Moody EmPo aka mstmha Reflections

Gustav Klimt's The Kiss

“Paint a perfect picture…

Bring to life a vision in one’s mind…

The beautiful one’s always smash the picture…

Always, everytime.”

-Prince-

Ice Water (A Short Story)

By Tiffany Hood-Acolatse

aka

mstmha

She watched him breathe slowly beside her as he slept and as by fate, she knew that their story was all the more clearer than it was yesterday, the day before, or even years prior…

Sway leaned her voluptuous curves readily against the glossy, red body of the Ferrari 488 Spider as the photographer snapped his camera feverishly in her direction. With a small poke of the lip and a turn of her tiny waist, unashamed, she showed off her very shapely apple bottom and shocked him with a gorgeous, veneered smile.

Sweat poured from his face as if it were a hundred degrees outside as he continued to photograph his favorite muse. The quickening blue-black clouds in the Georgia sky were the perfect background to the prints he had in mind for her portfolio. He smiled, appreciating the view before him that, in his mind, was nothing less than perfect.

She stared, uninhibited, into the Nikon camera; amused by the reactions of her long time friend as he tried dutifully to hold the camera still while capturing her beauty frame after frame. She knew what was on his mind but he had to understand that she had too much to lose. As the owner of Sway-tique, a multimillion dollar lingerie franchise, Sway was proudly on her way to creating one of the most unique boutique labels in the fashion industry.

After about an hour of posing, instinctively, Sway glanced quickly upwards and glimpsed her husband staring angrily out of their second-floor bedroom window. “Oh no,” she scolded herself quietly as she watched him disappear inside. How could she have forgotten? Her black curls swirled around her face as she hurriedly turned back to the photographer.

“Dammit, Reggie,” she screamed demandingly. “What time is it!” She began hurriedly straightening her Dolce and Gabbana caftan.

Reggie looked puzzled as he dropped one hand from the camera and checked his mediocre Timex. He hadn’t noticed that her husband had been watching them from above and stared at her in confusion.

“It’s 6:00, baby,” he exclaimed. He then turned to his left and grabbed a full glass of ice water that sat so temptingly on the brown, stoned fence wrapped around her front yard and gulped the coolness. He was trying, in his mind, to piece together what had just happened to make her go so ballistic.

Sway became frantic. “ Keith and I have a flight to catch to Bora Bora by 8:30 and I haven’t packed our bags!,” she cried miserably. “He‘s waiting upstairs. I’ve gotta go.” Sway quickly walked up and placed a Guerlain KissKiss smooch on his warm cheek and then bailed the pristine courtyard in haste to the front door as if she were running the forty yard dash.

As the breeze whistled past her ears, she didn’t mistake the sound of the refreshing clink of the ice inside the crystal as she eased her way through the heavy, Tuscan doors enclosing the front entry. It amazed her as to how distinct the sound was even from a distance and before she closed the doors behind her, she stole a brief glance at him and noticed that the glass in his hand was still enticingly full; and the ice sparkled with a quenching promise.

As Reggie stood alone, he watched as she darted away and entered the adobe-style-home that belonged to she and her blasé, investment banker husband. A husband that Reggie knew could never really love her as she deserved.

Keith did not want a wife; he wanted a trophy. Their marriage was an emotional façade and a monetary jail cell. Reggie knew Sway hated every minute of Keith’s braggart efforts to impress his peers simply because she now understood, after five years of marriage, that her husband would have nothing to do with her if it weren’t for his sociopathic need to remain on the family’s A-list.

Sway was a very strong and competent woman and her husband should have been proud to possess such a work of art. Like a Gustav Klimt, she was both beautiful and unpredictable. She was also both powerful in business and a model wife. Nothing like her husband who had been a penny pinching day trader when they met. Without her, Keith would never have stood a chance in her world. She had been his guide stone, his only path to success.

