Frust-f*ckin'-stration

"FRUST-F*CKIN'-STRATION"

Poem derived from my first completed journal, Black and Blue (2018-2019). Written May 22nd 2018 12:51 pm.

~~~~~~~

These dudes are only good for a conversation,

mixed with some hesitation

to commit to a Rose that keeps

growin’ from the concrete,

afraid that her thorns might be

too sharp to cut, especially when it’s rainin’.

Man, save it.

Maybe Mikey’s good for a little five-minute

“d*ck appointment,”

or Rasheed’s hands can be my therapy,

as he puts some cheap

baby oil to soothe and ease

the tension in my back that

this motherf**kah Trey seems to be

givin’ me.

But what’s up with all these names, Lefty?

And why do they keep adding up

faster than Johnny he guzzled when he c*me

after three quick, weak ass strokes, groaning to me

“Damn baby, my fault, that p****y straight flames...”

Maybe it’s this firey soul I need to tame.

F*ck it, scratch the maybe.

It’s this soul I need to tame.

Or do I need to set it free?

Free from the lost spirits, incomplete

and hollow that feed off and

drain all my energy.

They drain my energy.

Frust-f**kin’-stration,

for lack of a better term in the

English dictionary.

Or porquería,

For those who speak Spanish...

I keep scribbling words on my pad

that sometimes make no sense,

and other times make perfect sense,

and I’m asking myself,

“Why do I keep trying to fill avoid

That even I can’t seem to name?”