Sometimes, I contemplate all this sex that I am not having.
Wasting water/ squandering something precious.
What is all this sexy conviction and dazzling youth when every new day feels like a gift half-opened?
Sleep comes and I am left wanting.
A body that begs for ignition.
Broody as hell,…
Inspiration doesn’t come – you find it. What do you think all this travelling is about? It doesn’t just come sit on your lap. You can’t be sitting in the same fucking place for 10 years, looking at the same fucking walls in the same way that you’ve always looked at them and expect that something is going to just happen out of nowhere. You’re sitting down waiting for inspiration? You’re going to be waiting for the rest of your life. — Ian Kamau in this interview (via neomaditla)
There’s this fear of going nowhere slowly
Running around like a headless chicken and not quite moving forward.
There’s this fear of wasted energy, wasted imagination, wasted life.
Yet I can’t stop any of that because if I’m not doing, I’m not trying.
The fear cripples. The fear tastes like failure
The fear envelopes me and all I know is that I don’t know.
This fear is the place from where I function.
This fear won’t tell me what I’m doing wrong
I just know this fear is wrong.
This fear is a part of me
A part I cannot shake
This fear is in part my prison
This fear is in my way
This fear lives on, while I crumble.
This fear is the fear that none of it will end.
This fear isn’t the problem, I am.
I am in fear
A lot lately.
About how to do better
About how I’ve done worse
About the boy I’m kissing
About the girl I miss
About decisions made
About opportunities missed
How does it feel like we’re going around circles?
By not learning lessons
Not leveraging growth
Thinking that some things just happen
When everything happens for a reason.
A lot of thinking has been done lately.
I usually come to life around 10p.m.
Never before that.
That’s to say that before that time,
most of my day is spent in an unconscious stare
I guess I stare at life
Observe it in scary perspective
I measure the way things are
and it’s like myself
is in a state of shock
so I just stare and wait for the day to go by.
I wait for the stillness of the night
the farewell to any schedule or time slot,
the freedom of the darkness that hides all reality
and reveals the freedom to laugh at those tired from a long day’s work
I awaken to the breakfast of a thousand kings.
at around ten o’clock the phone starts being used
the freezer door starts opening and closing
the ice tray start cracking
and the ice cubes begin to drop into the awaiting glass
the day no longer hunts me down.
my perfect camouflage is the night,
its TV programming,
its healing of the wounds caused by the day,
its glorious farewell to yesterday in the form of a drink
swallow away the worry of not wanting to cope willingly
who am I
sitting between four walls
the Knicks came back after being down by 21.
I switch on some music at 12:13a.m.
the party is just starting
my day has finally begun
I found you in the reeds while the water trickled through my fingers, I raised my hand to my face to wipe the sweat off my brow, hand still wet, I blocked the sun kissing my skin, you were the breeze that cooled me. — To love.
Easy like sunshine/Own it like Summer: A Blues For My New Muse or Sometimes, I am a Sad Peach -
As it goes, she only ever fell in love with men who reminded her of a Coltrane A-section at high noon. Everything before the brazen sax. Of melody and mahogany. Sir, you are somewhere between Pursuance and I Want To Talk About You.
Girl, you funny. I said, I don’t know much about…
It’s deplorable that sexually adventurous young women are constantly told they are “degrading themselves” by seeking out various experiences, that every bit of enjoyment eats away at some secret store of purity. This whole tradition–the idea that women need be preserved in glass so as not to “ruin” themselves, lest they diminish their sexual value by “giving it away”–restricts the lived autonomy of women in ways I can’t even begin to articulate. None of the slut-shaming makes sense unless you assume women live to give themselves to men in their purest possible form. —
Kerry Howley (via thenewwomensmovement)
(Source: womanistgrrrlcollective, via beboxedout)