Your Poetry ...

[osiris]

Sunday morning,

29 years, 7 months, 27 days . . .

I’m still on . . .

Writers block …

Or is my Conscience blocking

Cause I’m a writer?

. . . . . . .

Monitoring

. . . . . . .

<beep>

. . . . . . .

Monitored

. . . . . . .

<beep>

. . . . . . .

Monitor

Ankle bracelets

On my hands and wrists

Can’t even squeeze

A full fist

Conscience policing making sure

I don’t pen this

But the Conscience Police don’t know

I got ----- (whispering)

42 keys & an Enter key

Stashed underneath the fingertips . . .


29 yrs, 7 mo, & 27 days of

Subconscious suppression

Led to a vernacular regression

And created a verbal depression

A numb

Claustrophobic tongue

Daily I’m tested . . .


Within a cell of moist walls

And pearly white bars

Truth was my crime

Now I’m literally doing Time

Sentenced to a room

Flooded daily with saliva

Clothed with the clothes of a liar

Is there a damn Sentence anymore dire? . . .


damn this Oz and the Conscience ---

The Conscience is Absent

I’m the Sub-

Pay attention to that man behind the curtain

Cause I control the “Front” . . .


I watch the world

Through those 2 small-ass windows

Of the Soul

And how the Mind & Spirit

Get over on the bodies of the young and old . . . .


But I can’t say shit

I’m on Writers Block

So I’ll just retreat back to the recesses

And imagine conjugal visits

Between the paper and pen and let the Words connect

While I get my rocks off . . . .



Osiris

[Julie Art]

*snaps fingers and raise up a lighted lighter*

[MochaD]

*snaps fingers*