Love makes us foolishly optimistic. -Wale Folarin

Some Shit I Believe

Some Shit I Believe
no evil here. just truth.



I've wrote a thousand words about you inside my head that never made it to paper.
I have all these words coiled tightly around my tongue,
words I never let out their cage.
I bite into my own flesh to fight the release of speeches with too much meaning,
but very little comprehension.
Every complex sentence that I would pin to the inside of your eardrums
would go searching for something in you to care.
Missed opportunities cupped inside your hands,
occupying the space where I should be.
You feel like a secret that I've held onto since before I could speak.
So I kept you tucked away behind my sternum,
snuggled next to my heart, selfishly.
And I bit my tongue in mixed company,
in fear that everybody could see through my flesh
and find you and every word I've hid about you.
My heart is drunk with an idea that could never be.
You intoxicate me.
You're a comfort I've always had, just misplaced.
I want to show you every emotion for you I've kept wrapped around my ribs,
caged behind distant memories.
Times I've feuded with myself to hold my composure
and keep my hands to myself
when my finger tips are begging to know
how many scars you have
and memorize the lines God etched into the palms of your hands.
Times I wished I could be fluent in your body language
so that we didn't have to tear a moment apart with words neither of us understood.
But instead,
we exchanged sandpaper love songs
that scratched at us until we bled
and avoided the conversation neither of us had the courage to have.
So we let questions build up inside our stomachs for the butterflies to feed on.
Everything I know is borrowed, broken or blind,
including you,
a dangerous mixture of all three.
But what I’ve seen of beautiful in the past
now feels merely implied compared to you.



If I’m human, how does the world drift me around without my consent?
Who gives the permission to my peers to use me like tools as they neglect to cherish me? 
I always forgive but its a task to forget. It’s consistently the same thing. 
I watch friends and enticed flames grow roots around my ribcage and bait me into showing them how to open locked doors with no obvious space for a key. 
I let them inside, 
times after I promised no one else would tread within the temple or gaze upon my weaknesses. 
And I tend to put my hope in the wrong seeds and they never grow to be the kind of dream I want them to be. 
I need them to be flowers. 
I worry that I’ll always be the lover and never the loved. 
Cuz everyone’s heart is looking for a throne room 
but they always oblige my chest temporarily until some other pedestal is divinely delivered that seems to hold them better but is less of a challenge to get on. 
So one after another, 
I become the change that needs to be made to in order to achieve perfection and I am unapologetically discarded. 
And I pluck the dry weeds, that never sprouted floral buds, from the space beneath my collarbones. With one blade I buzz, 
“You love me” 
and whisper 
“You love me not” with the next. 
What excuse is there for all the failed gardens that tried to flourish in the fence of my bones? 
There’s rainy days, 
my eyes puffed up the size of heavy gray clouds. 
I keep the sun hidden in the creases of my smile just to share in moderation. 
But nothing grows with me. 
Only apart.


Love Songs

Everything I had only seen in dreams
had manifested itself right in front of me
and I touched it.
I dug my fingertips into his flesh like I was caressing piano keys,
hoping to leave my fingerprints embedded in his soul.
I used my nail to carve my name into his lungs,
praying that with every breath he took in,
he unconsciously sang my name
and when he exhaled,
a love story bellowed from somewhere deep within.
Somewhere that had always been inside him
but was begging to be awaken,
so that he could thrive the way God meant him to.
He gave me goose bumps.
And they rose up like braille all across my skin
and wrote a lyric to an undeniable melody.
Like Shakespeare and Sade had collaborated
to write the world’s most enticing love ballad
and they used my heartbeat like an 808.
Together, we could be music.
And my heart would be crooned by
the vibrations in his voice.
His lips would know the words to songs he’s never even heard of
because every verse reminds him of our love.
My eyelashes would be acoustic guitar strings
and when I blinked,
our tune would softly echo in the space around us,
growing louder with time
until the sound was unbearable
and he was incapable of ignoring that
I’m standing right in front of him !
insides pulsating,
hands shaking,
always waiting.
We could harmonize.
A pleasing combination of two being drawn together as one
and I could sample every missing beat of my heart from his
and I would share my breath with him.
I could stop hiding behind metaphors
and lopsided soliloquies backed by
wounded symphonies.
I’d leave lyrics on his lips every time we kissed
because these words
are stapled like a secret to the back of my throat
pleading to said,
no longer wanting to be wait to be heard
and accepted.
And when our voices grew tired of singing,
we could love each other instrumentally,
vocals removed,
bodies speaking on our behalf,
stripping every layer down
until we are raw, uncut versions of ourselves.


Love and Other Drugs

and i leave you with this.
i hope these words travel like smoke from my lips
and replace the air in your lungs
so that when i'm not in a
skin-caressing distance,
you can hear some of these lines
every time you breathe out.

and maybe you'll need me then
like i need you now.

so excuse me if i seem a little anxious.
its just...
i want so badly to be naked with you.
i want us to leave every stitch of our clothes on
and pull back our souls layer by layer
until we know every story that accompanies every scar.

and when we're done catching up on old mistakes,
i want to let all of my inhibitions go
and learn the description of your veins
as they go racing to your heart.
so thoroughly that i could,
describe them to a blind man
who's never known the feeling
of being lost in someone's eyes,
day dreaming of love making on cloud nine.

and all my dreams and
drug-like acid trips are the color of your complexion.
nothing else.
just your skin,
filling every canvas of my thoughts.

good thing i think you're the most beautiful thing God ever made.

and i don't mind seeing your face etched on the inner surface of my eyelids,
picturing you wearing my thighs like earmuffs
in world gone cold,
you're the one that makes me feel warm,
like i have the sun perched inside my rib cage
keeping it safe for any future rainy days,
so when you need a sunrise,
i can stitch you one
just for you to place your prayers on.

i would do that for you
because well,
i love you.

and i hate that i have to sum up the way
my palms sweat
and my stomach still crowds with butterflies
even after all this time of
melting into your kisses
and needing your hugs while i'm sleeping
into these three little words
that wouldn't even have a definitive meaning
without your existence.
but baby,
these three little words
are all i have.

Following Me and Shit