Glass Staircase

The Gift of Flowers

2015-09-21T23:06:00.004-04:00

A lost love found me, in you

like a lioness with belladonna in her eyes.

Your stare was poison on the tip of a rose

you had me smell that evening and

I fed into the fluidity of your presence,

like the sun chasing shadows
in an open field.

for d'Verse

Rope

2015-08-13T02:14:00.000-04:00

Beauty lies within the controversy of undiscovered love

Echo – Love

Flawed, so they separate for the art

Echo – Apart

Bound by darkness for the sake of metaphor

Echo – Ignore

Tortured poets live and die by their own hand

Echo – Withstand

Drowning in hopes of infinite light

Echo – Spite

Gravity defied, only to add more weight to the heart
Echo – Art

for dverse

Light.

2015-07-23T04:30:00.001-04:00

Originally from my Instagram

Muse: @kweenkreyol

For dverse

Untitled III

2015-07-21T14:59:00.000-04:00

the fluidity of night

ran smooth like a train

on brand new tracks

I dream of riding

that train and one

of the cars being my home

complete with

a mail-order bride

a rare find like

a white boot with

no scuff marks

and the curves

on her body

matched the

dramatics of her
heavy german accent

for dverse

Untitled II

2015-07-14T13:58:00.000-04:00

I believe the words

these walls echo

when God speaks

in sign language.

Love is immortal

as the essence of a mother

no matter how many times

it has drifted away like buckets

in a river where everyone
washes their hair.

for dverse

The Holy Ghostwriter

2015-06-18T03:32:00.000-04:00

if these words could uplift

themselves from the page

they would praise you
like a pastor on his knees

for dverse

Untitled

2015-06-04T10:53:00.001-04:00

when my crown fell into the

flames, I went down with it;

I put it back on and endured

the pain until the crown

became a part of me; thus,

my personal hell was now

my kingdom.

Posted for dversepoets;

originally from my Instagram.

You

2015-05-18T21:53:00.000-04:00

Calla lilies black as the night sky
bring me to the bed
we once laid in

Your mouth grazes my back
like bison in the meadow
your nutrients seep
into the pores of my skin
as I lie in the afterglow
and you sleepwalk
into my dreams at 2am
awakening me
from these memories

for Insta-Poetics

The Words the Dead Speak

2015-05-05T05:29:00.000-04:00

for Frank Stanford

You are the darkness

that backs my shimmer of hope

like the night sky to a red moon

like the woodlands

to a wolf in slumber

Death brings sober words

to drunk characteristics

Death reads the stanzas that

fall from my fingertips

in a language I find hard

to understand

as I see a lock

of curly hair fall

from beneath its hood

The closest I'll ever get to hearing
your voice

For Poetics.
I've written plenty of poems dedicated to Frank Stanford;
I wouldn't be the poet I am if it wasn't
for copying his bold style until I was comfortable
enough to find myself artistically.

The Dayz

2015-04-28T04:11:00.002-04:00

I'm from solitude drenched in wonder, faith

and determination; bein' man of the house

while retaining the heart of a child

long walks through lush lands

and livin' for late-night hangs

I'm from a time where 'I'

brought thoughts of self

and not losing ourselves

in the latest iphones

I'm from momma's meatloaf,

mashed potatoes and gravy

followed by banana pudding

goodnight's, I love you's,

and say ya prayers sealed

with a kiss

I'm from Hip-hop

hi-hats over hard-hitting

bass backing rhymes of bitches,

hoes and who got the fattest ass

to conscious streams of Amerikkka

and poets revealing their darkest days
with every 16 bars acting as a therapist

*for dverse

||

2015-04-23T06:34:00.000-04:00

for OLN

Strap

2015-04-16T04:17:00.000-04:00

I bathe in a washtub

surrounded by grass and weeds

I take buckets of water

pour them over my head

and act as if A God

is purifying my sins

but these riches are

damned by the poorest

of bastards with souls

as cold as the leather

they wish their daddies

beat them with. They learned

pain is love and I ain't

talking about the sting
of discipline

*For dversepoets - MTB .

It feels great to write without thinking again.

I really want to take my work in a more natural

direction: smoother similes and less

choppy metaphors while staying true to my core.

Not saying the super complex writer in me is dead,

I just want to be great at both styles.

