This Introspective Language.

Quieter than a whisper
Far more solemn than a ballad
These interactions within myself
Quietly so, solemn so.
I was once asked
What language we speak
Both me and I, when we converse and…
I cant truly say I know
Because I don’t see myself uttering words
Telepathically, you may say,
I just say a hello
And I know, without a doubt, that myself too, is responding…

“hey ma’am, how you been since the last time we ‘seen?”

*Impending discussion*

One can only hope
That the tongue remains
The heart’s messenger
And that it relates
Verbatim
The queen’s words.

Time will tell then,
What will be said
What is felt
In the heart
Where I wish to be
My world.

Death to the Follicles!

If every woman decided not to shave her pubes
Would every heterosexual male get disgusted?
Would he get to chasing her around, with a razor, yelling
“death to thy follicles”?
Would he
In an attempt to please himself
In an attempt to have a muse, a rhythmic being to stroke himself to,
Shave HIS pubes, turn autosexual, and love himself down?
Would he?
Scrub get tubes of Nairs and layer his legs
Protest!
Scream on top of his lungs, for fairness?!
Would he, though?
I wonder…
Only God knows for sure,
But something tells me, he’d be hysterical, Act out,
Pull the disgusting card
And eventually, in the thick of the night
When he’s ready to calm the fuck down
When his dick gets restless, rigid, and warm
He’d come banging on her hairy pube’s door.
8:43pm September 28 2011