Reggie stood alone in the courtyard for just a few moments more while staring at the three-story home as if it were a plague at Gldani. The blue-black clouds in the sky had darkened to an almost absolute shade of black as it eclipsed, framing the house with its darkness.

He was quietly astounded over the fact that the heavens had, yet again, created another perfect picture. He reached slowly for his camera once again and snapped a picture for remembrance.

His time with Sway had been cut short and in that, he was very disappointed. He always looked forward to seeing her. Hanging his head, he started silently down the cemented walkway at the side of the house towards the kitchen quarters located at the back of the home. He needed to relieve himself of his still full glass of ice water whose cubes clinked harmoniously like his heart when he was with her.

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Inside the elaborately decorated home, Sway ran as fast she could to her second story bedroom suite. She found, when she arrived, that her husband was standing inside their custom Tesalia wardrobe glaring into the vanity mirror. She measured the depth of his anger and cringed. She knew what would come next.

“I’m sorry, Keith,” she began as she stumbled inside, eyes lowered. “I completely lost track of time but I‘ll…”. Her voice faded as she moved to begin their packing but stopped in her tracks once she noticed the many Louis Vuitton bags piled in the corner of the wardrobe waiting to be towed downstairs.

His face was frightening as he turned and walked towards her. It was then that she noticed that he was holding a glass of ice in his right hand but the liquid inside had been depleted. It was even stranger still to see that when his six-foot-two frame moved in her direction, the ice never made a sound.

Once in front of her, she stared wary into his eyes as he towered above her. His free hand lifted to stroke her cheek softly and then, un-expectantly, she felt his hand drop to her neck angrily and then began to squeeze tightly. She tried to scream.

“You little tramp! You couldn‘t stop screwing around long enough to pack a bag,” his voice maddening. Sway attempted to release his hands from around her throat but his fingers would not budge. She tried to scream again but became hoarse as his hand tightened even more. The lack of oxygen was making her weak and she felt faint.

Suddenly, Keith slammed her against the walls of the wardrobe. She slumped to the floor in pain from the impact then attempted to catch her breathe. She looked up just in time to see the glass of ice from his hand soar through the air and crash to the floor. In shock, she attempted to regain her composure until she spotted Keith and Reggie lunging at one another.

What she least expected to see next was the gleam of the gun. Crying sorrowfully, Sway rushed to her feet. She started towards them but the ice from the empty glass intervened. Her hands flailed in the air as she felt herself falling towards the floor again. The last thing see remembered was the sound of the gun firing, the crack of her head as it hit the vanity dresser, and then there was nothing but darkness.

Confused, Sway awakened, allowing the haze of sleep to fade. In disbelief, she noticed Reggie sleeping next to her. She couldn‘t help staring. She watched him breathe slowly beside her as he slept and as by fate, she knew that their story was all the more clearer than it was yesterday, the day before, or even years prior, or so she thought.

She looked around, ingesting the meager surroundings of the bedroom. It had only been a dream she sighed with relief but before falling back to sleep, she noticed a familiar glass of ice water full to the brim on the bedside table and smiled at the coincidence. She could feel her heart swelling to match its fullness as she openly adored him.

Reggie didn‘t wake her as he admired his beautiful muse’s face as she slept. He turned to stare at the picture of Sway’s very real three-story home surrounded by eclipsed skies on his bedroom wall and thought back on the hurtful past before Sway’s unfortunate amnesia. He held her in his arms and made a silent promise to always cherish this woman who was his ice. The woman who was now his perfect picture.

