Kreative Kompositions

Decisions - A Poem Inspiried by Ericson

2011-01-12T17:00:00.000-08:00

Affluent escapades are teetering on the dominion of judgment day.

A day that will supersede with a well-premeditated verdict dismay.

An oxymoronic spectrum is set before the decision maker.

With instructions, “You must choose the lesser of two evils.

WTF?! The lesser of two evils is the sum of good upheavals.

Walk off the proverbial cliff or drown in the sea of impending doom.

One choice you are alive reaching for the skies, then BOOM!

You’re gone, with not the funkiest idea of what went wrong.

Another destiny you are dancing to a malevolence song.

The beat is thunderous and you are on your own.

Its fiery trance entreaties your core, it won’t let go.

Emblazoned memories flicker through your soul.

They burn your thoughts and soon fatally you let go.

So you see the decision isn’t easy.

Sell your soul to the devil or let things go breezy.

Whatever terminus you so deem appropriate for your ominous conduit.

Make sure the sweat and work is valid; be it, don’t just do it.

Cause sooner or later you’ll find an empty soul

With No sustenance behind your decision, you’re just on cruise control.

Spray CHEATER on his parking spot....

2010-11-27T12:14:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-27T12:13:00.000-08:00

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

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

2010-10-13T22:25:00.000-07:00

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.

(____________)

2010-07-24T18:42:00.000-07:00

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.

What goes up must come down

2010-02-05T23:59:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-05T23:56:00.001-08:00

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.

Touch Affair

2009-08-18T15:36:00.000-07:00

It started out as casual as a touch.
Comfort and consolation between two friends, was that too much?
She needed a comforter and he needed a friend.
Notwithstanding how this relationship might end.
So they pursued a touch affair.
One in need of contact and the other giving theirs.
It was the perfect unspoken Love contract.
And when they convene the love flows freely via ravine.
Mmm mmm is all she could say.
It been a long time since she’d been touched this way.
Mmmmm
Were the only words exchanged between them.
When things got too hot and heavy.
She’d break down like a Louisiana Levy.
Oooo…
Out flowed the tension.
In came the love pension.
A simple touch lit the flame.
A casual brush sent down the rain.
She hopes their makeshift affair doesn’t disappear.
Hoping to continue this touch affair.

I Thin I'm Pregnant!!!!

2008-10-13T10:45:00.000-07:00

I cant believe Im pregnant!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!I told myself.

Im not even having sex! (Celibate for 18 months, so I thought)

How could this be? Was I slipped something? Did the assailant slip me GHB and had his way with me?

No, I have never put myself in that situation Ive always been with my homegurls for safety. So how could this be???

I was so confused, I couldnt tell my Mom that I didnt know HOW I got pregnant.Well the doctor was telling me I was 6 months pregnant so somewhere, somehow male dna had entered my female anatomy and that was science.

Science Fiction! U cant get pregnant without sex. So I thought.

I started to question the very foundation of reproductive science I was taught in my HS anatomy class.I started questioning myself and my actions. I did gain 15 lbs since my stint as a camp counselor this summer. So that pudgy tummy I acquired was a fetus.How will I explain this to my Mother?
Aha! I wont. Cause she wont know.
I flip through the yellow pages. Agriculture..Adopting, Abortions...I explain to the lady my situation. "We cant help you ma'am, you're beyond the legal parameters"

SHIT!

Ok so I google some home remedies. Black Tea, Licorice, vitamin C.
Im at whole foods making purchases, when I feel something kick me. I turn to see if its a pesky toddler boy at my hip. No one is there, just me and my belly. I touch my stomach and to my amazement I can feel a head and a spine.

I immediately exit the organic food store. I cant kill my baby.

I come to the realization that Im not going to FSU. My dreams of interior design are over. I will be living for his/her dreams.

I am crying now as I drive back to my mothers house. I throw myself in my bed and ball myself to sleep.

I awake to knocking...

"Gal get up outta de bed. Dont forget seh u haffi tek Cutie to airport."

I walk to the mirror, lift my shirt to take a look at what I once thought was chubbiness.

She busts through the door."Wat r u doing"

In my most sleepy voice I announce....

"Mommy, Im not fat! Im pregnant"

She hisses her teeth and walks away. "U still haffi tek cutie to airport"

Damn that was a good dream!

Au Natural

2008-08-06T07:53:00.000-07:00

Many of my black friends proclaim their Afro-Centric roots by going naptural. I've contemplated slowly coming off the creamy crack myself. But not because I want to protest the white standards of beauty or because I want healthier hair or even because I want to follow the fashion fad. Thee most important reason for going natural is ME. Myself. I.

