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™

Intercourse of the Mind

Intercourse of the Mind

I have to be stimulated before I engage in anything invigorating;
Cause my mind to think…indulge in a little heavy pondering.
I want intercourse of the mind…

I need you to undress my mind, feel my emotions, and caress my thoughts.
I need intercourse of the mind…

Can you make me mentally bust;
From slow conversational thrusts?
Intercourse of the mind is what I lust…
I want to taste the moist adverbs coming from your wet lips;
Let the tips of these metaphors glide down the curves of your hips…
I just want to make love to your mind
Can we have intercourse…?

Starting with the mind?

Arch1tekt™

Untitled

Untitled

 

Man…I feel like I’m on a never ending high.

Like my first taste when I inhaled and exhaled it, not realizing even when I tried.

All it took was one pull and I was addicted.

Like an old habit, this new one is too good to get rid…I just don’t want to kick it.

Caught contact when the sweet aroma entered my nostrils…before my lips hugged it, lungs coughed it, and heart rapidly began to beat.

That was then…now it much worst.

Palms get sweaty at the thought and sight;

Lips get dry, throat gets parched, and things get light.

I need it everyday to calm my nerves and keep me sane;

Zone me out of everyday…swerve me off my one-track lane.

But it still gets worst…

I need it more than once a day;

When I wake up…before I eat and at the end of the day.

Told you I was hooked.

Curiosity got the best of me…I should have turned my back, but I instead I looked.

Its going to be my downfall…I’m burning money for a couple of minutes;

Limits…on something, that now defines what I am.

Who thought love could alter your mind and bring you on an all time high?

 

Arch1tekt™