Who is the perfect poet?

I surely cannot be judge of that

What is a perfect poem?

Again, I am but a lowly thief of words

incapable of literature beyond borrowed sentences

The one thing I know

is that beyond rhyme and rhythm,

pun and metaphor

the perfect poem holds a soul

and while her body might defy logic

this soul conveys intention

like this rambling about words and weavers

asking you to please have a drink with me?

You are not the most beautiful girl in the world
You’re the most beautiful girl to me
Now that’s a big fat lie
Please forget all that talk about beauty and beholders
It’s for people, not poets
because all you need to do is walk into a room
to fill it with magic
So when you walk into a room
full of people, not poets
they’d make all that talk about beauty and beholders
but it’s a big fat lie
You’re not just the most beautiful girl to me
You are the most beautiful girl in the world.

Tonight I go to sleep afraid to dream

worried that trickles of reality would slip into fantasy

and make a mockery of chaos

because hope is the substance of dreams

the fabric of fantasy

but when days become dreaded

nights once filled with color become gloomy black

Tonight I go to sleep with one wish;

to sleep.

“…Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone”
Maya Angelou

Maya, it’s harder
to choose life with another
when they don’t choose you.

Yesterday, a part of me got on an airplane

in search of self, of meaning, of reason

I ventured into the waters of uncertainty certain of one thing;

nothing’s ever promised tomorrow

“…Tonight, Lupita won’t thread a needle

for complexion & its complexities.

Tonight, she will sublime her worries

with her waist.”

- Dami Ajayi

He knows

the good Doctor knows

that tonight you are Queen

and the rest of us must be everything else;

audience, subjects, and even slaves

because tonight there are only two in this kaleidoscope of philistine intentions;

the DJ and you.

The Doctor knows.

perhaps what he doesn’t know

is that before this inferno was a modest flame

What he doesn’t know is

Lupita is who you were yesterday;

a memento of coloured complexities and endless -isms

not tonight.

Tonight, you’re Sean Kingston’s centurial testimony

the subject of dreams and songs

so we’ll marvel and grovel and do the things slaves do

tonight, you’re DaVinci’s best

and we can only ask one thing;

keep burning, Mona Lisa…