Luc

This was a quick piece while watching the Zimmerman Trial.  I don't have much explanation because I feel the direction unravels itself as it's read.  If there are any misunderstandings ask away!  Enjoy and adjust...your views and understandings!

My Father's son, I was His Morning.

I brought Him much pleasure, no question, I did what I was told even when I knew much better.

Or so I thought.

I deceived myself to think my unparalleled notions were omni;

Potent, presence or science, I didn't want to be like my Father, better I knew I could be;

My own lies, I was convinced, caused my Father to turn His back on me.

Fallen from His grace, I was no longer permitted;

Thrown into the world but I still insisted I need not His favor, nor His riches, not even be inside His gates.

My Father allowed me to do my own will as a test to prove He was right. 

I hit Him where He hurts the most, with the fraction of the image in His own sight.

 

I'm a talker, soul mate stalker, but every knows this;

Suave and slick-tongued, I convinced a housewife of a better pictured-perfect bliss.

Source of life, she was told better, but I excited her senses to what could be;

I redirected her attention, sweeping her from her Ground, haze over her eyes from Him she couldn't see.

Had her eating life's succulent fruit from its branches.

An affair in her mind, she succumb to her own hearted innocence without any chances.

Her stance was, I coaxed her, gave her a false sense of what life's hopes were.

She in return ropes him, then ashamedly told him.

Knew my Father would be angry, so they hid from Him and I proved my win.

 

That was just the Beginning, the Genesis to my opus.

I failed more times than I succeeded and my strife caused my revenge to want to be seceded.

It was His Job, but I tried the position.

A gradual increase with His permission, is my will to destroy good, all who are without christening.

Its not as hard as it once was to deceit, destroy and kill.

I was able to cause disbelief in my Father, even worshiped by some on their own free will.

My name is Luc, short for Lucifer.

Go ahead, don't believe in me.

As you were...your only way out came with frankincense and myrrh.

In the end there is no crying or no plea.  Only a lake of fire, eternal damnation along with me.

Arch1tekt™

 

 

Sam

As July 4th 2013 comes to an end, I'd figure, I would complete a piece I thought about last week. Happy Sam's Day to all! 

Conflicted and constricted from birth in the minds of his parents, Sam is a contradiction. 

He grew up with the best of both worlds, Fathers telling him to do as they say, not as they do, and Mothers omitting his bad behavior with tales of fiction.

Privileged because his parents learned from their parents, but had a semi-open mind for change;

Benefited from the advice given and driven to exponentially expound on the limits put on his abilities range. 

Sam was ahead of his time. 

A product of a multiculture with a mixed mind. 

Stuck in the middle while his Parents fought for future's time. 

Adjusted he did, Sam was able to adapt. 

He amended when he felt his Parent's views were out dated. 

Redefined the facts, created his own lane, and created a contagious notion of being hated. 

He was not that much different from his parents;

Sam is a product of closed minded adherence. 

He speaks with an arrogant tongue and could care less of another's view of his appearance. 

Never the less, he was feared by many who did not understand. 

He had forced a mental slavery that was preceeded by a physical;

Tried to push his theories on opposing minds, he attacked the lesser individual. 

Sam was the only child but did have step and half siblings.  

Considering, they each had children, Sam had many names. 

He was a Big Brother even The Man to some. 

Institutionalized other's lives but widely known for his greed. 

A family member true indeed, Sam was never invited, no family functions, no need. 

No wine, no dine, Sam was not a part of my family, no Uncle Sam of mine. 

Thoughts of Mediocricy

Educated, book-smart, 5-year degree graduated, but I have thoughts of mediocricy.
I never mind which way the wind blows, a trend flows from generation through class, but I still rock my chain to remind me I was once part of those I see.
Conceal the soft metal, but I want to swing it with every stride that I walk;
Knowing my ancestors wore similar with a lackluster and forced not to talk.
Complex - minded, I see answers to problems that do not exist.
Advanced Algebra, my XY is said to be predisposed, but my Sum is derived from the square root of His image.
Pause as I explain how anti-homophobic I am.
Prove my anti-slur rhetoric can persist amongst the four letter nouns and verbs spewing sewage.
I want to stunt just like the next man, but my ego gets a boost when the new foams I bought are styro, sparking an inquisitive son to be a pyro, winning him first place at the scientific fair.
My hair. Course, thick, wavy but touch not.
She said, "Take that wave cap off, it's a bit much." Knot tired, fitted over, this ain't no trend! This is how I picked her up, this is my lifestyle believed!
Five times each direction, the boars hair de-curls every forty-five degrees until a back at square one is achieved.
Then the poly-nylon is back at it, over covering my line up, suffocating my hair to continue to recreate the choppy sea.
I say to my son, "Nah don't do it like that, go like this, and they gonna flock to you like this."
Despite that, I raised him right, he wants to open a book, he wants to read and write.
He keeps me focused, grounded when I want to act like how I feel,
He mirrors my moves, mediocricy is not an option. My thoughts is how I feel and how I feel is what once was real.

