Poetic State Of Mind



If my cornrows didn’t lie on this trey like Mario,
What if my roses were blue and your violets were red?
What would you do if I told you I’d been out on a couple of rendezvous with a few of those insignificant wannabe you’s but failed to highlight this was at the point where you had me stretched out like the elastic in my BBall shorts and all sorts?

I am no genie and my carpet is immobile,
Italian yes but not Immobile if I may stress,
So what if i confessed that I’m attracted by your intellect but truly in love with the push to start knobs on your chest?
What if I were a graduate with a pass and class rather than your ass of a crass boy with a classless ploy to make you think you deserve a certified player to fidget and control you like a toy?
If I pushed you into the pool to reveal your nude only to find out it was neither bjuku nor juju on the beat, curse that day but bae would you be mad If I asked why all those contours and yet your face looks steep?
If I lied to get in your dross, but at the point of penetration I hesitantly withdraw,
Would that be an L on my score? 

You see I’m asking these questions because you don’t get the fact that I’m stressed with all your suggestions,
Stressed with all your second guessing’s,
Like I can’t tell if you want a future or you want to get past these blessings,
If I left you hanging borderline between forever & always and go to hell,
Would you up and leave considering your emotions tend to fluctuate like ECG?
So what if I also grew impatient and called you basic?
Would you be mad if I said I wish we never had dated?

You’re just sitting here looking unconcerned and unfazed,
Playing with your phone like all this talk is gibberish and you’d rather be at home and I bet the guy you’re texting is probably boning your bestfriend but you’re here with me thinking you’re just flexing,

Struck a nerve didn’t it?

Here I am trying to justify why we should both be singing from the same hymn sheet
but you’d rather do a solo with no acoustics nor beats,
No you’d rather paint a picture of hell with me fanning the flames that you feel like only saints were heels,
What’s the point if all we do is argue and complain with makeup sex covering the same cracks we bust open again and again,
How do we ever heal from this pain?
If what I get for going through lengths and sacrificing lent to make this work is being branded inconsiderate,
Then I guess it’s true what they say,
You should only make yourself a priority,
This love thing is overrated…




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