The original can be found at https://mstmha.wordpress.com/2013/12/14/ice-water-a-short-story/

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perfect person

Copied From https://mstmha.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/in-a-perfect-world/

This is my wayward description of what would be the ideal characteristics for the perfect man or woman attempting a ‘real’ relationship. The type of person that can outlast even the most horrendous relationship crises. A lot of it is repetitive but you will get the picture. I am continuously adding to it so please feel free to give any suggestions or ideas that you may have. This list has been ongoing for a quite a few years. The idea to post it was based on circumstances in prior relationships that were not so perfect. I have always been humble to the fact that no relationship can ever be perfect but it seems that in these days, no one even wants to try to have true respect for one another. Due to the technologies of today such as; computers, cell phones, etc., we are not as socialable as we once were. Today, you can feel pretty confident that you may not ever really know a person because technology has a way of ‘cheating’ you out of a genuine friend or relationship. We have made it too easy to ‘expand our horizons’ whereas the focus may no longer be on actually getting to really know one person. The distractions that occur while in possession of so many mechanical ‘weapons’ are endless.

Today’s motto: “All hail to the selfish.”

“In a Perfect World”
By mstmha aka Ms Moody EmPo

Why is it so difficult to find
someone who shares the dreams
that you dream.

Someone who understands
your feelings.

Someone who comforts when
your hurt.

Someone who would rather make you smile
than to see you cry.

Someone whose honest enough
to admit when they are wrong.

Someone who can take criticism.

Someone whose not afraid to care.

Someone who isn’t deceitful.

Someone who admits to imperfection.

Someone who isn’t overly arrogant and egotistical.

Someone who you can trust
with your darkest secrets.

Someone who can be your best friend.

Someone who doesn’t undermine your integrity.

Someone who doesn’t mind lending a helping hand.

Someone who doesn’t mind spending time.

Someone who is unafraid to be romantic.

Someone who is spontaneous.

Someone who comforts when your sick.

Someone who you don’t have to ask for anything.

Someone who is willing to satisfy.

Someone who gives more than himself.

Someone who is sentimental.

Someone who can share in a good laugh.

Someone who is unabusive mentally and physically.

Someone who you can communicate with.

Someone who tries to relate to you.

Someone who will stand up for you.

Someone who will always be there.

Someone who does not constantly chatise
everything that you do.

Someone who does not judge you.

Someone who is forgiving.

Someone who admits to imperfection.

Someone who is not suffocating.

Someone who knows the difference
between yes and no.

Someone with backbone.

Someone who is selfless at
least half of the time.

Someone who is not afraid
of creative expression.

Someone who is not narrow-minded.

Someone who is not annoying.

Someone who does not always try to pinpoint
every fault.

Someone who is passionate.

Someone who is chivalrous.

Someone who is not superficial.

Someone who is willing to pick you up,
not bring you down.

Someone who is willing to accept their
own imperfections.

Someone who is not willing to put
you in harms way.

Someone who will always be your
do or die.

Someone who is not afraid to say
I am sorry.

Someone who respects your space.

Someone who accepts you for who
you are.

Someone who is not judgemental.

Someone who will comfort when
your scorned.

Someone who respects your wishes.

Someone who is not your bully.

Someone who is willing to step outside
of their comfort zone and explore
new things.

Someone who will not allow family
to tear your relationship apart.

Someone who does not appreciate
drama unless your one and the same.

Someone who can be your guiding light.

Someone who will not drag you into
circumstances that are not within
your best interest.

Someone who compliments you even when
you look your worst.
(Thanks to a stranger.)

https://mstmha.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/in-a-perfect-world/

