scribes4life's profile

He told me that his muse was asleep. I pictured a nude figure twisted between sheets, dreaming in spectrums of reality. I wondered if those dreams spoke in guttural sounds about dark alleyways framed in features of the forgotten searching through rotten garbage for dinner. I wondered if their faces reflected the ruin of places decorated in fast food wrappers void of laughter- and if those dreams smelled like corners soaked in the piss, sweat, tears and blood of victims condemned to die like c...

Killin’ Your Son The shadow of a missin’ Father holds The son hostage. Feelin’ abandoned, he chases ghosts Around dark corners Spyin’ for a glimmer or a glow. Instead of Apollo, The boy finds artificial Illuminations That buzz and flicker Wit’ the warmth of uncertainty. The next thing Mama know, Her little boy’s Playin’ grown-man Games. Ya see, They started throwin’ Dice against that Cardboard cause Nobody ever wanted To be cops— Just robbers. As he treks Further from id He never arrives at s...

I bumped my head a million times on that table, Grandma’s dining room table. For everyone else it was a place to eat, But, for me, it was a place of peace. I sat beneath the clear glass watching a world that had nothing to do with me, yet I could not divert my eyes. I listened to the murmur of voices that seemed so far away, and smelled the sweet aroma of love rise from plates of yams, fried fish, and collard greens. And I thought. I spent somber instances silently, and mulled over memories a...

I wish that I could write a happy ending to this life. Mending broken, blotted hearts delivering some light- to the depths of shaded souls and shattered lives of battered wives- to the drug addicted thugs convicted lost in scattered lies- to the haggard homeless masses harassed for sleepin in the park- to the little kids neglected and ones molested in the dark- to the junkies snortin 'caine or pushin smack into their veins- to hapless hookers smokin crack to alleviate the pain. This is for- t...

The letters that you see upon this miniature poster were originally hand stitched after hours of concentration under skeptical light. Every thread of creation was carefully selected from spools of sorrow, wonder and insecurity and placed by a steady hand to create the likeness of a man teetering on the edge of instability. I wove uncertainty into his brow and yoked it with the confidence embroidered upon his smile. I used melancholy filaments to construct woe and contrast the delight surround...