Brooke was here

Paint your words of love beneath the layers of my skin and into my bones. Let them be the lights that hold the darkness captive and carry me to lonely paces of bliss. Suffer me not to part from your dead, cold soul. Suffer me not to part from your insensitive fingers. Suffer me not to part from your stony heart and your infinite walls. Untie the noose of deceit you've hanged around my neck and unchain these iron wrapped around my wrists. 

People like us are not loved; we are liked by the sands of time as if we were the water meandering from fiery hills. We are applauded but not remembered; abused, yet remain silent because our pride lies with the joy of other. cruel you say, wrong and selfish maybe, but nothing is wrong in the eyes of love.
I want to catch the depth of Your love so that I may paint its beauty with divine words and make music in the hearts of men.
I couldn't quite tell how you happened. I promised my fallible self that beneath these cotton ball clouds, nothing could ever go wrong with a silent whisper into your ears. I found happiness in your frail arms and your big, gleeful eyes. I watched the sun set between your eyebrows as I wandered through your misleading thoughts. It felt like a wave of hope sweeping the concrete floors of my mind. You were different but like everybody else, uniqueness was a challenge likened to a stroll on water. Now, here I sit, behind these rocks trying forcefully to etch my emotions on these plain surfaces. The salty specs rolling down my perfect cheeks build up in the indents of my skin. There they sit, reminders of my mistakes and cowardice. But they are reminders of courage and lost love.

S. E.

I'm unsure of how to write beauty or how to tell you that you give me chatting jitters each time I want to say hello. I can't count the times I've recited my lines before they left these chocolate lips. You are the fragrance of good ointments and your name is fine ointments poured forth. You fill my life with the beauty of blooming roses and you make me feel love with your porcelain fingernails but more than anything my heart rejoices with the thought of you returning to my arms. Lead me away in your warm embrace and cover me with your beautiful whispers and inspire me to better.

'...hopeful romantic...' you whispered into my ears. They were still like the air at dawn and the shivers that run down my neck as your neared were effortless. You made me nervous because you knew me like the sun knew the sky and your words often left me breathless.

I remember when my eyes laid eyes on you. You were distant and my blurry vision did me little good. I remember how the gleaming late afternoon sun set between your eye brows and how you told me about what you love and made me understand that I was better than most.

You held my heart with such care as if it was yours. Your words tasted better than ancient wine and they healed me when I was broken. You are a beautiful soul and love flows from your fingers and your lips.

A frequent thing.

The broken I cannot mend and the lost I cannot save because I, myself have been crushed on the harsh floors of reality and all that's left of me are shattered pieces. I've exhausted my courage and yet still indebted to fear; stoutly it builds within these skin pores. Beneath these decent exteriors lies my shattered self. They deny me peace and wreak havoc. I lay awake in the middle of the night and my mind wanders through the different cities created by my memories. I'm broken but beautiful and I'm at peace.
I heard my heart pulsate as your words left your lips. I never understood how you could have such an effect on me. Your lips bleed joy and they mend me, they fix me with linings of unfamiliar emotions.
January washed away the bleeding walls of my heart. They'd been pierced with needles and left for dead. I was drowning in pool of my own actions and decisions. I should have known better. I should have know not to trust a stranger with my emotions. I feel clean, I'm relieved.
I see myself in the invisible mirrors that your words have created. They reflect bitterness, bruises and gatherings of despair. I'm exhausted like burned out bulb; a reminder of the demons I carry inside. They lurk in the shadows, in the walls raining torrents of torment in my veins. My heart thumps beneath the frames of my chest; it is the sound of chaos. In hindsight, I'm flawed in my understanding of their fixation and how to heal the lingering brokenness within. The shadows betray me. They've left me to die at the hands of your words; words scratching their way through the walls with their poisonous fingertips. All that I am now reduced to ashes as embers of distress fill up my lungs with a dark smoke of depression. They yap at me from the low lying depths of my dying soul

Awkward!!

So the other day, on my way home, here was a 'me'; a young nigga relaxing in the bus because I was pretty much exhausted. We had just passed the tram stop at the Medina heading to Bab Chellah when two other black guys boarded. Now here's a little need to know info about 'a' me: Not that I'm 'a' racist or anything. Plus I can't be 'a' racist towards other niggas when I'm 'a' nigga. I don't like it when other niggas who I've never met, sit beside me and start to chat me up about how great their life is when the whole time, they be asking 'a' nigga to pay the for their bus fare. This time it was different because they actually sat behind me, next to an old man who appeared homeless but surprisingly smart.

Have you ever been in a moving bus and experienced that awkward moment when some other niggas engage in a heated argument with a Moroccan? I mean, it's much better when the Moroccan is decent. When he is not decent, like the situation in which I found myself, everyone starts eyeballing you like "ooh look at that other nigga, why is he not part of the argument?" In this case, some two Arab niggas seated two seats ahead of me on the right kept eyeballing me. In my mind, I'd smacked them like five times. And the whole time I kept saying  why won't these crazy niggas shut up. Of course I could smack them but I don't have to tell you what that could mean for me. They will beat the issh out of me. I mean, it's good to meet one on one because on those grounds you have a fair chance but two or three-to-one, nigga please...

And then the argument got interesting. Yes, I was listening. These other niggas kept bragging about how "there is nothing au maroc and how they spoke all the languages. English, French , Arabic, German, Spanish and all the other languages. I bet if the man argued on that a little more, they would have said, "we even speak Greek and Hebrew."
I was like, "Why are they arguing with him?" Because they are talking about literally nothing. And then old man dared the guy by asking "como estas?" And guess what? Awkward! Nigga couldn't speak isshh. I'm sitting there like, "Busted! Nigga, if you don't speak the language, don't say you speak the language." and then.....