but there's always time for your pearl on my tongue.... (you might wanna log onto your computer for this one ms morrison....dont laugh too hard)
sincerely,
pants
ps
i GOTTA eat it just to survive. you betta feed me.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
As a reminder....
I'm still totally obsessed with her.
This is mainly so adorable because it's just fun. Not too flashy. Not too plain jane. It's totally something I would wear to dinner for a date or to brunch with my girls. Ooooo RiRi...after my own heart.
This is mainly so adorable because it's just fun. Not too flashy. Not too plain jane. It's totally something I would wear to dinner for a date or to brunch with my girls. Ooooo RiRi...after my own heart.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
This is for you Ms. Morrison
i love everything about this pic. the shoes. the legs. the dress. most importantly, that smile.
Hormonal Text Messages
swirling hazel eyes: what you thinking about?
pretty brown eyes: argh just Y.O.U. It's kind of terrible. This is why i hate the hormone thing. Things that would normally just b hypothetical thoughts passing become my obsession until i find solutions or answers or just shit i need to hear. i feel so vulnerable and exposed. i miss u so freaking much! its like i wanna kno what beat i would dance 2 if the baseline was in sync with the rhythm of ur heartbeat and whats ur middle name and ur bra size and ur best childhood memory and everything about ur past life and how it sounds when ur thinking and how it feels when ur yearning and what ur bliss tastes like. i wanna swim in all that. live like a mermaid in ur atlantis. i dont know why everything i write about u leads me 2 atlantis but i always come back 2 u.
Atlantis.
pretty brown eyes: argh just Y.O.U. It's kind of terrible. This is why i hate the hormone thing. Things that would normally just b hypothetical thoughts passing become my obsession until i find solutions or answers or just shit i need to hear. i feel so vulnerable and exposed. i miss u so freaking much! its like i wanna kno what beat i would dance 2 if the baseline was in sync with the rhythm of ur heartbeat and whats ur middle name and ur bra size and ur best childhood memory and everything about ur past life and how it sounds when ur thinking and how it feels when ur yearning and what ur bliss tastes like. i wanna swim in all that. live like a mermaid in ur atlantis. i dont know why everything i write about u leads me 2 atlantis but i always come back 2 u.
Atlantis.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
She totally resembles...
this black chick I know named Beyonce. Doesn't she?
I effin love this dress!!!!
I effin love this dress!!!!
Monday, December 8, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
I repeat: Keep my life outcha mouth!!!
I'm getting better but sometimes I still feel this way.
PS.
I think I might be falling in love with her. Don't quote me on that.
My Life in a Snippet: There are still 5 of us.
We fought for two days. We made up in four hours. I woke up to eight guns. Only one was shoved in my face, though.
It’s a funny way to wake up, actually. After hours of love making, real love making, not the fake sex stuff you see on TV, after hours of that, you get this vibrating pulse through your body. The euphoric aftermath of having that many orgasms, it pushes you into a warm and fuzzy rest. It’s relaxing and quaint, the lazy, comfortable way you sleep with all your guards down. I laid in her bed, naked, stripped of inhibitions and anger, clothes and fear. We had made up. I was happy.
I came by that night to obtain my left-behind belongings. Or so I said. Really, I just wanted to reconcile what we had. I missed her. Missed us. The soft way we nuzzled into each other’s aura. Mine is purple. Hers is green. After blaming everything on her, after her claiming her wrongs but not letting me off the hook, after dinner, after wine, we hugged. We kissed. Looking into each other’s eyes, we tried to transform our replenished emotional energy into a battle of the fittest: who could withstand love in the form of pleasure the longest in all its intensity and fierceness. This took four hours. Four good and long hours. I couldn’t wait ‘til morning. She always makes me breakfast in the morning.
But instead of being awakened by sunlight or scrambled eggs or alarm clocks, the brute force of a steel handgun against a wooden door jolted me from my slumber. Instinctively, she jumped to the door to protect me. Intuitively, I hid myself in the shadows of her dirty laundry. She swung the door open and nine millimeter steel lips kiss her nose where I had hours before. I see her try not to glance at me. I think this was when I realized that she would die for me.