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dream gone

The Way Never Clear
By mstmha aka Ms Moody EmPo

Have you ever felt as if the world lay happily on your shoulders one moment and then, as if by a trick of nature, a tsunami rushes forth, as if from nowhere, charging blue-black, foamy waters. Crushing towns like bulldozers; hurling rusty-red bricks painfully upon straw huts on darkened streets cladded with unsightly broken bodies? Can we say, metaphorically, that your life has now become like those broken bodies ailing amongst those splintering huts. It is now, ‘all to pieces’, so to speak, because of a devil of an ex-husband and a town of demonic advocates of Hell; a group of people so obsessive over having power over your mind, your body, your spirit, and your life that the way can never seem clear. Never clear ever, even after you drank yourself into an Ever Clear drunken stupor, coffee’d the hangover while popping an Advil that did not medicate nor congratulate. You never received that hug of consolance or that kiss that tempered memories of good times. You didn’t feel that comforting hand that squeezed till you were numb with the feeling of security or fed you that five-star meal because they didn’t mind. In all actuality, life brought about something that was too far gone from that typical hammer and nail. There was no more lumber left to re-construct that fallen foundation. There was no positivity elevating your footsteps on a new front walk so that you would breeze down that golden brick path that now feels like quicksand beneath your feet swallowing every limb of your being within its unyielding wetness; suffocating you beyond degree; suctioning you into the thickness of its abyss. Never sorry, never caring, never clear. Clarity within its body posing irrelevance because it frankly does not care. Advocating nothing but a line of a smile like the devil as you sink deeper and deeper until there is nothing left of you. You have now been discounted due to the discontinuance of your life’s inventory.

Hungrily, you look back on that chocolatey cookie that is now considered no more than a dry bowl of stale oatmeal that welcomes no taste bud. Not even in the off-guarded flavor of the bittersweet. You know, it is funny, but I can’t recall when that cookie first began to burn into that smoky blackness but, as I meditate, maybe it was a sign from God and maybe He wanted to relay a message that was so simple. That blatant reminder that is so solitary yet so congregational. “…From which you came” read like an ancient scroll in my head and I wanted to cry. That cookie’s blackness represented the dark sadness of those corroding bodies beneath those infertile grains of sand and pesticided soil. Maybe, just maybe, it was a reminder that I should go back and see that from nothing we all came and to nothing we will go. That cookie would have been devoured eventually whether through human consumption or through inevitable deterioration. It is sad to think that in my evolution to greatness in which there was no illusion but an unrelenting consciousness that said, “Yes, I can and will”, there came that devastating day of mental and physical death that left nothing to the imagination. That day that changed my ”Yes, I can and will,” to that ”I will never…” because my way was never clear.

I am saddened because I never expected for my life to become that cookie that lay in that trash heap because it was not tempting enough to eat. There was no desire for a gluttonous bite or even a tiny nibble. No one ever took the time to scrape away that bottomed darkness that was so un-appeasing. They refused to chance the warm, sweet flavor of those creamy morsels that still existed within its top layer. Just to think, what would it have been if it had never been overexposed to that unbearable heat? If only someone had given it that extra care? Could it have been a delightful tea snack at a Victorian Sunday brunch, quietly awaiting its own ravishing? Patient to those dainty, unfulfilled cucumber and watercress finger sandwiches; cooling to its fate so that its sugary sweetness was more than welcoming. Could it have been a pleasant red and green holiday reminder, surrounded by those that adore its greatness as it satisfies those anxious children who are more than willing to share its candied glory to ensure that, that big guy in the big, red suit pummels with gifts down their chimney? How horrid to just throw a good cookie away in its entirety. How could a portion of it not be spared? Bottomed out, yes, but not to be completely undesirable. Nothing that a traditional swim in a tall, cool glass of milk won’t fix. Just a touch of liquid cosmetics and the cookie would have done a body good.

Were there far too many cookies on the tray, whereas, one burnt cookie did not matter? Was that cookie that wasteful where it couldn’t be shared, and with that, who was it that took it upon themselves to overshadow the heavenly fate of that wanton cookie? Who was that fictitious godly being that passed unnecessary judgment on its life’s durationality. Who dropped in without invite and with nothing more than a mere glance, decided that the cookie was aesthetically pleasing on the surface but its unfortunate events reaped no understanding or reward.

Then without more than a mere thought, like a lightning bolt jolting your mind, you fall into an un-serene awareness of a song that comes to mind reflecting those random thoughts. Wondering critically where and who the fault lies:

Was it a crime if your subconscious coldness surfaced, betraying your darkest, innermost thoughts?