Her Confession

2015-04-08T20:00:00.000-04:00

She's like a work of art from Nancy Lorenz
her pussy is a gold pour box
with holy water soaked lips
that could wash any nigga of his sins
if his kisses start at her feet
a masterpiece of luxe Egyptian-toned
canvas-wrapped flesh
but as we all know, art is subjective
some would rather project
their insecurities onto sculptures
that in some way mirror
what they view as an ugly scar

Shame the black men who scowl
and run like headless chickens
at the sight of her bouncing
deep mahogany breasts
and those who don't mind taking
a late night dive with intentions
of finding an ivory pearl to last
a lifetime and as soon as they get theirs
they assume her river is ran dry

She's a tired goddess

Still, I promised her that nothing
promised ever holds up
like implausible foundation
so she put wings on her back
and vowed to never accept another
from none of these fuckin men

She said
I won't be returning
the favor anymore
tar from the tips
of these niggas dicks got caught
in my lungs every time
I took a puff of that toxic love
instead of flying
I was caged like a canary
in a coal mine

for dverse

His Confession

2015-03-09T20:48:00.001-04:00

Time ran away from me while chasing wants

I thought were necessities

obsessions with pussy money and weed bled on the floor

of the confessional this was the first time

he didn't mind asking for help

the art of compromise

but before hand bad habits

from the nuisance of itchy palms

lead to the scattering of regrets

and he continued

the mother's baby I took her for granted

and I lost the only thing I ever wanted

in the beginning and in the beginning

the writing was on the walls but

it's like I stabbed myself in the eyes with the pens

so I was blind to the fact that I had it all

he said

She was the virgin mary

and I was judas on my life

ready to betray god if

this bitch decide to have my baby

devilish

she said

how'd it turn to this

how'd it turn into this

the whites of your eyes turned

into dark lies and what's to hide

in a home when the glass is tinted

and your soul is cut from the world?

He said being an artist is too big a responsibility

for some art is the only thing worth believing in

that means someone out there believes in me

the way one might believe in god

and I can't take the pressures of believing

in myself because that would make me my own god

so I'll stay in disbelief

like america being the richest country

yet we got millions with nothing to eat

just food for the soul when it's dark and lonely on this road

they call the life of an artist

usually plagued by a dead end and suicidal thoughts begin

to take over when those world wide sales were dismal

and international success didn't take over

that's why my sweetest dreams are my nightmares

and it's so hard to focus when you're not there

and I lose it wondering if my muse will ever

end up face down on the pavement before I do

the importance of preeminence

can be fatal if you're not passionate

and it feeds off you

for d'verse... what's your confession?

At First Sight

2015-02-28T14:55:00.001-05:00

I watched you like a play in a field of strawberries.

I imagined you were telling my life story to an audience

full of strangers; and I, too afraid to have a seat.

So, I studied you from afar and resorted to
reading lips as if I had gone deaf.

for OLN @dversepoets

A Love like No Other

2015-02-11T22:19:00.000-05:00

A landscape was created with every word I spoke;

you're like a canvas begging for another stroke.

And like a sign from heaven I hear your hum;

so, in meditation for the wolves, my bones they broke.

Not a holler in my heart for it beats to your drum.

I hope you maintain faith in me, or my flaws I will become.

The goddess of my kingdom, royalty is what you bleed;

even the trees love the taste of your breath and then some.

The call of your name fulfills my every need;

forever together when I plant my seed.

You're the reason I awaken from my nightmare;

like a dove symbolizing peace, I am freed.

My dreams are woven with your hair;

sleep becomes a necessity only when you're there.

Of all the possibilities we could share,

I just want my dreams woven with your hair.

Written in the rhyme scheme of AABA-BBCB-CCDC-DDDD for MTB

Dyin' of Thirst

2015-02-03T00:15:00.000-05:00

your heart is like a frozen waterfall

and I'm climbing your icy depths
without a stitch of clothing
because I can't stop thinkin'
with my dick

these hard-ons

don't faze you anymore
'cause you know me so well
you know when pain is hidden
in the inky-blacks of my eyes
or maybe it's just you're
used to typical niggas
you read me like an open book
sprawled out on the floor

©2015 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
for Poetics

X̶̷̸̲̲̿

2015-01-26T14:42:00.000-05:00

X

Hair: like bondage

              wraps            wraps
                   and        and
                        wraps
                  and        and
             wraps           wraps

around the arms and

not only stops movement

but it slows down time

Bound by the hair on God's knuckles, it forces

them to reflect on every memory they

wish they could forget; thus, the

enjoyment in pulling out

your hair is found.

I know it hurts but continue sipping love nectar

until you're unrecognizable

be my bitch be what I'm looking for

and water me

Chapter One

2015-01-05T20:14:00.000-05:00

Dig spoken word? take a listen...

Her heart was like a Polaroid camera

Old fashioned take her home to mama
Kinda love but instead
Of embracing her ambient light
They keep her in the dark
And never bothered to see her pretty picture
Go figure; she's not commercialized nor modernized
Like Retro Jordans for midnight release
She's more of an umbrella in the pouring rain
Searching for sunshine
Like a widow who's at her peak

But will they ever know? No.

In the age where Instagram on the iPhone 6

can replace a true photographer's weapon of choice
And the poet's mentioning of writing love
Letters gets a roll of the eye
I'm steady asking myself why should I even try?

