BP.

I need to be vaccinated,
immunized from those green eyes;
pools of jade, that pull me under,
they reel me in, then let me sink. 
Why do I desire drowning?
Like a bird made flightless from oil.
Feathers drenched and dripping tar,
all because I broke my own protocol.
An oil spill like no other, leaking out
as far as icy Arctic shores.
You dyed the sea black—
just like my heart is charred.
Perhaps no prisoner before me
ever dared to protest,
demanding justice,
or even just respect.
Your unyielding innocence
only leaves more room for neglect.
This is a disaster, like no other before it, causing mass endangerment
to marine animals,
mankind,
and ultimately,
all life on this planet.
Until you learn to leave on time,
no love like mine will ever stay;
even if your smile brightens
my darkest days.
This is the all-too-familiar recipe
for another bad romance,
so I'll take this chance to leave,
and be the one who got away.

Mystique.

I flicker like fluorescent lights

when you feel more right 

than rainy november nights
A few unforgettable sighs 
and I caught on fire—

like frost made hot on an open flame

I admire your intrigue, 
float higher; unfatigued. 
I aspire, you succeed. 
Make me feel weak,

between the knees 
fom your mystique, 

that soothes me, 
it's so unique. 

This technique unseen before by me, 
sets me on fire, like a gas leak. 
It douses me with desire, like I am antique, 
and sends me reeling as I retreat
into a rhythmic release immortalized 
by an elite orchestra of my own adoration, obscene. 

I perceive you as the precipice, 

the karmic retribulated catalyst 

of my lifetime's greatest hits. 
I'd wreak havoc on the most chaotic 
if it would win me a single kiss 
from those lips, that leave my soul wet. 

Perspiring, patting prudishly at the dew 
that drowns me in the essence of you, 
as beads of citrus, and luna rossa 

carbon-scented fragrant sweat pepper my neck
but just as I'm about to man the decks, I stop and catch sight of my reflection, flushed and made more red than scarlet letters. 

So I slyly smile; 
then let out a luxuriating breath. 
I dont know how you do it 
but suddenly, I'm 16 again, 
I feel so fresh.
Like I've got brand new insides, 
it's cleansed my chest. 

Whatever it is, I know 
that you and me could rise above the rest, become better than our best, 
conquer the globe from east to west, 
but only if you promise to never 

let us go to bed upset.

Unsmoked Meat.

How many times can I fall 
for a different version of the
same mistake? 
I trip & I tumble,
then I stumble, 
my self-worth away.
What can I do to feel brand new,
revive the smile on my face?
I've been broken down before,
but this can't endure another day.
I'm free-falling, and failing to be free.
I am living life inside a bubble,
and I'm in trouble, but I stay humble,
to save myself from the insane.
See, I've been down some streets 
that seek to steal the shine right
from these big-sad brown eyes;
conquered all my monsters,
defeated demons, and danced 
with dragons, darling—
I've dared the darkness to be brave. 
Cracked, and I crawled, in combat,
collected every single crown, 
to claim the war in my own name.
Correct if you think I commanded
mountains, oceans, seas, and lakes.
I caught the criminals before their crime,
ambushed the armies at their gates.
Yet still, somehow, I seem to stack 
my odds against the victory, the 
sweetness of success.
Slipping away, I stumble, 
singing sirens to their deaths;
so stubbornly, I sacrifice my 
own need for luxury,
to secure a stranger's desire
to dress to impress.
Each opportunity to raise my spirits,
seems to be a chance I take to rise,
to raise the securities of someone else.
A sequence of silly me, the saint who 
stains his own soul for the salvation of 
society.
I am not their goal, 
their toll is not with me.
Unable to make them whole, 
I am not any more or less unholy. 
So although this is a series of
the same old same, stuck in a loop 
that's on repeat, it seems to self-identify 
in different ways, 
it's appearance may change 
but it plays an old familiar. ancient game.  
Unless I learn the lesson, 
there will never be a new subject, 
sentenced to suffer stuck, like supper,
in some spider's web. 
Smoking I smoke and I
I'm smoking I smoke and 
I'm smoking I smoke 
I'm smoking to stay sane.
Puff and I puff and I'm 
puffing I puff I'm puffing
I'll huff and I'll puff and 
I'll blow the house away.
Foggy, 
it's dark
and it's gloomy, 
this haze that is looming 
leads to another cloudy day.
I weave, 
and
I wave, and 
I rant 
and I rave, 
I'm riding out 
this wave.
Slipping, 
I slide, 
I trip, 
I fall 
into the hungry mouth 
of an open grave.
And if I recall correctly, 
I crawled directly 
into this cave.
I used to have it all, 
the money, cash, and coins t
that I could crave.
But that was before I learned 
to burn, to bend, to break 
in order to be brave.