Was it a crime that you stumbled in the dark into that heated oven where you discovered to your displeasure that the love that was found,

that love that fell on that non-stick cookie tray was not healthy or proper?

And you start to think, too, on whether it was a crime to be too cautious and overly self-protective.

Was that deterioration of love due to third party judges who simply could not understand that maybe, just maybe…

that love that was unsharing…

that love that made you hollow…

that love that had to be forgotten…

that love that made you so dismissive…

Was a love that just was not strong enough?

And as for that fatal trial’s conclusion…Was the punishment even justifiable as it carried a death sentence of loath?

Why, oh why, was the way never clear?

Then, suddenly, clarity whispered, so natural, like a palm leaf gently fanning in a summer breeze, and it said to me,”Strength in love will guide the way.”Real love never fails…” it said, but, clarity, like a fossil, felt so age old and out of time. So vintage in its nature. And, though, you want to believe that the pulsating fusion of two hearts mending together still exists and you know for certain that you have experienced it for yourself and you begin to remember that skin dampening feeling of love over lust; That shivering without ever touching; And a heat that was incomparable to any wood oven.

Real love never fails, huh? Now, if that were so, why did clarity after love’s hangover dismiss you? Or them, those sinister sex-craved parties, for that matter? Why was it so angry as to try to bury you within that sand that quickened beneath your feet just when you thought everything was ok? Why did it torment you within that heated oven until you lay scorching on that hot-bed of aluminum as if no one cared? Why does our lives have to reach the point of having to even ask? Obviously, clarity in love, at that time, did not involve the real. Even if it were real to you, it was not real to them. How can you make a right out of what was so wrong? How can you relay that you were being loved too abrasively. And even if you tried to make it clear on how to love you, the invisiblity of clarity still consumes those who don’t want to listen. Never clear ever, even after you drank yourself into an Ever Clear drunken stupor, coffee’ d the hangover while popping an Advil that did not medicate nor congratulate. The way to love, still, even after the headache, never clear.

Real love, by opinion and examination, guides the way. It can turn our,”No, I won’ts,” to “Yes, I will’s”. It can turn an unedible cookie into one grand, artfully garnished five star meal. Maybe, that sweet, yet unadorned cookie was worth eating after all. Just maybe it contained all the pleasures of enticement but it fell short because of a population’s consumption of assumption. And those that followed that instigator of impurities, chose to throw that already damaged cookie into that trash heap without a care or lingering thought. Did they not know that even as trash, that little, off-scene messenger still offered itself as a delicacy to someone or something else. There was still a life away from that unsanitary trash heap that had nothing to do with luck but everything to do with God’s evolution of life. His personal recycle bin that lends to re-creation. That cookie could have saved a life from hunger and not because of its sating sweetness. It would likely satisfy a national photo that encouraged strong bones and milk. It could have been a crafter’s delight in a permanent, plastic set displaying itself proudly for all to see for years to come. It should have been bitten and stored by a population of tiny creatures that did not discriminate so that they may be fed.

Adulterated and empty of faith, why did those devil’s advocates refuse to give hope to that silent cookie? Did they anticipate that its misfortune would cause it to crumble away into an unfortunate death?

Does our world of unforgiving herds’ concerns lie not with the betterment of a meager cookie but only with the sensationalization of the cookie cutter’s own bitter ego?

Were we always supportive of the type of world that is giving of no second chances?

Was it jealousy of that cookie’s own individualistic qualities that drew alarm?

Could there have been so much fear in their hearts where they felt that their world would be disparaged?

But then, how could that be? No two cookies are the same; so what was the real issue with that one, lone cookie?

Glancing back at the dim recollections of an imperfect past, you start to see the big picture of what was to be. Surrounded by adolescence and most things obscene. Anything and everything that could happen in life’s continuous cycle happened and you try to deny that your meager ego, your charismatic charm, your sunny smile, your gift of love had anything to do with your dramatic circumstances for your life attracted those moments that were, indeed, so unforeseen.

