Cinnamon Sticks In My Tea

Love?
I can’t put it in my pocket
Or draw hearts around it
But these lips
having a conversation with
yours
You
unbuttoning my thoughts
existing in the space between
orange and green
on leather leaves
before they kiss
the ground, or
snatched by the wind
and locked
in a sentence
without a period
like sticks of cinnamon
in my tea

Ralph Ellison

I was born in the sun
and raised in the night sky
until I fell on a page
that made me aware of
the color of my ink
it is too dark
but if it were
any brighter
they couldn't see me.

Untitled

Don't slow down
there is nothing to see here
stale years are waiting to be released
locked behind curled bars
she could fill up wells with her clear ink
he is a clenched fist
that she has been trying to hold hands with
sometimes you invite the hurt in
and hope it doesn't stay long
but it became home
pieces of her poem
have been shoved into jeans pockets
next to blunt wraps and condoms
dragging her dreams along
crack ridden streets
then sneaking in to morning.

August 8th 11:25pm

She was such a pretty girl, with caramel curls and words that burned like raw morning