Jetsetta.

You can catch me on a jet.
First class, 
flyin Emirates,
VIP,
nothin less, 
blazing trails, 
makin moves, 
settin sail,
feelin cute, 
private booth.
'Cos you can call me the don,
di me "el diablo"
Corleone; godfather,
but Italiano mi no hablo.
What’s a capo to a paco?
A cannoli to a taco.
Locos vato, roboto,
so domo arigato.
I'm the Moses, to ya Musa
Billie the Kidd on appaloosa,
not a snake like you, medusa.
"Muey piquante, like papusas!"
Send you postcards in the mail,
souvenirs from every destination,
sun-kissed locations, and hot spots 
That got names with different 
pronunciations.
I'm Carmen Sandiego, mannnnn—
they be like, "Where in the world is he?"
Catch me if you can, 
like Taz, i got you feelin' dizzy.
Better move fast,
you know I gotta do this quickly,
before I  blast off:
blink and you might miss me.
So, bon voyage, bitch,
I take off and text you flying kisses.

Panoramic.

Window shopping often combined
patience, and flipping price tags to find
out what cost too much, or not enough.

And the identifiers on cleaning products
had saved my life on more than one innatentive moment. 

Without nutrition guides to remind me
that my thighs are getting wide behind me,
I'd have ballooned at least a decade ago,
since sugar and I were quite the delicious duo.

But a label that has always irked me,
as though it were meant to hurt me,
was the one that could prevent me,
from potentially meeting a kindred spirit,
simply because they did not fit within the margins of my sexuality.

Never one for restrictions, do not prohibit me unless you'll suffer my performance, labels are for soupcans, so why do I need to be butter basic boring?

Taught to love and see beauty in all of the human race, it seemed much simpler to satisfy my carnal desires with men, than to appropriately court our counterparts for a coveted first date.

So, it stayed this way for quite some time,
as I thought I'd silently assumed a side,
until I realized energy, and chemistry meant more to me than body parts outside.

This internal identity crisis induced panic subsided once I embraced the panoramic; why limit myself to appease the rest, when I could be inclusive of every gem that made me sparkle best?

Fuego Was Her Name.

Fluidity, that laps away at
favourite finds; a predatory,
poisoned ivy vine, that spreads
like somber hues, and sorry news,
a secret song of sadness,
that snags on softer fabric,
catching it inside its icy-grip,
that tears and rips, like turpentine.

Anger like this, is guillotine,
that races wildly to cause a scene,
enraged by novelty, an offence
much worse than commodity.
And as it melts, to ooze out
from the room, just to retreat.
It swallows the signs, and
all the lights that line the city
streets.

I swear it gets so vibrant bright
and blinding white that you
would think the world had
self-combusted, caught on fire,
taken up pyromania-inspired
admiration.

Scarlet reds then black again,
orange-dead, like ashen dread,
burnt orange, just like the sky
during an atomic bomb,
yellows so bright and stark,
it starts to spark, then white again,
like roasted dust from cigarette butts,
and all the ash is all that remains,
of stories told, and memories of
all the nights we'd ignite, under
the lights that line the city streets.

Aquamarine.

In the water, I am beautiful;
serene, when its sirens sing
me into seabreeze slumber.
But its rage can wreak havoc
that roars then rips through
roads and rocky mountains.

Elemental eloquence, its
ecosystem is a universe of
underwater excellence.
Aquatic artistry is evident in
every detail, from insignificant
algae to blue whales in all their
breathtaking magnificence.

Capable of capsizing acclaimed
ocean liners that could never sink,
or erasing entire continents
whose Atlantean existence still
remain an unsolved mystery to this day.

