Excelsior

Photo Credit: Banter Snaps|Unsplash

Musical Selection: Rahsaan Patterson|Sent From Heaven

I am supposed to forget you. That is how this thing was meant to be. But, I feel . . . see . . . hear you every-damn-where and the moment I reach to turn you off, the volume only gets louder. I keep telling myself that I dodged a bullet. Hell, I ain’t ready to die anyway and you would’ve killed me.

I keep telling myself that I dodged a bullet.

But, here I am, digging into the past, trying to pull you out. Shouldn’t I be done with this shit by now? Shouldn’t I? I canceled my therapy appointment yesterday because you followed me all over my home and I really didn’t want you taking over her office too. Afterward, when night crept through my blinds, I told myself, “You cannot run away from the past, Tre. When it sneaks up on you, run into it head-on.”

Shouldn’t I be done with this shit by now? Shouldn’t I?

I’m thankful and grateful to have you here in my life. Stay forever, make me yours and we’ll love through eternity.

The deer run through the wood-chipped areas of my apartment complex, kicking up perfectly shaped triangles — their hooves marking the grass. I watch them gallop in sync and wonder if they have any baggage and if they do, how heavy is it? How often do they carry the extra weight? They look so light and free and that’s how I want to feel, light and free.

But, I won’t be. I know this . . . I also know that my therapist will have extra homework for me and perhaps, I will benefit from her wisdom — her techniques. I should have kept my appointment, but now I am here avoiding every imprint of you, shedding worthless tears.

They look so light and free and that’s how I want to feel, light and free.

I will never be free until I shake you out of me. In my heart, in my soul, you have made your home. There is no eviction notice big enough for me to issue to you. No variation of the color pink that would be bright enough. You have planted yourself in the depths of my being. Surely, someone knows how you can be uprooted without pieces of me leaving too.

I thought you were perfect. I was wrong. My previous manifestations of you are proof that I was foolish. I was blind. I am not without fault.

I’m thankful and grateful to have you here in my life. Stay forever, make me yours and we’ll love through eternity.

I am not without fault. And that’s what hurts the most.

Welcome to living, baby. You ain’t alive unless you’re feeling something.”


Originally published via Medium.

Keeping Secrets (An Experiment)

Musical Selection: George Michael (Wham)|Careless Whisper

An Experiment

I said I would never
love again.
Those days are gone.
But, you make me want to
tell my secrets…

With you, I am weak —
I should be strong.
Is it any wonder?
My love, you know my regrets,
an attestation is unnecessary.

I said I would never
love again.

But…
You make me weak.


Originally published in The Junction via Medium.

How The Bee Taught Me About Connection

Bumblebee is finally online. https://rarbgmirror.xyz/torrent/vmnr3zy join list: AllThingsTV (9 subs)Mention History..  I'd still recommend seeing it in theatres, if you can afford.
Courtesy of FunkyJunk.com

It must be a dream come true
to find someone who lends you
your voice when it has been
s t r i p p e d
from you.
the depth of love
cloaks itself in soft touches
and understanding,
a hand that caresses
the weary, aching parts–
she oiled every crevice
and he pulled the last bit
of fight from his spirit
in her honor,
but for the world.

Music and its healing power
brought two different beings
together.
it seemed like fate,
the moment the right
song was chosen to
c o n n e c t
what otherwise would have not
been connected.
I watched love
push itself from the
surface, up through the
chutes of terror, and
manifest into light.

And it all happened with
the Bee.

Featured Poem of the Week

Dead Roses

A Collaborative Effort with Barry Dawson IV|Musical Selection: Little Brother Featuring Joe Scudda/Lovin’ It

boxing
Ryan Tang|Unsplash

it is easy to gather roses
for the dead,

words for listeners
 —
you hide in the shadows, content
on stealing what does not belong
to you.

I have eyes in the back of my head,
protecting what feeds me.

licensing age-old lyrics,
no duplication, B.

if you’re stepping up,
ready for the game,
bring your best uppercut.
I gotta jab and a crazy left hook
gearing up for top lips
and pretty noses.

a cruel business, the world of writing.
your heart is on display —
the hungry come in droves,
salivating for something
fattening.

give’em slim fast,
Ensure, or Pedialyte, but
never ever give them
steak and potatoes.

trying to eat the whole meal
in one bite
instead of the portions
we gave you
.

headhunting for
a one-shot KO

will never save you

from your ribcage-rattling,
shook from combos
of famine and body-blows
;

still, you try to steal my soul
like your name was Jim Crow.

not one to hide, you open wide
to gulp down the fatty talent,
but leave the conscience
on the platter,

and then get mad at me
when diabetes takes your sight

as if your mad-hatter,
reckless appropriation
had vision to begin with.

I scatter dead roses
at the headstone where we met.

your fat festers, decomposes,
existing as undead,

but I ain’t dead yet


©2019, Barry Dawson IV and Tremaine L. Loadholt. All Rights Reserved


Originally published on Medium via  A Cornered Gurl:

*Barry and I have been collaborating for about a decade. If I think it, he can bring it to life. If he starts something, I can usually finish it. We have meshed well for such a long time that I was beyond myself with glee to finally see him get active on Medium. Every time we work together, it is fun to see where we are in our work at that moment. He is a great Writer and a dope fiend. 

New Place

PDQ|Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

I tried a new place last week,
was lonely without you.
Good chicken fingers,
horrible ranch.

You would’ve ordered the steak salad,
extra sauce. I would’ve asked you to
get a side of fries.
We would have jaw-jabbed about
the retro look of the place
while sipping bland tea.

The best thing about it?
It was not the cleanliness,
nor the sizable crowd,
nor the beautiful bathrooms,
nor the fancy fountain drink machine.
It was simply the fact that…

They were playing
our song.