for little brown lady babies
who often trip over things like potholes in the flesh
of men who want to love them
just with conditions. We’re God like.
God got an image that they hold over our heads.
and candy coated raindrops hit you too hard in the eye.
Sometimes, you can’t see what’s in front of you.
Things like hangers in the compound sentences of a 7 month old.
He got this smile that make language seem too complicated.
For no reason.
Like, a woman who rolls over to a honey coated son
or a man who searches for love
in a thick lil wrapped hair joint from S.E.
She got some things that still sit in her chest,
so she need some proof.
Some water thing that feels like a low income hallway.
That she can build up.
But, push away before the furs come.
Where you hiding young boy?
Inbetween this skirt and the flashlight.
God don’t hide from those that look.
He just blind to the paranoid.
I’ve blew fog in mirrors and drew myself in it.
That’s a complicated language.
Mistrust is a pretty word for no faith.
My ears been listening to things far more
extravagant than last night’s
hymnal, but for some reason.
It ain’t touched me the same.