

For this empty poetic deed.

I’d like you to meet my hands. For reaching towards the universe and expanding my goals once Ive reached the edge of the milky way’s border.

Reader, meet my mind; Progressively expounding on contemplation and the realization. THAT NOTHING EQUALS SOMETHING.

Or so it goes in my world.

I'm the girl with a thousand smiles who can take lemons, aged spoiled sugar cane, dirty mint leaves and make a sullied Mojito.

I'm the gallivanting gal writhing in the flowers with the peacock feathers in her Fro.

I can make something out of nothing.

And if you don’t believe me, then this poem you shall not be receiving.

Cause seeing is believing.

Hearing is receiving.

And if there's a theory of input/output.

Then I'm the paradox to that equation.

When there's nothing left to do but put in my recantation.

I use my imagination, my tattered world instantly becomes the gracious bow of a cruise ship, floating away into nothingness.

My barely there bathing suit reflects the faint whispers of sunlight tapping on my emblazoned shoulder.

If you’re bemused. Here is something even more askew.

The perfect prime paradigm of nil is the WIND.

The wind in all its magnificence bellows to the metaphysical of naught.

Its nonentity boggles our unripe minds. Its nothing, yet something.

As you ponder this something of a poem about the nothing world of a girl.

Remember that existence is never devoid.

And nothingness is never something we should avoid.

Friday, February 5, 2010

What goes up must come down

My demeanor started off on a flat line.
Life was mediocre and everything was just fine.
It could be better, or it could be worse.
Listen to the plea in my verse.
A little kindling started the flame.
It burst into a fire that's hard to tame.
A gush of goodness came over me.
Whenever it was just me and he.
A strange turned to a crush.
A crush revolutionized into a lush.
Like a bee pursuing a flower in lust.
Woe is Me! How sad to foresee.
This ending in pity.
For what goes up, must come down.
And if it ends my world will frown.
Alas! It shall be a travesty.
One more tragedy to add to my downer dynasty.
It was all love like Barney & Friends.
But If all good things must come to an end.....

At least for now can I still pretend?

Sunday Morning

Sunday mornings were made to wipe the 7 day slate clean.
If you've ever had a bad Saturday night, you know exactly what I mean.
Its 9 am as I open the blinds
The week starts fresh I leave the rest all behind.
One inebriated Saturday night
tricked me into thinking this one was looking right.
As I lay on my satin sheets.
Thinking the day might start of bleak.
I look ahead to what might be a great week.
I appraise the past deeds done in despondency.
Somehow I know this Sunday morning will liberate me.

My phone is ringing, it must be my moronic misconstrue.
Telling me what a great time and if I felt it too?
Taciturnity, bereaves my lips.
As if something is amiss.
This is a new day, a day to reconcile.
My Sunday mornings are a time of docile.
I pick up the pieces of a life yet learned.
And come to realize what I discern.
The day is calm and the mockingbird beckons.
Sun rays beaming down from heaven.
Yea my solecism is true.
But that doesnt mean my Sunday morning has to be blue.