Those demons swarmed, flapping wings of envy, deathening your hearing to the the sqwacking sounds of their animosities; punishing you with their venom as their pointed teeth sank deeply within your core; piercing that artery that is no more. You can recall when your heart finally stopped and your body stiffend as it lay frailing on Egyptian cotton, weakened without life support. And unbeknownst to anyone except your torturer, your soul escapes, willowing gently towards what you hope will be the sanctions of a promised heaven and it disappears silently, wispingly;

Unto which you write…

‘The Old Weeping Tree’-Revised

Our memories haunt me as I sit beside you,

my unbegotten love,

on a bed of green, beneath our weeping tree.

Leaves heavy with laughter though obscure,

and those damned sadists we endured.

Scalding diamonds burn trails from my eyes,

shapeless by moonlight as I cry in rage

to that unseen cloudy mass far away,

and I ask them why. Why did I have to die?

The envelope of night inflicts misery,

sealed above us incasing memories

of winged ghosts guiding me

to the lights of death.

Black curtains of pain embrace your face,

like a midnight fog above the sea.

HIS word I keep like water to willow leaves

that someday together our breaths shall

meet as I cry with you beneath our old weep tree.

By mstmha aka Ms Moody EmPo

Shamefully, even after your dissolution, even after your inner being has been emptied, still those fiery pits, worse than an oven, continues to leap, flaming upward to quarantine what remains of that empty shell that use to be so full,free, and spirited. That body that examined all ‘Not Especially’s’ with indignance while steering gracefully towards the more positive ‘Without a Doubts’.

Hoping for a happier, more enlightening sprituality was like wishing for…

a habitable star,

a non-cratered, oxygen-filled moon atmosphere in which we could dive and swim,

a refreshing drink from the Milky Way,

or a be-jeweled necklace that harnessed the solar system.

Blatant to the fact that what you experienced was not a dream. How much explanation is needed to reiterate the defouling of your repetoire as you tried to reach out to God’s unchanging hand just as those dark demonic fingers yanked you back to that fascist oblivion. So abyssal, as it was without end. It was that path that you’d wished you’d foreseen so that you could escape a morbid fate. It was the easier way to life that was never clear. The way that was not as painful.

Never clear ever, even after you drank yourself into an Ever Clear drunken stupor, coffee’ d the hangover while popping an Advil that did not medicate nor congratulate.

So prudish was he who protected only himself as you were entangled in his bateful lair wishing that with just a click of your heels and in not more than a blink of the eye, that distastrous world would fade away and the new rain would identify your wounds by cooling those burning singes. A new rain, a new you. So hopeful that your tsuami was nothing more than a cry in the sand. A new day, an old thought, a favorite poem that identifies what you were trying to accomplish… but, of course, no one listened…

Why did they not listen to your cry as you tried to reach…

…‘That Mountain Peak’
By mstmha aka Ms Moody EmPo

Unpredictable is the life that I belong.

Obstacles of blinded chance

run through my world like an off-beat lyric

to a song.

Nawing away at a candid understanding

that in my heart I carry a dream;

that remains nestled

in close proximity.

Never did I guess many trials unforeseen.

In my wake to increase my self-identity.

My life dictation, uncertain as it may be,

Has lured my mind into an oblivion;

But not too far away that I cannot praise His Majesty

for guiding me through the ridged edges

poking at my side.

Climbing that mountain in hopes

that my path will not be my demise.

With surety I rise, struggling,

Head raised high,

Eyeing that mountain peak above;

Awaiting success beneath blue skies.

