Thursday, December 4, 2014
Friday, September 5, 2014
How My Suga Got So Flyy
I was dancing with King Moon Pie on Mars when my Butterfinger lost its grip & I slipped and slid down the Milky Way. I started to Snicker because it tickled my Good & Plenty. I was feeling the Mounds of Almond joy rushing through me so; I bit my lip as a little Bit-O-Honey slid from my Whatchamacallit.
When I finally made it to the end of the Milky Way I landed on some Pop Rocks and that made my Tootsie Roll. After this, I needed a Boost & wanted to get in touch with Mr. Goodbar real bad. But I remembered he spent all his time at a Sky Bar. So I called instead to see if I could get Hershey’s Kiss; he said he would come thru and swoop me up in his Cadbury Dream. We arrived at Baby Ruth’s & stopped by the Galaxy Counter to get a room. What went on next was a Whopper! He snapped off a piece of my Kit Kat & I screamed “I love your Sugar Daddy!” I think he almost cried when he found out I was into M&M. In the end I sent him into Orbit when I made his Starburst.
Skittles went all over the place but I managed to catch some with my choco taco.
Now, if we recorded what went on in that room, the tape would be worth ten times a 100 Grand easy. F*ck Nikko & Mimi…
(And that’s how my suga got sooo flyy…)
(And that’s how my suga got sooo flyy…)
Sunday, January 19, 2014
If Only...
IF ONLY…
"When
did I eat celery?" I was thinking to myself as the remains of my stomach
floated in its porcelain grave. I cannot believe this. After nine years I
decided to go down this road again. What the hell was I thinking?
If I had just listened to the transmission the little oracle inside me was trying to send to my peanut brain, I would have followed my first mind.
"Hey Gi-Gi. What's up?"
"I'm not taking "No." for an answer. We are having a girl’s night out and the group is not complete without you. You're getting out and having some fun for a change."
"I'm having plenty fun chatting with my FB fam on my lap top, in my bed, under the comforter."
If I had just listened to the transmission the little oracle inside me was trying to send to my peanut brain, I would have followed my first mind.
"Hey Gi-Gi. What's up?"
"I'm not taking "No." for an answer. We are having a girl’s night out and the group is not complete without you. You're getting out and having some fun for a change."
"I'm having plenty fun chatting with my FB fam on my lap top, in my bed, under the comforter."
Get
yo punk ass up and put on your
"I-won't-have-to-buy-my-own-drink-all-night" suit and let's go!"
I responded with an "Aight damn!" to finally end her relentless tirade.
So, again ignoring the oracle's transmission, I got dressed and met her at The Plaza. Its an upscale (bourgeoisie really), afro-centric, networking lounge. Really only professionals frequent it. So this was not your run-of-the-mill shake yo ghetto booty club. I made up my mind to show my face and have one drink then be out. Boy was I wrong.
My one drink obligation turned into three. After the second drink, I asked Melissa (the designated driver) to take me home and she could spend the night at my place. Everybody else was cool in our group, so she agreed.
I downed my last Sex in the City martini and went to the ladies' room.
On my way back up the dimly lit corridor, I saw him. He saw me. My heart felt like it was playing polo in my chest as he approached me. It was just my damn luck he was over 6 feet, smooth & chocolate as a Hershey's and built like a mountain of hot basalt.
All of a sudden, some unseen gravitational pull scooped me up into its vortex and threw me into his arms, like someone dumping the contents of a wheelbarrow into the eye of a tornado. I mean I had no control of what was happening. He picked me up by my waist and backed us into the men's washroom. We made it to one of the black marble stalls. He sat on the top of the toilet's tank lid and pulled me onto his lap. Its funny that I don't remember removing clothes, I just remember his entrance inside me, full and strong. I most remember having the type of climax that could relocate your spine.
So here I am 8 wks later, free from HIV (thank the good Lord above) but suffering from morning sickness. My youngest child is nine and at 36 I am pregnant with a man's baby whose name I don't even know. And to this day, his name doesn't matter to me. Shit, I'm having a hard enough time trying to make this baby matter to me. How do I answer the inevitable question that will haunt me and this baby for the rest of our God-given days, "Who is his father?" What am I supposed to say..."I don't know"? I think the hell not. Now that would make me look stupid wouldn't it?
I am now faced with the decision between murder and moral responsibility. I know you may be wondering how I could even consider one over the other. But, I'm also sure you've never been in a situation like mine. My children don't know, nor the rest of my family. I'm the back bone of my siblings. Even when my husband died, I was expected to bounce back with no consequence, hell I had to help everyone else get through it. For this reason, I am alone. I must clean up this mess on my own. My family would be so disappointed in me. So, what do I do?
"You have to look inside your heart. Your heart will tell you what's right."