In my nakedness, I scurried to find clothes before those steel lips returned to defile me with their shimmer. I found a robe and hurriedly threw it on. Afraid to walk out of the room, I sat and waited for my fate, still half asleep, hoping this was just a nightmare.
It was not.
“Come on,” a masked man said to me, waving his gun towards the hallway. Though I know it’s a cliché, there is no other way to describe my inaction. I was frozen with fear. Stiff as if arthritis had built condos throughout my body, I could not move. All I could do was stare at him. He inched closer. Cold steel lips are thrust upon my forehead. “You think I’m fucking playing with you?!” No, I think you are very serious, sir. So serious that I am afraid to even do what you say. Those were my thoughts. Somehow, I managed to scurry out of the room into the living room.
The scene to follow this bedroom interaction pushed me again into a rigid stupor. Her mother lay on the floor where the burnt orange carpet and white linoleum create a black union of rubber. A pool of blood lay on the floor in front of her, slowly growing wider, fuller as thick, red life drizzled from her chin. She is beside her mother. I already knew she would die for her.
Across the floor stretched out, holding his mouth is her cousin. He cannot speak. His mouth is an amalgamation of anger, blood, jealousy, and sweat. His pool is much larger than her mother’s.
Then there is her sister. She is not crying. She does not look afraid. She is barking answers to their questions.
My girl is not hurt. Her sister is not hurt. I am not hurt, but I can’t hear. I’ve grown deaf and dumb in the twelve paces it took for me to get from the bedroom to this union of linoleum, carpet, rubber, and blood. “Tesha, just lay down, baby. Just lay down.” The sound waves of her voice tickle at my ears breaking me from my trance. I take my place next to her cousin, the only place on the floor where I could curl into a helpless ball and pray that tomorrow morning comes for me.
This is real. This is no nightmare. It hit me like four inch thick hail dropping from cloudy heavens, beating me with questions of did I pray this morning and is loving her really going to keep me out of heaven. Closing my eyes, I pray anyway, as fruitless as it seems. Ask for some safety, for the chance to write just one more time, sing just one more note, live just one more day. Three of them are not wearing masks, street code for no witnesses will live to tell. I just pray louder.
My prayers are answered. They leave with little of what they came for and spare our lives after seeing a police car patrol through the street next to us. Just like that, they were gone.
Them.
There were eight of them.
Us.
There are still five of us.
(if you would like the extended version, notify me via email at lyrikkmashairi(at)gmail(dot)com.)
It’s a funny way to wake up, actually. After hours of love making, real love making, not the fake sex stuff you see on TV, after hours of that, you get this vibrating pulse through your body. The euphoric aftermath of having that many orgasms, it pushes you into a warm and fuzzy rest. It’s relaxing and quaint, the lazy, comfortable way you sleep with all your guards down. I laid in her bed, naked, stripped of inhibitions and anger, clothes and fear. We had made up. I was happy.
I came by that night to obtain my left-behind belongings. Or so I said. Really, I just wanted to reconcile what we had. I missed her. Missed us. The soft way we nuzzled into each other’s aura. Mine is purple. Hers is green. After blaming everything on her, after her claiming her wrongs but not letting me off the hook, after dinner, after wine, we hugged. We kissed. Looking into each other’s eyes, we tried to transform our replenished emotional energy into a battle of the fittest: who could withstand love in the form of pleasure the longest in all its intensity and fierceness. This took four hours. Four good and long hours. I couldn’t wait ‘til morning. She always makes me breakfast in the morning.
But instead of being awakened by sunlight or scrambled eggs or alarm clocks, the brute force of a steel handgun against a wooden door jolted me from my slumber. Instinctively, she jumped to the door to protect me. Intuitively, I hid myself in the shadows of her dirty laundry. She swung the door open and nine millimeter steel lips kiss her nose where I had hours before. I see her try not to glance at me. I think this was when I realized that she would die for me.