No one listened when you told them of your dreams of becoming a self-made entrepeneur, or a creative writer of sorts, or a loving figment of someone’s imagination because what you wanted in life was much too important to let go. That feeling of accomplishment in the things that weren’t just fly by night. That love for something that made you feel proud to say,”Yes, I did that and, God, it was worth it.” Even though the time may have passed you by, your days were filled with inspiration and solidity in facilitating a dream that you’ve held in your being for so long. Time was, as they say, by your side, but only because you began having those romantic thoughts of that candlelit five-star meal you will one day have with yourself because you’ve finally reaped the benefits of what you have so steadfastly worked so hard to obtain. In your mind, you dream of all of the ways that you would pamper yourself and you smile a silly smile because in your heart you felt that one day that dream may become your reality.

Until that dark order swamped you with insignificant, time wasting desolance. Incurable in definition, those obsessive beings detour your footsteps like an old throwback picture that you would rather forget; so much that your chances for that occasional, congratulatory delicacy were slim to none. And you were forced to either drown in that suffocating quicksand or grab hold of that one small, fragile branch hanging over your head until you pull yourself to what you believed was safety, into a twilight zone that harnessed all things not worth remembering. Then you wonder if it wasn’t worth drowning after all because those ways of the past were never clear as to what future was real. Was it the future of your dreams or the future of those that were punishing? Who would know as you tried to erase that slate of distressing memories as they appeared for the benefit of starting anew but you find yourself now stuck in that twilight zone again, not by choice, clarity revealed and those memories become so redundant that the weight of your future doesn’t seem real.

Why is it that every time you try to pull forward away from those dangerous forests, for some reason, not within eye or hear sight, you still get dragged back to that free, crudy hotel from your nightmares because, due to weather conditions unforeseen, your flight was cancelled once again. Stuck to tread through the swamps and quicksand surrounding your dead hotel; and your brand new pair of red-bottomed Prada are suddenly ruined. That perfect setting of fine silver and delicate china by a serene candlelight beckons teasingly. Situated miles away on the opposite side of the street of that stained-sheet flop amongst a granduous setting that taunts like a trust fund baby’s embellishments. That scene not readily available because you have been denied as if you had dutifully asked for someone to monetarily cater to your private meal while sipping blue labels surreal that, honestly, you had no qualms in furnishing for yourself. Did they ever think that maybe treasure digging was not your cup of tea choice? Shunning your independence as if it was a crime to see. As if it were a crime just to be me.

Was it real? Those dreams that you harbored so close to you that it was like wearing your favorite coutour, like second skin. What was wrong with the idea of having a beautiful home on the beach, shopping lavishly at your favorite boutiques, taking long trips to wherever your heart desired, doing the things that you’ve always wanted to do but doing it on your own? Why was it such a problem to be self-providing? In guess-timation, self-provision does not mean that you had to be a tid-bit working woman on the corner or a drug dealer on a darkened street. What was wrong with actually following your own desires to build a better future for yourself and your family? My dream, it seems, took on a 360 reveal.

It may be that the ignorance that was portrayed by those sullen people derived from the ignorance in which they were raised. Assuming anyone who is worth anything was brought up in an environment of negativity. A world where the glorification of money defeats God? Is that what the world has come to? And in the chase for money, does it take being narrow and hateful in order to obtain the finer things in life? Should your choices in life and love always be shallow? Should man be so convincing that the wrong is always right? What if that was not the road that you wanted to take? Do we even have choices anymore for the sake of our own survival or has man powered themselves so much in the likeness of God where your growth is limited beyond choice? Why are our lives no longer our own? Why does it seem that selling your soul is the only option remaining? When did our rights of peace, life, and liberty disappear? So many questions and so little answers. Why has the way never seemed clear?