"You mean I paid four-hundred fifty dollars to lay on this ugly, uncomfortable, art deco piece of shit couch for an hour for that cheesy, commercial bull crap?!? You can go straight to hell and give me my effin' money back before you leave…
I responded with an "Aight damn!" to finally end her relentless tirade.
So, again ignoring the oracle's transmission, I got dressed and met her at The Plaza. Its an upscale (bourgeoisie really), afro-centric, networking lounge. Really only professionals frequent it. So this was not your run-of-the-mill shake yo ghetto booty club. I made up my mind to show my face and have one drink then be out. Boy was I wrong.
My one drink obligation turned into three. After the second drink, I asked Melissa (the designated driver) to take me home and she could spend the night at my place. Everybody else was cool in our group, so she agreed.
I downed my last Sex in the City martini and went to the ladies' room.
On my way back up the dimly lit corridor, I saw him. He saw me. My heart felt like it was playing polo in my chest as he approached me. It was just my damn luck he was over 6 feet, smooth & chocolate as a Hershey's and built like a mountain of hot basalt.
All of a sudden, some unseen gravitational pull scooped me up into its vortex and threw me into his arms, like someone dumping the contents of a wheelbarrow into the eye of a tornado. I mean I had no control of what was happening. He picked me up by my waist and backed us into the men's washroom. We made it to one of the black marble stalls. He sat on the top of the toilet's tank lid and pulled me onto his lap. Its funny that I don't remember removing clothes, I just remember his entrance inside me, full and strong. I most remember having the type of climax that could relocate your spine.
So here I am 8 wks later, free from HIV (thank the good Lord above) but suffering from morning sickness. My youngest child is nine and at 36 I am pregnant with a man's baby whose name I don't even know. And to this day, his name doesn't matter to me. Shit, I'm having a hard enough time trying to make this baby matter to me. How do I answer the inevitable question that will haunt me and this baby for the rest of our God-given days, "Who is his father?" What am I supposed to say..."I don't know"? I think the hell not. Now that would make me look stupid wouldn't it?
I am now faced with the decision between murder and moral responsibility. I know you may be wondering how I could even consider one over the other. But, I'm also sure you've never been in a situation like mine. My children don't know, nor the rest of my family. I'm the back bone of my siblings. Even when my husband died, I was expected to bounce back with no consequence, hell I had to help everyone else get through it. For this reason, I am alone. I must clean up this mess on my own. My family would be so disappointed in me. So, what do I do?
"You have to look inside your heart. Your heart will tell you what's right."
"You mean I paid four-hundred fifty dollars to lay on this ugly, uncomfortable, art deco piece of shit couch for an hour for that cheesy, commercial bull crap?!? You can go straight to hell and give me my effin' money back before you leave…
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Peace, Love & Poetry
As the morning sun kisses the tip of the
horizon, I am reminded you are Zion's new dawning.
And for your sake I will not keep silent;
as impassioned rifts of energy tear thru me,
splitting me
n2 wisdom.
Now my vision is clearer
2c u r exceptional.
And as the day mixes
within the night
causing midnight and midday somewhere in
the middle;
we agree to meet with methods and
melodies that produce the morning
dew.
dew.
Snap snap as my hands clap...
exposing poetic expos
inking with inkling as I clue u in with examples as I feed u samples of poetic
snippets…
U make me squeeze my thighs
together with your verse.
Unrehearsed metaphors invade my sugar
walls.
It’s all I can do to keep still.
Fingering my…
similes…
until I come…
closer to the sensational tingling you
bring when you lyrically lick my syllables.
Blissfully rhythmical when I grind my
clitoral cortex up against your intelligent word play.
I appreciate that you take the time to tease
my mind’s frame… make me say your name…
I see you came to play as
you painted a pretty picture... that I will mentally frame... and sexually
color with disdain...
I maintain my composure, while erecting
thoughts to make you spill your sweet metaphors;
as I use my figurative language to
spread between your lines, reading from left to right... horizontally.
I
lay my syntax real close, almost touching and teasing you until u are climatic.
Having u implementing an implosion of
mental and sexual sins...
and before I am finish I will ask...
do you want me
to begin again?!?
Shay & KFarrell
Wordsfromourpen
Sunday, July 7, 2013
ISLAND FANTASY
Feeling high, like extra fly; free like a tropical breeze.
Thinking of things like glazed pineapples and sipping on
coconut
crème.
My heart flutters like the lovely swing of butterfly wings,
cuz I’m in love with the finest man with a Cuban tan.
Wanna take his hand and do an island dance
n2 the last hour of the night,
like right before sunrise.
Then we’ll close our eyes & I’ll
rest my head on his chest & he’ll
rest his thigh over my hip & we’ll
slip into a beautiful slumber
until another forever begins.