There are no hidden political agendas for my decision. Simply put, I just want a change of hairstyle. I know I will come across many black people who will either love or hate my decision. Thats not important. I dont give a damn about their opinion. Whats important is ME.

As I contemplate this, I wonder. How many women are styling themselves for others approval?

I+Many others

I have fallen victim to this. I debated over my choice for many months now. What was holding me back is the approval from my peers. I had farcical catechisms like "What would HE think?"; "Will I still be accepted as 'beautiful'?"; "Will they still like me?"

I have deduced that these questions are ones I should be asking, BUT I was missing one important pronoun in these questions; I, ME, MYSELF.

Lets try again.

What will I think?
Will I still accept MYSELF as beautiful?
Will I still like me?

Mmm...Much better.

However, we cannot live life thinking our decisions, even tiny ones as a hairstyle change, will not affect those around us. I know my kinky afro will deter some eventual employees or potential partners. Its a forlorn fact of life.

So maybe, subconciously, my decision does have an arcane agenda. For you see a tiny piece of me wants to reach out to that one black girl who doesnt think cornrows and afros arent a beautiful part of being black. If I exude the confidence and ignore the ignorance I can speak to her and let her know ALL FORMS OF BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL. Lax Roots, Kinky Fros and even Micros!!!

They Tell Me Its Good

2008-04-09T21:55:00.000-07:00

I just had a realization tonight as I was memorizing one of my poems for an upcoming Open Mic Night, this Sunday April 13th, 630pm at the Barbara Ying Center at UCF. You know I gotta self promote. Nevertheless, I digress.

My pessismesticism is that in order for me memorize something I need to like it. Well, I havent really fallen in love with my poetry. I came to this conclusion tonight. If I were an average Joe jut reading my own poetry, Id be like "Ehh its aiight"

But people are telling me all the time that its good.

They tell me, Kass, this is amazing to grasp.
You have a way with words.
Youre point is stern.
Youve got the poetic word looks,
Now you should be writing books.

I brush them off.
I should charge, but at what cost?

They tell me its Good.
Which makes me believe I should.

But when I look at these words.
Marking my point with poetic burns.
I dont see what I should yearn.

My words mean nothing as they are in black and white.
But in my head they come off as strife.
Somehow seeing them in real life.
Doesnt bring the issues to light.

Yet they read, relate, and always seem to state;
"This is too good to rate"

I double check the page.
Or take a look at the gage.
I sense nothing to amaze.

They tell me its good.
I wanna believe it, I should.

I want them to see me as legit.
But when I look at the page, I dont see shit.

Writers Luck

2008-03-27T20:52:00.000-07:00

I titled my blog "Writers Luck" in an ironic attempt to display the strife a writer goes though. I had writers block but tonight, my Dream Journal saved me. Every author should keep a dream journal, when you have writers block just look back on past dreams.

This is a dream I had on August 5th 2005. I have of course altered it to make sense for your eyes.

Masked Man Memo

Chanelle and I were assigned to a Black Panther Movement sit in at a Woolworth's Lunch counter. The year was 1952. I dont remember the season, I dont remember the date, all I can remember was that black mask he wore to tempt my faith. I was destined to be graced by his presence.

He was the leader of our posse, but then again I dont even remember the rest of the posse. I just remember him, he had this aura of strength that guided my will towards figuring out this man. Heh, I cant even tell you what he looked like. He wore a black mask. He was sexy still. Maybe he was sexy because I could paint his black canvas with my feline paintbrush. No matter the case. The fact that I couldnt see his face, still made him first in my place.

He instructed our posse of disgruntled, disgraced, displaced, deacons to chain themselves to the counter. It was my turn to be chained. He leaned in and wrapped his big thick hard...cord of steel, around my tiny waist. Thats when it stroked me. The scent of heavenly pineapples and manly musk. Like a fruity sexy tropical gush of sensation. I whiffed him in and began my dream in a dream.

"Wait!" I Hypothesized.
"Take It Off." I demanded.
I really wanted him to take off that mask - and his shirt. As if he knew my dirty innuendo, he smiled wryly and took the chains from around my waist. And breathed these unearthly words, that proved my Hypothesis.
"You don't have to be afraid my Love."
For a momment I forgot my name was Lovelette.
He continued his bondage and coy BDSM with my heart. I could think of many places I wanted him to chain me up and the Lunch counter at Woolworth's was not one of them, or was it?

He continued his facetious bondage on the rest of our posse. He paused at the mulatto chic with the red beret tilted to the side, for a second too long. I was embarresed at my own jealousy for a man I didn't even know. I still wanted to smack that chic. When he continued his foreplay on our patrons, I continued the foreplay in my psyche.....

