Poetic Intellect

Would it be alright if I stole a kiss?
That momentary silence when your hair,
brushes my beard, with
your eyes locked on my chest, that
little smile that graces your face, when
God tells the world to stop spinning, and
turns that hourglass on its side to stop time.
For a minute.
Could I hold onto this moment forever?

I reach my hand and stroke the nape of your neck.
Your, shuttering breath as if everything in the world
took a back seat to that touch.
Just us, existing on the top of Mount Olympus
Sweaty palms, I
don’t want to ruin this perfect silence.
But, if you’d let me I’d interrupt it with the fireworks that will dance when our lips
meet and the lids of your eyes make the perfect blanket for your pupils to sleep.
That feeling in Kindergarten after snack time and your reward was a dream.
I am awake in a dream,
Queen, it’s the sun colliding with the rain to create a rainbow
it’s the first time I saw your face, and
my heart leaped from its throne in my chest
into your hands and you held it tightly
Can I have your lips, this one time?

Nothing but our hearts, beating
just the feeling that if your mouth met my philtrum,
and my mustache tickles your tongue, and
you laugh.
Can I steal that laugh and put it in my pocket, to
save it for those lonely nights, when
I’m alone in my room scribbling a poem, and
I need inspiration.
Chills resonate through my bones as I hear it and, it’s Zuzu’s petals
when I’m stepping off the ledge.
Reminding me that God exists, in your voice.

Two gentle souls,
standing in a doorway,
just a sign,
reading no words required,
Your lips,
for just a moment,
and my heart,
forever.

There’s a man who lurks in the shadows of the night
Waiting for the rise of the sun, the genesis of a fresh start.
He will roll out of bed, take a step into Niagra falls
and stand there.
He hears the chiming of his alarm, knowing that he should move
but he stands there.
Today I will conquer, he murmurs, auscultating to his heart
Pulsating new life through his veins, something is different.
For his shower head is golden,
but he can’t help but wash his face and sob.
Someone died last night.

He rushes through his morning routine,
brushing his teeth, fresh pomade on his hair
Buttoning his shirt and briskly slides on his cardigan, he’s running
With no clue as to why but realizing that time is slipping from him.
This unfamiliar animal is nervous.
Beads of sweat dripping from his polished figure,
not knowing that peace comes from understanding,
Understanding that he has everything.
The perspiration that trickles down his frame is different
it’s solid,
Golden.

He stumbles upon nature and the mountain cedar gives him pause
A night prior he would have stood in sickness, sneezing.
This lurker turned god touches
a bird with a broken wing and it flies again, Not knowing
That transforming himself altered everything.

They say that you’re supposed to start a poem off with a story,
Well my life hasn’t been full of sparkle and darkness,
my story,
hasn’t been a mural that can be painted with different colors,
but
it’s still unique in it’s own way.

They say, good poems are supposed to be about love.
Well I had love once but I went and fucked it up,
because I’m insecure.
A chameleon.
Blending into my environment,
filling that empty space in my heart,
left by a grandmother I never knew,
with booze and cigarette butts,
the, the
books.
That I read to consume my time,
to,
to enrich my mind, that
empty vault full of misery.
I shy away from love because I don’t like being hurt.
I know that God said that man was made of dirt,
well that’s what I feel like every time I wake up in the morning
body still full
from a night that has faded
into a memory I barely remember,
could I be so jaded as to believe it’s fulfilling.
Could I believe that this is me.
Could I believe that everything is unicorns and rainbows, that
life is supposed to be full of good times, and
no hard work, just
random girls that love it when I give them good dick
and leave them satisfied.
Am I satisfied.
Life is the New York City marathon, and
I feel like when it’s over I’ll just keep
running,
from something that I never cared to know.
It’s a patient in a mental hospital who doesn’t know anything is wrong,
something is wrong,
with this picture.
It’s crooked, it’s
it’s not finished, it’s
a book that the author passed away before he could end it, it’s
laying next to a different woman every night
is this what it means to be a man.

I’ll admit, every boy is a fan
of Wilt Chamberlain,
because, he conquered so many and left so many tears
well I hurt too.
Why do they say it’s wrong,
for a man to cry.
I saw my father cry,
is that not okay?
When he saw my grandfathers body being laid in the grave,
and,
his body about to decay, as
they handed him a folded flag and said,
He
served his country well.
My eyes did begin to swell,
it was, children running to the well
not finding any water so they stood panting
holding back the thirst
running to the river hoping that mother earth
would give them
signs.
allow me to rewind the VHS tape,
play my life on repeat and see where it all went south,
can this void be fixed by these words from my mouth
cause I’m broken.
I’m putting Timon and Pumba action figures in the tape player
hoping to watch the lion king, I’m trying.
But failed attempts leave my life more broken than before.
I’m standing here,
laying my heart on the floor.
Hoping that somebody mops it up and keeps the bucket,
don’t discard this bad water because it can be transformed.
It’s ocean water turning into rain, it’s fresh.
It’s a blank slate, uh
a tabula rasa, uh
a dirty towel that just needs to be run through the washer,
one good time
and it will be okay.

All it needs is the detergent.

It’s tough to find love as an average black man…

Not short, but
not tall.
Not fat, but
not small; just average.
Dark skin, that
melanin that reminds you that our people were enslaved.
There’s a difference between hard to get and tough to want.
Like, there’s a difference between the moon and the sun,
night and
daily,
I try, but you brush me off for some tall guy..
“Oh, he’s light skin.”
Well our hearts are the same, and
no matter our pigment,
I’m still a man.
I might be average but I stand tall as a redwood.
I may be dark but my smile brightens the sky.
Angels stare when I wake up, because I’m more—
than an average guy.
I’m me.
Adam Harris.
Five foot Ten.
Born in San Antonio, Texas.
Special.
175 pounds but getting my weight up,
my looks may not be the greatest, but
I try.
I’m beautiful.
Even if I were 5’9, God would say I’m divine,
Cause he made me Special.
In hopes that I would use my body as a vessel,
to uplift him.
He knows my heart,
that I shine in the dark, that
I’ve been through things that leave other niggas broken,
I’m special.
I rise out of the bed in the morning, like
Why God make me look so good, like
I’m special.
And whenever I walk down the street,
I smile, cause I’m God’s child.
Average.
5’10.
I went to school across the world
and I hope that when I have a little boy or girl
they’re average.
So I can look them in the eye,
grinning like the sunrise
and tell them…

You’re special.

i,

the eastern cornerstone of the kaaba,

raindrops fall,

with nothing but a blurry photo.

i,

say hi, my beautiful

mocha mist matriarch.

i can’t help but ask: Do you remember..

when you could hold me in both hands?

swaying as the whippoorwill with the voice of millions liberated,

no words,

just humming,

if only i could have that moment –

to play on repeat from the eyes of a child.

of that child.

Tightman.

not quite big enough to get his sister back yet,

but you knew someday he would.

just a blurry photo.

a radiant sun peering from it,

blessing with nourishment

oh how the seed rejoices

those rays built a strong tree.

Okay, so this is a song that I’ve had on repeat for a while now. You don’t know who Phil Ade is, get to know him. This track has that good music vibe. Extremely hard to explain it. Never mind your opinion on what “could” have been done with this beat. GO LISTEN NOW!