Why even... when

The, “if you ain't fuckin',
then you ain't fuckin' with me”
State of mind is the reason why
Romance is dire need of resuscitation

Memoryscape by Nick Gentry

We're gaining inspiration from artist, Nick Gentry for Poetics

Meditation

2014-12-16T02:31:00.000-05:00

I gave you the light that revealed the constant stranger

Turned relic to keep my faith from wandering

In the land of waning freedom

Where our daily bread

Is down to crumbs like the bottom of a toaster

Because each slice is devoured by the field talk

Of itchy trigger fingers

These elitist hands play magic tricks

And with each puff of smoke

Another slain nigger disappears into

The magician's hat faster than

The swipes on a fogged mirror

After washing away the blood

Of the innocent and plagued those

Poetically looking for temple

To express themselves

In a world that condemns nudity

Of the spirit so I hide my tears

And let them rain on my innermost thoughts

My bread is soaked in the harsh realities of today...how ya like yours? Tell us, for Poetics @dVerse

Dreams of Limpopo

2014-11-24T12:04:00.002-05:00

Baobab create gaps in the sky for light

to shine on a palate expanded by love
among the bushes that grew tongues
—only a select few weren't afraid to pick—
instead of wild berries
I asked the man, “where is your heart?”
as I waited for an explanation
I daydreamed about the old times
wrestling pigs and killing alligators
with my bare hands
unaware that the heart is to be
connected to the tongue
so a clear understanding
is needed before any emotion
is to leave the body
the silence was like a conversation
among the dead rose petals
thrown at whoever left him so speechless...

As we walked through rivers of
monkey apple pulp and crowds
of women collecting the life juice
as babies grasp the edge of mother's
paiute water basket. Everyone has little
to no pigment in their eyes, so a peek
into their window glistens as the children
drink pulp that harbors more protein
than breast milk like the starving youth
that only exist when I awaken...

©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
Take a dive into another world, for Poetics

The Beauty.

2014-11-03T23:46:00.000-05:00

She is the color of Swahili Aphrodite laid

against the night sky—not limited to darkness.

She kisses the sun red

to blend the bloodshed
down to a matter of perspective
so her view of the world isn't so bad.
Her presence brings a tear to the eye
like raindrops that distort your
reflection on the edge of a pond.
She dances off the high of long-winded
debates on heaven and hell's existence
while running her hands over loved
ones whose time has yet to come.

All after washing the dirt

of religion from her socks
one last time in the same
bathwater she used to
cure her loneliness.

writing from the perspective of the dead for Poetics...

Acapella Lyricism: My Mind is in Formaldehyde (Timeless)

2014-10-13T21:20:00.000-04:00

(This piece is meant to be heard, not read--please watch the video.)

What keeps you alive will eventually

Kill you like a pack of Marlboro Reds

To kill the constant leak of yesterday's stress
Music is my savior so it's like cancer to a fucking asshole
Who never appreciated a day in his life, until remission
Then joy became his mission
When I close my eyes I'm surrounded by Van Gogh
They say a picture is worth a 1000 words
So I'll forever search for synonyms
To influence my metaphor and mannerisms
Sometimes I'd rather mask it in a hoodie
Of street colloquialisms but appropriation
Has hit its all time high since
The beginning of colored people time
So I really shouldn't give a fuck
If y'all can't relate, then you renovate
And suddenly you become the leader
Of the new school
But I'm the one that's late
Like I missed my cue on the music of life
And told critics the piece was meant to be
Slightly ambiguous (a lie as one dimensional
As a pyromaniac's interests)

Hip-Hop inspires me so much you'd swear
I wanna be a rapper
But I'm just a writer trying to walk that fine line
Between lyricism and poetics.

We're Under the Influence of Music @ d'Verse...

The Significance we Miss

2014-10-06T22:08:00.000-04:00

Comfort in your own skin

love that only comes from within
yet, a lot of us are searching
not knowing where to begin
instead of analyzing flaws
appreciate the beauty in anomalies
like the pastel pebbles that line sidewalks
and cradle blades of grass.

Dodging blessings we think we don't deserve
like a native's refusal to do the rain dance
in the middle of a drought.

Beyond the aggravating rituals
I learned to love,
how you carry yourself
is peace brought into existence
amidst the world's chaos
like a drink of clean water.

We're writing about the little things over @dverse...

How They met Themselves

2014-09-22T23:26:00.000-04:00

Every time I ran my hands through my hair,

I felt the sweat, dirt and gravel from between the toes of

my ancestors. Faded, Dark Caesars release the spirits

as they, too, fled to France in search of flowers without

thorny stems that bring droplets of bad memories

with each sprinkle of salt in the water.

Rinsing sugar scrubs that remove dead skin

like Garra Rufa that pool in Turkish rivers,

where the current's strength reminds me

that everyone goes through a time

when they're not strong enough to stand

on their own two feet.

It doesn't mean they're at the knees

of their rivals: it's the makings of a rebel getting lessons

on survival.

And still, I wonder if it's just me:

a half-moon-haired bastard who sacrificed

everything to give his all to what started as a soliloquy;

but selfless, like cutting ties with my doppelganger
as he's a harbinger of death.

Poem inspired by Brooke Shaden's, 'Thorns That Flowers Grow;'

And Dante Gabriel Rossetti's painting, 'How They met Themselves.'

For d'Verse - Poetics