....I could feel his brown skin rubbing my complexion as if I were the bottle that held the key to his Genie. His hands had yet to discover the reason why men quiver. I let time escape and I could feel a moan escape, as a tongue had found my nape......

I opened my brown eyes to alarm, this white man was grabbing me by the neck. Masked Man came to my rescue. We had to make a great escape, and I was glad I was in his arms. He nursed me to sleep, not a sound he did peep.

My hand did creep to take a sneak peek, I wanted to see what was under that black heap of fabric. When my hand found the treat. I knew this was the right man to meet.

His Touch

2008-03-18T21:08:00.000-07:00

I once knew a gentleman who took me to.....well y'all know what I mean.
He gave me forbidden fruit for sensual sight.
He was the cookie to my milk.
Oh yea he did a body good.
He did me right.

Took advantage of my naive plight.
You see I was an unplucked flower.
A color purple, unseen.
Waiting for my day
When I would become somebodys bouquet.

And how I miss dipping his cookie into milk.
Heh, I was the creamy filling to his oreo.

Although I miss His touch
I dont crave it that much.

Let me break it down, yall.

Girl Naive....Heh!
Unplucked flower?
Forbidden sensual fruit?
Milk n Cookies?

Na'Mean?

Let me put it to yall like this.
If I was Eve, he'd be the conniving Snake.
If I was Samson, he'd be Delilah.
If I was Effie, he'd be my Curtis...

And I am telling you, Im not going
Im approaching
With caution

No longer letting the physical choose my destiny.
Always thinking with logic.
Head First or Feet First.
Im coming out on top,

But just because I enjoy the memories.
Does not make me weak.
Let me tell yall
I may miss His touch.
But I dont really crave it that much.

I see it as a lesson learned.
Mr Hughes once asked; "What happens to a dream deferred?"
My dreams are here in word.

You see cause even if my dreams are un done deeds.
I can always write them out for all to see.
-KE

I am happy to acknowledge my past mistakes through poetic lyric.
Untill my next high yall

PEACE

Poetic Tension - Release Sensation

2008-03-16T19:12:00.000-07:00

The first time I ever picked up a pen and paper with poetic intentions was the begining of my lyric epiphany.
I was in fifth grade. I had just watched the Black Panther's movie. It was very moving.
So for my 5th grade DARE assignment I decided to rant about the White man, and how the honkys put Crack on the streets to kill my peoples. Blah Blah. I got in big trouble in the little Red Neck town of Pinellas Park, FL.

I would never have the urge to write again, untill my 10th grade English teacher, Mrs Edwards (No relation), gave us a writing assignment. She told us to write, write like the dickens about anything.

And the story continues....

Here I am.

Writing.

But what exactly does writing accomplish for me?
What modes of sensation can I set free?
I write, I scribble, I dripple my emotions in ink.

Without a poetic release. Do they have a name for my condition?
I feel the sense of completion when my hand grips the pen.
After I have done the deed. I am back where I started, waiting for my next release.

Im a poet junkie.

I thrive on my next writing high. Each high needing be more stronger than the other and lasting shorter.
Whats the matter with me?

I am a poet junkie.

A hard stressful day, lets me get out my pen and shoot up my pad.
Ahh...release.
But for how long? How long till my next blaze?
How long will this poetic topic hold my gaze?

My eyes are glossy with the facts.
And my mind is woozy with abstract.
Mmm...do you hear that music?

Its the poetic mizer.
Hes calling me for my next hizer.

Click, Shoot Up, Release.

Without poetic peace....
-KE

In the end I guess I wasnt meant to have poetic peace. So Ill continue writing its the only thing I know how to do.

I

Urge

2008-03-15T22:14:00.000-07:00

Temptation hails in the midst of desperation.
I have these impluses for sudden completion.
Urges to reduce my stress leads to my confess.
I have this distinct urge to forgo a caress.
I know my advances would lead to nothing less.
Pump the brakes,
For heavens sakes!
But then I saw him sans the shirt.
Look I gotta be curt.
His cuts were so HD it hurt.
My hands had an urge to discover and lurk.
I knew my way around his brown skin.
As if chocolate and him were akin.
I had an urge to bite in.
They say chocolate goes right to the hips.
Well I wanted his chocolate between my lips.
I urged him on.
My love so strong.
He took me by urgency.
His prideful complacency.
Melted my cocoa butter.
Urgent words to utter.
Onomatopoeias like "ooo" and "ahh"
Then sexiness turned to guffaw.
I had an urge to bottle your laughter.
And fill everyones world with your sexy chatter.
The cost wont matter.
My urges, His flatter.
Im emphatic
My urges seem automatic.
Whenever he smiles I panic
Lip between teeth I tuck.
I have this urgent sensation to....