tumblrbot asked: WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST HUMAN MEMORY?

Taking a deep breath

I’m going to make love to history so it could give birth to our future.

I’m going to uncover her story so I could let my words seduce her.

Never use her.

Never abuse her.

She is my muse and if my inspirations had color then she is the hue.

If it’s a crime that she is the words to this rhyme, I don’t mind doing time because even if it’s 25- to life til’ death she’ll be my wife.

Baby, I’m like a knight on a quest. It’s a task to pass your daily test, but with a shield to my chest I conquest all negative aspects, and conquer the kingdom of HER.

The rest doesn’t matter it is all you.

My past is in its tomb, our Love in the womb of “we”, carving the word “Infinity” in the heart of she and me.

Her soul is all I need making love eternally to the captured slave inside of me.

She is all my blind eyes can see, I scribble her name within my respiratory so all I breathe is she, and most importantly because of her I could finally taste the word FREE.

My hands trail the rhythms within her chest, as I slowly undress, caress her silky breast with just one breath.

Bodies gyrating, while I’m slowly migrating down the middle of her unblossomed flower, tasting the burning sour of desire that empowers my senses to devour her essence.

Yes you are a blessing, I’ll let my soul do the confessing, and my hands do the true expressing, my heart is digesting that a real woman like you who swept me is worth accepting.

I love it when my tongue and your clit are wrestling, and your dripping pussy just wets me and forms an ocean of cum which is the body lotion that softens my skin with devotion. She is the Goddess of all emotions.

Kissing lips with grinding hips forming a vaginal eclipse making positions our new religion while defying all law of motion.

Drinking her addictive potion while my heart beats at faster locomotion causing this explosion of lyrical convulsion.

Slowly putting a knot on all your weak spots, tying it slowly so your words wont clot.

It’s the inner you that I unlock while the clock tick tocks, losing grip of time we bump, we grind all night to the rhythm of our bodies rhyme.

My wife, I am yours.

From my inner wounds, down to my outer hard core.

From the poet tree that grows in side of me, down to the torn heart that I wore.

My queen you are the one whom I adore, I implore, and your body is the only one my metaphor’s will explore.

This is why to you this poem is for………

- Tatyana Cabrera

I’m a peace activist, reformed pacifist; you cannot predict how black this is, from now to the burning apocalypse.

I spit revelations, while you prescribe them medication.

I want to overturn this nation.

Want to see the bourgeoisie down on their knees, while they kiss my ass and bleed.

We are the refugees of society, running away from depression and political oppression, it’s time we teach them a lesson, and slap them with the blessing of intelligence and common sense.

No capitalist can conquer this; my confidence contradicts their filthy sins.

While they’re on top, I’m bopping’ my head to the unfound- underground Hip- Hop of the street, hearing the beat of ghetto poverty.

I’ve been held captive in tragedy, living fantasy and seeing reality.

Fall asleep and dream, start to scream and bleed, need to defeat my cries and find the answer to: WHY?

I’m a rhyming dictionary, images like pictionary; kill me because I’m a visionary.

I suffer like an Ethiopian, cutting my fallopians in two, to satisfy and gratify you.

No longer your “nigga” or your “cotton picka”.

Electric mixed with Afro centric vibes, turn lies inside out, hear me shout, our voice will count.

I stress this is not nonsense, just the absence of our conscience, stolen hearts living with broken thoughts.

I can tell my words give you moral hesitations, make you think twice about innocent assassinations.

Don’t betray your roots, never settle with assimilation’s, just bring more complications to this corporation- driven nation.

Pay attention to the tension you bring to their senses, never use fists in the ring, stand up and sing the words of Dr. King.

Peace will be brung, violence will be hung, and evil will never be sung.

The poet tree that grows inside of me is not an illusion; it is my confusion to the expression going against perfection, and the infection of political deception.

I put up a fight when my fists write, and go against the lies that hide inside the crack of time.

Until it is fully understood that SHE who comes from the HOOD, can also write really damn GOOD!!

- Tatyana Cabrera