NOXIOUS LOVE

I keep running after love; neglecting to pause and breathe. Someone said to let love come to me; to be patient. Being patient is the hardest thing in world to do when love is consistently passing me by only to stop and deliver itself to my neighbor. My patience has run out like the breath that I was holding for love. I fail to comprehend the reason why I severely desire what does not want me. I fight to merely touch, love and I fail. Then I find myself battered and wounded; unable to stand with the scars that love has left in my heart. For some reason I have this addiction to her. She beats me down and leaves me for dead, but somehow I manage to rise back to my feet. I heal, and time and time again I attempt to give love a resting place within my heart. I’ve come to realize that I am the root of my own inflictions. Love won’t stop hating me and I, like a dope, keep trying to love her. This is the idiot that love has made of me. Maybe I am not insane enough to continue to withstand the hell that love sends me through. I don’t see the logic in that insanity because love should feel good. It should be perfect. It should mesh well with my heart like Sunday dinners and close knit families. I should certainly get back what my heart distributes, but it is merely a dart board for love. I send my affection and she throws sharp and pointy aspects of pain, consecutively, at my heart. I don’t flinch. I don’t move. I stand there dumbfounded and I wonder, “How in hell am I receiving this?” I think I’ve done all that I can do to satisfy love, but the bitch is so difficult. So my heart is as cold as the love that comes to me. It is as hard as the surfaces that my heart has shattered upon thousands of times before. Love doesn’t want me, and I wish death up on it. I tried. I did everything in my will to make my heart a peaceful and cozy home for her to lay her head, but she hates me. For that very reason, I hate her. Fuck love!

Copyright ©2010 Lorenzo Wesley, Jr.

Showing Love

Matters Of The Movement

It is not essential that I hold my peace,

My words are hollow-tip projectiles; my tongue is an M16,

And when my words penetrate emotions leak –

Voices shriek, and minds awe,

Pain strikes nerve endings, eyes overfill with tears then leak –

Leaving stains from streaks down the faces then drips from the jaws.

I let my thoughts marinate in the mind, but I serve them up R.A.W.E.

I’m not cocky but I’m confident that I spit hot shit; funky and no flaws,

I bleed pain, rain love, and cast my fury through my pen,

Incarcerating my actions behind the bars on notebook paper; shit if I couldn’t write and spit, I don’t know what kind of misery I’d be living in,

The MIC is my adrenaline,

And I use it to get it in with every metaphor, simile, and synonym that relieves all stress,

But at the same time I’m serious about my craft, so I practice to perfect it to progress,

Then I hit the spot on Sundays so that my culture can be expressed,

And to pick the brains of the artists and poets that I look up to and consider being the best,

Like the END poet, who B.A.M.B.O.O. said was the cutest thing with a mole,

She spits blessings from heaven; food for your soul,

Then back to B.A.M.B.O.O. who gets so hype,

Spitting so fluidly and abusing the MIC,

Then admire Mariama because there’s not a time that she’s spit and I didn’t feel it,

And if I had to sum her up in one word as a poet, I’d say that she’s the realest,

Shout out to Merc B. Williams when he’s on the MIC sounding like Taye Diggs,

Understand this kid when he tell the ladies, “he needs…… it”,

This was the first guy that came to me and said, “Dude! You need to spit!”

And for the homie Matthew Simmons,

A lot of times we spit content of the same shit and I know what he’s feeling,

That’s why I’m with him when I hear yelling, “Fuck love!”

Cause’ love is the “okie-doke” and it’ll get you fucked up,

Next, this beautiful woman has the voice to place my soul at ease,

Because she has hymns from the heart; that’s Talibah Smith,

And I think the gates of heaven open up whenever she sings.

Last but not least, Cocky McFly, your swagger is dope,

Sometimes I laugh; seeing you tote that MIC,

But trust me – I know.

And I think I speak for all the artists and poets when I say, “We love our host”

And I appreciate all of you cats,

Because I put my pen and pad away a while back,

You’re like elevators to my heart when it’s joy that I lack

I just wanted to used my blessing to show love and give props,

You are the shit, and whether you know it or not,

We're matters of the movement, and I’m grinding for us until we ascend to the top.

Peace.

Lorenzo Wesley, Jr.

Named in the piece are some of my favorite artists and poets with the exception of several others.