#scottwrites

Kai Scott

It’s open season to murder a black man with slavery that hasn’t never stopped a sliver bullet craved from chains giving us names that aren’t in the Zulu tongue watching our dear mothers cry for our children that will never know freedom, living in world where the lighter my skin don’t stop the stare that I’m not human so I refuse to be silence when my people complexion speak fear to who isn’t us and you think that we’re scared, I mean we are on fire and no one cares to put the flame out in a village under a rain of gunshots trying to conquer my soul that reaps a thousand of sheep to offer my forgivingness for my ignorance with a hand of bronze that resembles Jesus Christ born in Africa pushed out the a black vagina deeper then thoughts from past generations of our grandfather’s father blood spilled with a broken spine and the news stations love showing us savages, people who don’t have no religion to called their own, but the closest thing to God we are that are divine by all odds so immoral we become a scared image of black bodies that forever live behind the lens of a camera that’s detrimental and disturbing and nerve wrecking to think there will be ever a change to retain us from a higher state of conscious will forever be unapologetic for my blackness

Kai Scott

I wrote this in hopes you will if not soon, one day, read the words that fell timeless like a metaphorical bomb spreading an angels wing that was once suppress with the shades of lavender painted an love story “that this was an accidental” when last thursday I wrote poetry on an week old liquor store receipt saying “she was a walking disaster, and so was I —but I wrote novels and she was poetry in motion like how whiskey effects a drunk and yet she crave the sweet taste of wine over water when she drowns in her thoughts” but I’ve wanted to tell you something for a while that our love was like a hurricane; ferocious but temporary —Impactful but foreign like every wind-blown form the west end, but this isn’t any hotel love beating on the walls at 3am for I known she had orgasms longer than being in love even when she bled for love with a heart so vivid that her dreams not seen of unheard truths is the reason why the stars don’t shine the same like they used to, is reason why they don’t notice you’re screaming inside and don’t want to know of the suicidal thoughts you hide trying to distinguishes man from animal is why we choose to be a lover, not a fighter I mean the most beautiful thing about her was that she was far from being okay and she embraced it with love that is the Sun, and we just a passing moon, a phase that will never be forgotten as I make love to her broken parts with a heart of fire and dreams of gold playing the waiting game like Russian roulette, pulling the trigger twice, as tears drop from her face, for I know this steals your joy and murders your laughter. It makes you feel like you’re not enough and makes you wish that you were prettier. O sweet lover, share with me the corners of your mind where no one has touched before as we looked for love —In between sheets in between the couch of lost hopes

I’ve grown too accustomed to darkness, too in love with the idea that even a white rose has a shadow with the seed of creation impersonate my lovers corpse sending prayers to the fire of the stars, the fault of our stars that I haven’t given hope on her knowing that we were broken, that we were helpless, and we were so happy that I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better to only return not to find her the same as for I rose and fell to only for distance to kill such chemistry in the potential finding the beauty in the ugly my lovely bastard in hope this isn’t our last kiss before I spoke of the homeless man in the train station, before my fluctuation fucking you under an Fig tree watching each branch burn from limb from limb as you pull my Adams Apple out after winter developed in the marrow of your bones at six a.m. in the looks for terror, drugs and caffeine on the coffee table for I misspelled her name on purpose that she would notices how far and wide of where we came behind the narrow windows to the woman in the black burqa who I feed poetry to with the interior of her soul strip like an exotic dancer painted in the nude chasing dead butterflies that have already died in the pits of our stomach, that the internet has killed the youth asking when are we to remembered the most or was it the first kiss that destroyed us, O broken beautiful dysfunctional girl, I met over the internet for we are just a couple of dream chasers, some gorgeous misfits with pearly white teeth in hope of ecstasy, broken condoms, and oral sex would be the mood for tonight, would you get in the nude for tonight, putting on your wig, dark mascara running in the face, with you black lace ballerina outfit on with a tutu on playing dress up for daddy, high as fuck yet I can’t wait to still taste you my masochist princess like a Russian barbie doll I painted my lips with at age five dress in an all black silk dress wearing heals with my mother red lipstick on pretending to be something I wasn’t was quite confronting to the boy who didn’t understand gender roles till his father tried to drown the little boy with a pistol to his head that you would see in western films saying boys don’t pose to dress up as girls but like cowboys and superheroes forgetting that wonder woman was also a hero too is reason why I kiss the girl who wear tennis shoes, baseball caps, hair in a ponytail like I wear mines time from time hearing the distances in empty laughs smoking cigarettes and drinking liquor to get in some girl pants when I am still the “hoeish-boi” that find heaven between her thighs yet find it so difficult to write, write about what’s real, the simple dust of everyday life the lonely cracks that still find sunlight beneath the ocean floor telling me how difficult is sweet love to the boy who loved a girl that he forgot to die in his sleep only so he could see her one more time and forever be changed in his ways

Kai Scott

Kai Scott