swahili love poetry

 The cold weather moves in and out of my body-
slides in my mouth, in between my legs and around my breast.
He only stays for a couple months then leaves me for someone new.
All throughout the summer I miss him fervently. I imagine his coldness wrapping itself around my body which gives me goose bumps. When he returns, im no longer worried about smoking my cigarettes inside my room- I crave the crispness of his company on my porch and he always makes my nipples hard as rocks letting the older men catch a glimpse of things they cannot have. I always wear my best coats around him. The cold weather and I.

Sometimes When

The virgin mary dangles from my neck and sleeps right where my heart is//was////willing to bet that it got dug out by some boy I thought I loved when I was fifteen. Im trying to feel better each day. Telling myself to take each day at a time- and I count them in my head as they go by..one, two...three. It works for the most part. I am still getting caught up in my nonsense emotions. Really wish I could just be done with them because those pills and those blades and that gas oven in my kitchen still beckons me. I wish I were one of those people who just hides their feelings and stuffs them under tissues and muscles inside their body, deep inside their bones! but im not and i'll never be that. I've been cursed with being an extremely emotional and passionate person. More so than you'll ever meet. If anyone knows what love is, it's me. And if I don't know what it is i'll tell you what isn't. Don't scold or scoff at me for feeling something that you can't bring yourself to deal with. It's not nor will it ever be my problem and victim am I not. Circumstances have led me to believe that I will never be loved the way that I want to. So what's the point then. Waste time. Waste feelings? Let these men stare at my body while I get dressed smoking a cigarette. Ha. What's true and what isn't? Is lying a form of artistic creativity? What about fucking? What about the way I smoke my cigarettes and gently bite the filter? What about the way I kiss his sweet mole by his mouth. The way it reminds me of a child. A sweet innocent child. Or the way his lips are so fucking pouty that all I can think about is how much blood is in them . Are my thoughts creative enough for you? Because this world doesn't seem half as interesting as it use to be. Not anymore. Not when things go bland and boring. You all call this living??

Waiting

The electric eels would slide through my veins as I was being touched. The delicate kissing that would start off slow and soon;--just like fingers warming up at your typewriter; increase with ravenous passionate bursting of lips. The vertigo that overcame my senses as I stood up,--still kissing-to walk into the other room with the bed. The other room with the bed in it that turned to colors of magic after my body had been engulfed with orgasmic waterfalls.
I had always wanted to be with a writer. Sexually, I figured they were good in bed because of the way they describe their surroundings, their own thoughts so perfectly. They made everything much more beautiful, colorful, visionary and then on the opposite side of the spectrum horrid, and uglier than anything I've ever read in my entire life. I have been with artist of all forms- intellectuals of all sorts. But the writers--the real ones who write everyday-who have to write everyday-the ones who still bang on the keys of typewriters. I wanted IT. Bad. I was of unsound mind and fantasized about relationships like NIN and MILLERS. Two writers that were feverishly in love with one another and through it all-writings-letters- evidence- of how crazed love and passion could make you.

Like being tangled in the web of a spider and wanting to escape but also longing to be wrapped up and drained of the very life that is inside of you. The people-these writers- are rare beings. Words of passion float in their blood. They write no matter the circumstance. Whether it be sun, rain, or snow, the fire rages out of the fingertips. It happens in tiny one room apartments with great views of the river. Great men with writing machines on tables in the middle of their snug rooms with only necessities surrounding them-crowded calendars of the past hang on their walls. These are the people that pay close attention to small beautiful details that others eyes can’t discern. The lonely men that drink and chain smoke banging out keys, some of them wishing it were a woman’s body their fingers were touching. Well- I wanted to be that body! I wanted to be the goddess muse, the picture behind the rhythmic words. The inspiration. The madness. I wanted to experience the last of the romantics. The writers. I wanted them to think of me, as I do of them.