It would seem that the best thing to do, after so many trials in your life, would be not to look back on the cruelness of winters past but to focus more on the warmth of summer’s future. As we go through so much to recuperate the things that we need, it’s a glorified blessing to find the means to actually obtain the things we so achingly want. And with those difficulties alone, you wonder why it is so hard to gain understanding from others that sometimes doing things on your own, without the distraction of negative influences, is, indeed, merited. Your sense of accomplishment has no limits as you take pride in that gilded frame hanging proudly on your wall surrounding that official certification that reads ‘For Climbing That Mountain Peak… Here’s to unregretful ends and happy new beginnings’ so that, you can then honestly say, that the sky really is the limit and you find that you, positively, can do anything that you set your mind to. With this in thought, why do people make things seem so much more difficult to acheive when our stories can be so much more simple? Why have they conformed everyday living with so many complications? Why can we not just live hopingly, laugh cheerily, and love freely?

Society’s obssessive abuse of power has become so astounding to the point of aggravation. Since when did our lives belong to another human being so much that they may tamper at will? Since when did we not have the right to live independently, as we please? Why was the way to fulfillment frequently buried? When you think back on situations of the past, you ask yourself, what were their intentions? It wasn’t hard to see that the rewards for the beneficiary of your lost spirit was the trust of their frequent cruelty. A guaranteed awaited profit, direly needed.

Sadly, today’s society has become so spoiled in that no one can be happy with their own way of life. People are so determined to make others look incompetent and undesirable because their egos will not accept that they, themselves are just as imperfect as anyone else. Their justification of their imperfections are to deplete others of their lives and free will so that their gluttoned egos may seem to others as perfect when this is far from the truth. Hammering nails of deceit so far into your brain that your reality is unconscious to righteous reasoning. Defeating every figment of light that was in your being to just a flickering shimmer. You finally find that your life has now, after so much bitterness, become the perfect abstract with so many distorting scenarios that weren’t created to blend. That tsunami’s wrath that stormed through your world, the burning of a favorite snack that no one adored, the fretting dream with no tact in store, no answers to the questionings of that twilights unnorms. Humanity’s rife…The Way Never Clear.

https://mstmha.wordpress.com/2013/03/11/the-way-never-clear/
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rose

An Excerpt From A Novel In Progress…

(A story of a love affair gone awry in ways never seen…)
The Original excerpt can be found at https://mstmha.wordpress.com/2013/05/11/a-work-in-prog…rican-acheiver/

Here is a peek…

Later that night, in her bed, Jahnee twisted and turned frantically in her sleep. The white, painted room dimmed into a smoky red haze. Her vision was blurred and her senses were alert to the hard fingers that stroked her bare, brown breasts as she lay spread eagle on the down comforter that crumbled beneath her weight on the wrought iron bed. Her nipples tightened painfully as the erotic stroking increased momentum and his rock protruded against her abdomen.

He lay heavy on top of her and she felt breathless as her sex moistened with anticipation. Her pleasure point throbbed beneath the dark curls of pleasure. She wanted to scream out loud for him to make love to her now but the words almost strangled her. Her fingers reached up to pull at his thick, silky hair as she tried to lure him inside of her.

Dreamingly, she could not see through the red fog that filled the room but she sensed the familiarity as the man before her brandished her body with the sensualness of his kiss; warming her skin. The woody scent of him triggered something inside her head but all was not forgotten as he turned her over and his knees spread her legs and he entered her with so much force that she could feel her body trembling and on the peak of an orgasm. Her nails dug deep into his skin, bringing him closer. There was power in every stroke as his manhood slipped urgently within her…in and out, in and…

Jahnee’s eyes shot open and she hastily sat up in her bed. He was invading her dreams again. Her hair was soaked with perspiration. Sweat beaded her forehead and she felt sticky as her white, silk panties and matching bra clung damply to her caramel colored skin. She quickly glanced around her feng sui, inspired bedroom just to make sure that it had really, only been a dream. The smell of Andrique still burned in her nostrils and lay heavy on her sheets. Jahnee groaned.

‘Am I ever going to get over him?’ she finally asked herself. ‘Andrique was getting married for God’s sake!’

To Be Continued…

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