© 2013 Impresse
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Writer's Block
Writer's Block
Lately I have been wanting to write.
But the words just will not come.
Feels like something is suffocating my cerebellum; to the point where I'm dizzy.
Because you see, writing is like breathing for me.
And if I needed a transfusion I would probably die,
because I bleed poetry.
It is so exasperating trying to set my thoughts free,
So many ideas, concepts and theories trapped in my mind...
damn, I need to write.
I'm desperate to scribe my mental text into manuscript.
I'm tired of pacing, concentrating, waiting on my muse to visit me.
The state of my ability to create is at a critical stage.
My heart rate quickens, my pulse weakens &
I think I might flat line if I don't come up with some type of composition.
See, I'm a poet. So lyrics have intertwined themselves into my central nervous system;
so not to write, is to die.
And I am feigning for some spoken word
wishing I could shoot it into my veins like a good drug
and get so high that I'd be saved from the despair
of staring at blank sheets while they stare back at me:
expecting my words to write themselves.
Writer's block has me vexed.
I always thought it was a myth until it hit me,
Now I'm tripping;
expecting the paper to tell my pen what to say.
So actually I'm battling principalities;
searching, even rehearsing my old stuff.
You know its messed up when ur lyrical appetite leaves you
hungry for words and u can’t even get a meal.
But I know I can feel it,
the lyrics
boiling in the pit of my stomach
waiting for me to spit them up.
But I'm frustrated, feels like my brain's been castrated,
because still no words will come to me.
So now desperation has me up at 3 in the morning
thinking about who I should call to relieve this stress.
But, I digress it will be a fruitless enterprise.
I need my cipher opened, not my thighs.
I need a lyrical dick to penetrate my mind
and climb inside my vision until I'm filled with rhythm enough
for me to bust
open
and words start flowin' and no matter how tight I squeeze my
thoughts together
I can't stop the poetry from coming all over the paper.
And the aftershock's got my pen shaking and my arm aching
from the intense friction between my left and right brain
communicating their word mission.
And I know I can feel it,
the lyrics, boiling in the pit of my stomach
waiting for me to spit them up.
But still no words will come to me
and I got this going insane feeling inside of me.
I'm skimming the surface of my creativity
can't get deep enough to be free of this impending insanity.
I'm panicking
preparing for a head-on
collision with creativity
I hope it hits me
like a mack-truck
but for now
I'm still waiting
making friends with writer's block...
Lately I have been wanting to write.
But the words just will not come.
Feels like something is suffocating my cerebellum; to the point where I'm dizzy.
Because you see, writing is like breathing for me.
And if I needed a transfusion I would probably die,
because I bleed poetry.
It is so exasperating trying to set my thoughts free,
So many ideas, concepts and theories trapped in my mind...
damn, I need to write.
I'm desperate to scribe my mental text into manuscript.
I'm tired of pacing, concentrating, waiting on my muse to visit me.
The state of my ability to create is at a critical stage.
My heart rate quickens, my pulse weakens &
I think I might flat line if I don't come up with some type of composition.
See, I'm a poet. So lyrics have intertwined themselves into my central nervous system;
so not to write, is to die.
And I am feigning for some spoken word
wishing I could shoot it into my veins like a good drug
and get so high that I'd be saved from the despair
of staring at blank sheets while they stare back at me:
expecting my words to write themselves.
Writer's block has me vexed.
I always thought it was a myth until it hit me,
Now I'm tripping;
expecting the paper to tell my pen what to say.
So actually I'm battling principalities;
searching, even rehearsing my old stuff.
You know its messed up when ur lyrical appetite leaves you
hungry for words and u can’t even get a meal.
But I know I can feel it,
the lyrics
boiling in the pit of my stomach
waiting for me to spit them up.
But I'm frustrated, feels like my brain's been castrated,
because still no words will come to me.
So now desperation has me up at 3 in the morning
thinking about who I should call to relieve this stress.
But, I digress it will be a fruitless enterprise.
I need my cipher opened, not my thighs.
I need a lyrical dick to penetrate my mind
and climb inside my vision until I'm filled with rhythm enough
for me to bust
open
and words start flowin' and no matter how tight I squeeze my
thoughts together
I can't stop the poetry from coming all over the paper.
And the aftershock's got my pen shaking and my arm aching
from the intense friction between my left and right brain
communicating their word mission.
And I know I can feel it,
the lyrics, boiling in the pit of my stomach
waiting for me to spit them up.
But still no words will come to me
and I got this going insane feeling inside of me.
I'm skimming the surface of my creativity
can't get deep enough to be free of this impending insanity.
I'm panicking
preparing for a head-on
collision with creativity
I hope it hits me
like a mack-truck
but for now
I'm still waiting
making friends with writer's block...
(c) Impresse
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