Mammaries Over Brilliance

I am not the material edifice that contours and clings to my curvaceous body.
     I am a woman.

I am not the coil-y kinky strings of keratin and amino acids that erupt from newly discovered follicles of conceptual bondage.
     I am a woman bleeding.

I am not the leather red embossed orifice that shelters tired toes and rises not on political platforms but in wooden trod and envious nods.
     I am a woman with a bleeding heart.

I am not the golden time keeper that mocks me with promises of success on the impeccable measure of continued progress on existence of events to come.
     I am a woman.

I am not the coke bottle frame of round fleshy parts that form the lower rear area of trunks meant to rear the next generation. I am a scholar. I am not components of two soft, protruding organs on the upper front of a body that secretes manna for the gift of creation.
     I am a child of God.



I am not a sex kitten strutting and slaying for the edification and gratification of grubby ogling lonely dogs wanting to catch a bone in the dog pound.
     I am a Lioness of Judah.

Im not here for the sadistic viewing pleasure of carnality society hell bent on hedonistic autoeroticism.

     Im here to serve. Him. Not you. 

But every damn day I gotta dodge and swerve, the misogynistic quips that bite and nips at the bane of my intelligence.
   
     I slay.

Chop it up and make them wince, turn all that is super(callafragalistic)-fiscial into espealladocious. Mince Meat. Delicioso!
But that doesn’t mean ish.
Because as long as I am woman. I am not legit.
As long as I am an object. My character doesn’t mean ish. As long as I am a fetishized. Who cares about my accomplishments?
Just as long as my hair is laid and my clothes are tight. I might could be somebody’s wife. Doesn’t matter if my character is flawed. When man makes all the laws. To being sexy we applaud.

Man Law: 

I pledge allegiance to the vagina of the united women in misogyny and to the folds of my dick to which it divides. One Man. Woman Underneath. In the kitchen fuck liberty and individuality for all.

Decisions - A Poem Inspiried by Ericson

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.

(____________)

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.