Arch1tekt™

Sounds of Arthur's Music

Close your eyes and visualize the ivory keys dancing in one chord.
Hear the trumpet singing in a falsetto wave.
The notes are in sync, composed by a genius envisioned on each stave.
With the clapping of each cymbal hand;
Shoe tapping and finger snapping are ignored by the bass as it hums after the plucking of each strand.
See the impromptu melodies appear on manuscript after each note whimsically flirt in a battuta.
Allow the pezzo to take it course as it see fit;
Sharp or short accent, tutti or limelight lit one in acapella, but please wait for the tacet.
Let your fingers air play arpeggios as the movements mimic the sound.
While Miles Davis and Horns circulating round as the record plays "Down".

Arch1tekt™

Words

I was barely twelve months and she was introduced as years to my future.
Coos, grunts and cries, she was advanced beyond my capacity.
We started out with playdates combining lettered blocks and constructing a primary colored basic building structure.
We grew closer as I began to mimic the sounds of her names she solidified her place in my fantasy.

Bang was the first I called when I wanted to see her, but Ma wanted to teach me, tell me what I was doing wrong when she never answered my call.
I cried and got frustrated, but the connection is what pushed one foot before the other everytime I would fall.
It wasn't my fault I didn't know how to pronounce her name.
Matter of fact, it was cupid's mis-match mark and failure to aim.

The attention of others she began to crave.
Older gentleman, smoother, suave, and able to understand how she worked and behave.
The easy routes I chose later only satisfied temporary laspes of ignorance to entertain a fraction of what words was...
She was mulit-lingual and being courted by many facets of life.
Unfulfilled but with a light bulb of inspiration, I began to understand her strife.

I neglected her.
I chose to short sound her when I should have listened and adapted.
Emphasize and alter my tone instead of hood speech contracted.

Like two opposites, she was drawn to me, pen and a paper, I inked my plan.
Adding and subtracting, I learned how to unlock her derivative and stroke her ego with a cursive of my hand.

She started to come back around, picking up where we left off;
But with additional syllables, I caressed her Rs with the roll of my tounge, tasting every consonant and vowel from South to North.

Just like old times, she let me bring a friend to the mix.
Mixing and matching, we swinging meanings.  A love connection in the making, a constructed bliss.

She's happy as long as I can keep being creative.
Document our escapades, publish the non-explicit, and alter my speech to sound foreign or native.

I was built for this relationship, acquainted kinship, love affair.
Yo puedo passer mon styles quasi aurae of the air.
(I can (Spanish) switch up my (French) styles like the breeze (Latin) of the air. (English))

Arch1tekt™

Lust Jones

I've been writing a lot lately, but have not been publishing.  This is a  quick poem inspired by the recent watching of the oldie movie Love Jones.

I've got a lust and it's jonesing;
An overflowing faucet into my cup, but the knob is not turning.
Heart palpitations when I smell the scent of her Coco, but watch her Chanel her inner hood-walk as she catwalk.
Across my peripheral, she knows what she is doing as she notices my side-eye and sudden st st studder when I talk.
I swear this got to be a show, but I'm too busy trying to keep my mouth closed, afraid my saliva might stain my clothes.
She was created to keep me unproductive.
Clear is hazy and yet she's so seductive.
The way she sat on that chair and got up, I wished that was me, by the glance of her eye, she did that just for me.
Shiiiiiii she keep playing I'm gonna...keep watching!
Acting like I'm not watching so she can keep not showing, and force this lust to keep on growing.

Arch1tekt™

Sense To My Senses

She's like a physical orgasm in the flesh how her beauty makes love to my eyes.
Like aroma therapy for my nose;
Her pheromones are like magnets as they pull me close.
Her physical touch excites the neurons in my fingertips;
While shocking my taste buds with each kiss;
Against her neck, the goosebumps raised and her epidermis is infused with perfume against my lips.
Her voice resonate against my soul;
It smoothes rough edges and makes me whole.
I see, smell, touch, taste, and hear her in my mind.
She makes sense to my senses.
When my mind daydreams, my eyes see, nose smell, hands feel, mouth taste, and ears hear her each and every time.

Arch1tekt™