In my nakedness, I scurried to find clothes before those steel lips returned to defile me with their shimmer. I found a robe and hurriedly threw it on. Afraid to walk out of the room, I sat and waited for my fate, still half asleep, hoping this was just a nightmare.
It was not.
“Come on,” a masked man said to me, waving his gun towards the hallway. Though I know it’s a cliché, there is no other way to describe my inaction. I was frozen with fear. Stiff as if arthritis had built condos throughout my body, I could not move. All I could do was stare at him. He inched closer. Cold steel lips are thrust upon my forehead. “You think I’m fucking playing with you?!” No, I think you are very serious, sir. So serious that I am afraid to even do what you say. Those were my thoughts. Somehow, I managed to scurry out of the room into the living room.
The scene to follow this bedroom interaction pushed me again into a rigid stupor. Her mother lay on the floor where the burnt orange carpet and white linoleum create a black union of rubber. A pool of blood lay on the floor in front of her, slowly growing wider, fuller as thick, red life drizzled from her chin. She is beside her mother. I already knew she would die for her.
Across the floor stretched out, holding his mouth is her cousin. He cannot speak. His mouth is an amalgamation of anger, blood, jealousy, and sweat. His pool is much larger than her mother’s.
Then there is her sister. She is not crying. She does not look afraid. She is barking answers to their questions.
My girl is not hurt. Her sister is not hurt. I am not hurt, but I can’t hear. I’ve grown deaf and dumb in the twelve paces it took for me to get from the bedroom to this union of linoleum, carpet, rubber, and blood. “Tesha, just lay down, baby. Just lay down.” The sound waves of her voice tickle at my ears breaking me from my trance. I take my place next to her cousin, the only place on the floor where I could curl into a helpless ball and pray that tomorrow morning comes for me.
This is real. This is no nightmare. It hit me like four inch thick hail dropping from cloudy heavens, beating me with questions of did I pray this morning and is loving her really going to keep me out of heaven. Closing my eyes, I pray anyway, as fruitless as it seems. Ask for some safety, for the chance to write just one more time, sing just one more note, live just one more day. Three of them are not wearing masks, street code for no witnesses will live to tell. I just pray louder.
My prayers are answered. They leave with little of what they came for and spare our lives after seeing a police car patrol through the street next to us. Just like that, they were gone.
Them.
There were eight of them.
Us.
There are still five of us.
(if you would like the extended version, notify me via email at lyrikkmashairi(at)gmail(dot)com.)
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Email confessions
to savior from sinner....
so i dont kno what imma do about moving next week. this shit is crazy. im thinking about all the things i can do to get some money and bam i think, "i could be an escort" so i go on craigslist (cuz that thing has everything u could ever need) and search for it and i found a site. so i start to fill out the applications, upload the photos and the final question is multiple choice: "what services would you be available for?" so im like "services. what the hell do they mean services" so i read. and the list includes "in-call, outcall, dinner dates, licensed or unlicensed massage, nude or partially nude bartending, and strip tease. *gulp*
i cant live like this.
so i dont kno what imma do about moving next week. this shit is crazy. im thinking about all the things i can do to get some money and bam i think, "i could be an escort" so i go on craigslist (cuz that thing has everything u could ever need) and search for it and i found a site. so i start to fill out the applications, upload the photos and the final question is multiple choice: "what services would you be available for?" so im like "services. what the hell do they mean services" so i read. and the list includes "in-call, outcall, dinner dates, licensed or unlicensed massage, nude or partially nude bartending, and strip tease. *gulp*
i cant live like this.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
If I ....
If I were a boy....
If I was extremely hungry but stillll fresh to death...
If I thought I was a super hero...
or had a chest/face/hair that was confused about my racial identity.
If I was extremely hungry but stillll fresh to death...
If I thought I was a super hero...
or had a chest/face/hair that was confused about my racial identity.
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