Poseidon's power knows no limits,
he could be both—the calm, but
also the storm.
Seamonsters, spinning cyclones,
tsunamis, and hurricanes could
just as simply become seashells,
sandcastles or skipping stones.

And in spite of all its splendour,
we must always remember that
no shipwreck or buried treasure
is worth risking the wrath of rivers
or the ocean's unpredictable nature.

Loose Rap.

I wrote you a four page letter,
we've been back, back, and forth, and forth,
I really needed somebody,
and you showed me my worth.

We rocked the boat like
we were one in a million,
and you made me feel like
I was more than a woman.

Hot like fire, when we started,
and our love's still off the charts,
we might need a resolution,
if we can't reach the stars.

You're the one I gave my heart to,
so you better not let me down,
if you can't be the one I can give my all to,
you've got to tell me now so I can bounce.

Are you feelin' me still,
or do we dust ourselves off, and let it go?
Were you just another one hit wonder,
or are you feelin' me, yo?

I can be your babygirl,
you know I'll hold you down,
but if you can't be straight with me,
I've gotta get back on steady ground.

Spectre.

Losing you left me weightless,
now I float through life, a spectre;
a phantom made the day I woke
to find you'd slipped away.

Fairground.

Read between the lines—

the words often left unsaid.

Worries that weaken the warrior,

exclamations of love that go 

unheard because they begin 

as quickly as they end.

It is a shouted sermon of silence—

like bated breath in a flute, 

it hardly makes a sound.

These memories were melodies,

but now they're the ghosts 

that haunt the carousel 

of our unfamiliar fairground. 

Cycles.

Set ablaze by an array of greys,

that grazed my grace like the gaze

of glazed, but gloomy, Sundays.

Every memory had a melody,

albeit one that made me muddy,

then melted away my better moods.

Trauma so toxic, it got sick,

then terrorized me ten times a week, 

just to teach me about adversity.

Until one vibrant dawn when I screamed,

"ENOUGH!" And shed the soiled skin 

society sentenced me to keep.

My spirit rose anew, reborn, again,

rapt in raging red, unyielding yellows,

and emancipating orange flames.

I suppose I should've shared that I am

still the same cyclical phoenix who strives to stay alive, to survive, to thrive, who's surely 

soared in every timeline yet.

Love Letter to Little Me.

Dear little Kashif,

I want you to know that you are loved, that you are worthy, and that you are worthy of love. Regardless of how invisible you've let the vindictive voice within you convince you that you are; the opposite is true.  You light up the darkest rooms, and illuminate every unlit space you enter.  

On the days you feel you are unimportant, when your every effort is met with rejection, just remember that you matter!  

Your brilliance is unmatched, and brings a breath of fresh Rocky Mountain oxygen into every organism or atom it enlightens with its existence.  

So what if you feel each emotion with such extreme conviction, whilst the other guys are brainwashed to believe that boys don't cry? And so what if you prefer playing house, with Barbie dolls instead of hitting sticks with balls?  Your way with words is a sport that other sorts will never even attempt.  

Although society may question your flamboyance, and balk as you bake your own identity into your own characteristic confection, you have every right to take your time as you try on different masks until you find the perfect selection.  

I believe in you, and will always celebrate the parts of you that you would rather conceal; I encourage you to let your rainbow paint their blank canvases with vibrancy and colour.  

Accept the uneasiness inside you, it will ease as you grow wiser; confidence will one day claim its stake and conquer all of the awkward chaos.  

So be gentle with the sleeping giant within you, and trust that he will rise up singing, you are a star, and baby, you are beautiful and brilliant. 

From the future, and with the utmost love, encouragement, and adoration, that you always wished you had, your best friend from the start, Big Kashif.

Chronic Couture.

 I used to bend. 

Melted into velvet 

backdrops, like 

couture.

A formless figure;

easily posed, 

with fickle bone, 

that floated across 

the stage.

The marionette me

even made the frigid 

melt. 

But now, I fray.

My timeless youth

no longer ticks, 

as sickness seared me

with its brand. 

Torture, in tremors,

& aches so great

I quaked, 

like the open mouth 

of a bellowing 

grave.