ARTISTRY
He was artistry itself…
He burned his likeness in the celluloid of my retinas…that even when I closed my eyes his façade swam before my face. I enjoyed the vibe he presented…enjoyed his color and scent. He was the quintessential class act with the hip hop edge that made him so alluring. He was artistry itself.
I couldn’t remember the first moment I’d lay’d eyes upon him, seemed like I was seeing him years before I saw him, years before I met him; but I knew that once I saw him…he was what I craved…
The thoughts ran that course with the stride of the most seasoned athlete. Their mind couldn’t get over his subtle attraction, couldn’t get over his obvious beauty that went far beyond the normal on the surface type swag; it was ingrained in his being. His atoms sang his beauty of being in loud voices full of sonority and life. They figured they needed THAT presence in their life; needed him to be there, in the picture, in the book, in their space, their sphere…dominating and eclipsing; o, that would be fine if he eclipsed them; they just needed to know that such a presence like him would be there, and be there for more than a night…more than a couple of long distance phone calls and extra-curricular activities that would make the nuns of St. Rochelle’s blush. They wanted him to be present perpetually. They wanted their lives to be consumed by he that was artistry itself.
**********************************
…That type of love (100words)
They screamed in their off-colored voices ‘its all about the cream!’ ‘its all about the almighty dollar…’ and on and on they screamed, shattering the reality that all that matters is a love; and not just any love but the artistic love, the skillful love of one who can look beyond your present and see where you need to be, who you shall be…and that is what the off-colored voices in the ignorant key of self should have been screaming.
I met him…
and this time I met the real him. And when I met him, I clung to him.
-cinqku-
buried…
what used to
be worth…Now proves
a betrayed idea…
left dry.
©2011/bloodspeaks
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