C'Shae Monae

or a writer wants you to read what they’ve written

it’s quite often an expression of trust

because a poem or a story or a painting are often things that come from the heart

little pieces of the artists themselves

and if they’re willing to share it with you

dream-jackson (via wnq-writers)

A complete guide to develop a healthy soul. Come and find your type.

I could taste the lies

you spoke in the lemon

tea you poured at the table for me

after you told me my Chanel No. 5

perfume was too strong for you

but your heart still Waltzed for me

yet I stayed bolted to the table

while my tongue dipped into the

You waltzed into the front door

with an electric tuxedo that reminded me of

freshly made pancakes

in the morning and when

You kissed me on the corner of my mouth

all I could see were fireworks

being set up at a state fair

And even though we never made it to the party

our hearts danced all night long

in the closet

where my dress hung

because you never made it.

Where the past meets the present

to sit and watch the future disintegrate

is where we met.

Story after story about your childhood,

teen life and young adulthood

get spread across holidays throughout the year.

If someone gets drunk enough,

they’ll tell me about when you used to

get high before class or drunk before church.

When mom is feelings particularly open

she’ll share a story with me, like the one

about her flipping hot grits on your arm.

At night I lay awake, thinking you’ll come see me,

tell me how proud you are, apologize for being gone

and give me a million hugs and kisses.

I look out the window, the night has gone

and there was not a peep from you. I imagine

what you’d say to me if you ever got the chance to speak.

But, I can’t imagine those words because I don’t

know your voice. And those hugs and kisses are

Where the past meets the present

to sit and watch the future disintegrate

is where we met.

Story after story about your childhood,

teen life and young adulthood

get spread across holidays throughout the year.

If someone gets drunk enough,

they’ll tell me about when you used to

get high before class or drunk before church.

When mom is feelings particularly open

she’ll share a story with me, like the one

about her flipping hot grits on your arm.

At night I lay awake, thinking you’ll come see me,

tell me how proud you are, apologize for being gone

and give me a million hugs and kisses.

I look out the window, the night has gone

and there was not a peep from you. I imagine

what you’d say to me if you ever got the chance to speak.

But, I can’t imagine those words because I don’t

know your voice. And those hugs and kisses are