He calls himself a pro, we'll call him a stereo,

echoing the karma in the form of an internally oppressed man.

SHe's like Nina Simone and Grace Jones
at the same damn time,
Her future - written in rhymes and
fairy tales.
She smokes nicotine
about the same time everyday:
right before the day and just before another break.
She sings
He once threatened her, "I'll call the police 'cuz you're disturbing' the peace"
She kept on singing. Expressing her soul.
He didn't get it, though; like an evil ill, he pounced upon the prey,
and she nished the last improvisational string of words
that resonated in a chord that - she knew - had found its way
to his cold,
darkened, calloused, heart.
She laughed to herself upon the last beat. And she wanted to take a seat.
To breathe.
But, he hovered and diminished her moving freely
and to the heartbeat that beat within her,
she thought silently,
"be still, don't make a peep".
Counting sheep was another delay in the paradigm.
A buttery must have uttered its wing.
Chaos.
Math like science in art. She laughed. She defamed him after the last straw.
Called him a lil' girl. He was presenting as such.
Cowards. Filthy, shameful, cowards.
The saddening of humanity, one arm beheld tightly, without consent.
And for what?What happened to the sincerity, the grace, the moments that up until this
place were like commonplace.
The times when Nina Grace felt good in her place in time and space.
The karmic undoing of generation's past - unglued,
she thought about booing him the next time they convened at school.
Life was a shameless pool of blood wasted on tiles,
unmopped since the house had been a shivering, infestation of the releasing of
evils.
THe words digress into the page. Nina Grace takes a step towards her dignity. Ashay