an impression. the gentle and subtle hint of where your everlasting thumb print kissed the inner linings of what i have missed. and i missed you. grieved the tears of a faux funeral complete with Hail Mary's/Amazing Grace/baby's breath and coffin lined inner lace. i mourned you. mourned not the death of you going to the infinite land of non-living because your presence here shows that your breath was worth giving and i see you before me not a mirage hidden surprise you are, yet your body tells lies. here. but not here. i grieve. Grieve because I am losing you have lost you will lose you. the inevitable of Glady's Knights "Neither one of Us" plays on repeat i nod my head in comparison as I weep trying to show my faith in what was but cannot be you have left that lasting impression on me. your thumb print. I still feel the heat upon my skin as you touched the coldness of me we were naked skin glossed by sweat in the moonlight and fruitless enemies impregnated by raw...

swirling prolific hues of green envy and passionate reds imprints of individualized thumbprints echo the softness of her chest. her stained clothes, a memorial of shed blood and crusted tears. methodically, each stroke larger than the last. shaded memories dusted with charcoal. empty delights cross-etched in blended fingertips. the room, empty. a hollowed portrait fits in the solace in which the artist lives. systematic soul surrender. does she long to be the hidden message in impressionism, the genius of Rodin the talk of the Louvre, the troubled artist in which tragedy ends fulfilling afterlife in the thief of the night's kiss? brush stroke. pain supersedes heliotropes vision a circumcised catalytic imprison, raw theft of stolen pieces and framed genius lay hung, genius on a white wall. tip. tap. coarse fibers dance in shallow water mixing royal purples and optimistic yellows. her favorite color: black. it begs to be painted upon. desires to be another color, in another life- jea...

To speak and to speak well are two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks. ~Ben Jonson This is about to get real. If you are not real-if you hate the truth. Stop reading my blog. Seriously. Turn away. Because the truth hurts. It is exceptional when one thinks of a conversation. The magical impact which happens between two people. Think about it: we have a giver and receiver . Hopefully, both with two ears to listen and one mouth that hopefully closes. It is a reason we have two ears. It is a reason which we have one mouth. If that flew right over your head; maybe you need to shut the fuck up. Between the giver and the receiver -there is a dialogue . This dialogue occurs when a monologue happens-a conversion of words, phrases and expressions. Integrated within this monologue is bodily and facial expressions which foretell emotions and subtleties that are not verbally said. This giver and receiver share this monologue that should be-essentially, a dialogue where two minds share...

"A compromise is the art of dividing a cake in such a way that everyone believes he has the biggest piece" ~Ludwig Erhard~ The art of the compromise is exceedingly needed to not only make a relationship thrive, but make a relationship survive. Such advice is needed in the heat of an argument, where both sides do not see eye to eye and declare each other sworn enemies under the heat of angry words. Women as emotional creatures-and I say this to all my ladies of no disrespect-are often epitomized as such this, without seeing fallacies within the human nature of a woman and their effective argument. To give an inch is to take a mile from a woman. And men? Men as egotistical creatures-and I say this with no disrespect to the men-seek to know it all, understand it all and be it all. It is with disrespect that a man seek the advice of directions when assembling a crib for their newborn baby-"I am man, let me put build and know this even without reading" probably isn...