Quotes and Lyrics

and when i am six feet underground  with the bugs eating my brain they will get visions of you they will smell what you smelt like and they will hear the way you called out my name they will experience unimaginable wonders  as they feast on the very corners of my brain like the way you held me so close  or how you kissed me in the rain. they will not move an inch without bumping into a piece of you they wont go a second without the lust or passion  or even when i felt so blue  because in time, your memory will dwindle  and my body will desiccate  and the bugs will move on and continue eating  as that was their one and only true fate.

I will not call my love that.

He will not call my love that.

He will not call it anything.

He will not call me anything.

He will not call me any.

He will not call me.

He will not call.

I will not call him.

I will not call him love.

I will not call him anything.

I will not call him everything.

I will not call anything everything.

He will not call anything anything.

He will not call anything anything back.

He will not call back.

There is nothing left to answer to.

There is nothing left to sing about.

There is nothing to brag about.

Give me another word.

Love feels forced.

He does not even sputter.

Give me another word than dead.

By Willie Lee Kinard III

1

A robin gathers in heat

in search of a body of water,

           green acorns litter the sand

           & memory says I am the yard,

           day-old puddles clustered at my waist.

The robin enters.

           Dips quick. Wet,

2

a lark slaps

the whole of himself

            on me

& calls himself  potter,

            throws a bowl of my body instead,

            the hole, shallow & wrinkled,

he, a boy in the country.

It is midday.

3

It was morning.

           Memory says I am the sand,

           hard, hot, acorns a burn against the bird’s belly

           just like the burn against his back; he is

4

on me:

            a drawl,

                       accented longing,

he, accidental thunder:

           a song,

                      a clap down,

5

a boy digging in a bowl;

a bird not in a ditch, but in water

            in a nook, spooned out by falling in;

a bird & a stone, two in hand

            in the hole.

6

No, the memory corrupts.

            This is pleasure.

             I am the thrush,

             frantic & puffing to pluck

             more acorn caps before bathing,

7

I am the bath, a breast,

            surely something tender:

8

A bird.                A bush.

A sight.              A flash.

           Anything peeping struck—

           Memory: Hush. Let him do his work.

9

I saw him.        He shook.

           Brazen stillness.

           Flight.

10

The yard, still hot, still country,

his breath, warm,

           like rain,

no sign of feathers.

11

Curious: if  the bird came first,

would lightning have lasted elsewhere?

12

I will ask the rain inside my mouth.

I know this water remembers, too.

13

Memory: It is an old tale.

This, how it happened:

          The boy leaves a maze.

          The boy finds the birds.

          The birds lift the boy.

          The sky heats the birds.

                      The birds leave the boy.

                      The boy leaves the sky.

                      The sky tags the sea.

                      The sea becomes a maze.

                                The boy treads the sea.

                                The sea claims the boy.

                                A yard holds the sea.

                                The yard fights the heat.

                                           The heat claims the yard.

                                           The heat eats the birds.

                                           The boy eats the sea.

                                           The boy joins the birds.

14

Still, an older tale—

this, how we happened:

            a win on the morn,              a bird losing wind,

            a boy that I lost,                   a bird in the rain,

            a rainwater boy,                    a boy I mourned,

            a struck-down boy                a boy-winning rain.

15

I put us back in the pastoral,

make us an oasis, our love a quenching well,

something large enough to bathe in,

large enough to whelm us.

16

He is not used to depth.

He flutters over the shallow end,

chorals P  J Morton, asking me about size.

17

He insists on entering.

I become the puddle.

He dives. I pull him out.

18

I keep turning over.

He keeps turning up.

19

I keep turning him over,

half expecting Crete to fall from his ears,

burst from his mouth like Athene song by cicada.

20

He keeps turning up.

I keep turning him over.

I keep trying to revive a legend

or another waterlogged word I do not speak.

21

He does not move.

He does not even sputter.

22

Give me another word than dead.

I will not call my love that.

23

He will not call my love that.

He will not call it anything.

24

He will not call me anything.

He will not call me any.

He will not call me.

He will not call.

25

I will not call him.

I will not call him love.

I will not call him anything.

I will not call him everything.

I will not call anything everything.

He will not call anything anything.

He will not call anything anything back.

26

He will not call back.

There is nothing left to answer to.

27

There is nothing left to sing about.

There is nothing to brag about.

28

Give me another word.

Love feels forced.

To love is the best thing that has ever happened to me; to shower someone with the enormous amount of love that filled each and every chamber within my racing heart and hear them say, "Thank you for loving me," in return is the most fulfilling experience I have ever had.

Ah, the eternal pondering of love’s whereabouts when solitude strikes and fatigue takes hold. Where, oh where, shall I bestow this surplus of affection? But then it hit me like a lightning bolt. This love of mine, it’s untouchable, unbreakable, and completely independent. No external force can dare to mess with its greatness. Love, like the moon, never fails to shine, even in the darkest of nights.

Along with that, it serves as a continual reminder that I am love itself, and that no other soul on earth is capable of altering that in any way. As the feeling of loss continues to linger within my racing chest, love will grow to provide me with further fortitude to bear the loss.

It makes me happy that this love is mine, because if it weren't for it, I wouldn't have much else in my life.

I do. I love like a stray, flea-ridden dog, to be exact. A feral mutt whose teeth and claws will protect you from all harms, a wild animal who will take you to a safe shelter because she doesn't want you to freeze when the winter comes.

I do, in fact, love like a dog. My tail wags at the slightest bit of attention, even a simple "hello" will make it all okay, I will look at you with adoring eyes and gentle pants in hope of getting a pat on the head.

I really love like a dog. I won’t leave you no matter how excruciating it feels to stay with you. Because as a dog, I’d rather be abused than abandoned. Because to me, it’s nicer to be treated terribly than not to be treated at all. And like a dog, I will love you without any questions, with as much blind faith as the mere humans have for their god; for I only see the best in you.

I no longer want to love like a dog, but it's really all I have ever known.

No matter how much I try to deny it or pretend that I am not my mother's child, the fact remains that I am her offspring.

I despise my mother sometimes, for her absence throughout my entire childhood. I despise my mother sometimes, for she gave birth to her anger instead of a daughter. I despise my mother sometimes.

What if I become someone like her? I cried. "What if you become worse?" She whispered.

3:00 AM

As the chill of the night wraps around me like a shroud, I find myself unable to succumb to the embrace of sleep. My thoughts wander, drifting to you, wondering if the cold seeps into your bones as you toss and turn, seeking solace in the darkness before the dawn.

It’s been some time since you left, and the ache in my chest has dulled to a numbness that matches the cold emptiness of the room. I summon the strength to rise, but each step feels heavier than the last, weighed down by the memories that haunt every corner of my mind. The wind whispers your name, but it no longer stirs the longing in my heart—it merely echoes the emptiness that now consumes me.

They say that all things must end, that time heals all wounds. But as I stand here, alone in the silence of the night, I cannot help but wonder if this pain will ever truly fade. I do not curse the gods for tearing us apart; instead, I find myself pleading with them to grant me the mercy of forgetting, to spare me the agony of remembering.

And so, as I stand on the precipice of goodbye, I find myself longing for nothing more than the sweet release of oblivion. For in the silence of the night, there is no relief to be found, only the endless ache of a heart that knows no peace.