āLove, Perhaps?ā
Awestruck by Ardorās etherialities, Contemplating its concreteness, Wondering if I truly Understood.
To me, romance is a dark room, Illuminated by flashlights and Flickering light bulbs of Vicarious experience through Love songs.
I consider myself a Fledgling scholar, An upstart scribe, But, even in my never-ceasing ponderings I still know not what it means to love a person Whose blood run not through my veins.
The only loves Iāve ever known:
Came from my father, Who put an NES Controller In my hand, Just after Iād learned to stop Picking my nose and Eating it. I always wanted to be Mario, ācause his name Starts with āM.ā (Now though, Because of my perpetual Root-for-the-underdog mentality, I prefer his brother. Besides, Green is cooler than red.)
Came from my aunt and grandma, Who mixed flour, eggs, and milk and a bowl, Creating the best food known to man: Pancakes! Golden-brown, flipped and flopped, Hissing on a hot griddle, Topped with delectable goodness That is Syrup! So good, I performed cunnilingus on my plate To taste all the nectar, And then, When everyone slumbered, Snuck off to the kitchen, Sipped right from Momās syrup bottle, Long before Three-Six Mafia Made it a hit song.
From myself, Who at seven years old, Wrote a story about an alien and a magic dictionary (Donāt ask) Received love bites of Literary inspiration, While exhilaration of completion Rushed through my body, (Probably as close to sex as Iād ever gotten.)
From a song, One Iād finally heard at 15, When Mom FINALLY allowed me to listen to Albums with āPARENTAL ADVISORY: EXPLICIT CONTENTā warnings I bought what some call the Greatest Rap Album, And when I heard Track 4ās DJ scratches, Chants asking who the world belonged to, And the three best verses penned by Mortal Man, Like so many young Black boys, I wrote rhymes running past the margin Just as my hero did (However, I moved to poetry, It suits me better, And I suck as a rapper.)
But even through my boundless ignorance, I know loving a woman is much Different.
The rap lyrics and beats, In all their Lesser divinity, probably donāt Sound as good as āHi honey, how was your day?ā After the world serves my ass to me on a Silver platter.
Platters of pancakes, Doused with decadence, Arenāt pleasing to the palate If they donāt come from A woman Who knows how to Fulfill the most erotic male fantasy: Slaving over a hot stove, then Bringing them to you, Flashing Pearly whites And she knows how to make them vegan, Not only that, Buys the organic syrup she has to Empty her bank account for, Since Iām too health-conscious (and bougie) To eat that damn Mrs. Butterworth.
Worthwhile pastimes they are, Video games cannot match Connecting with A woman Who finds the land of Hyrule exciting And laughs as I Name my PokĆ©mon after rappers (Or if I never meet that ever-elusive damsel, I can compromise with one who at least Doesnāt insult me when I turn my console on.)
On writing, Itās all made better from someone Saying āI love it,ā Wiping the smudges from my looking-glass self, Or takes out her red pen and reading glasses When we both know I have something that Needs work.
Perhaps one day, If Fortune smiles upon me, I will experience the emotions Iāve inscribed inside my verses.
(If you like this, head to Amazon and pick up my poetry collection, āRomantically Incorrectā here.)
