Last Call for Workahol...

I've been working on finishing the album concepts and refining my lyrics so I have no post for today. I decided to share this piece I wrote a couple of days ago. I hope you enjoy it because it was inspired by someone very special. I hope they don't mind...




What I Crave

The fact that I cannot reach out and touch
you causes emotion that lays claim to depleted
portions of my soul.

I crave just a brush in a closed space.




By you.





It drains my heart to the point that blood cannot
reach my outer extremities. It doesn't matter anyway
because I cannot reach out and stroke your skin.

It's beautiful brownness, a bronze like no other,
coveted after by those that despise you but attempt
to move their hips in a directional sway like you do
but fail miserably.

Their imitation does not flatter one bit and I anger
thinking of all of the pandering and posing one does
to garner my attention in an attempt to be sister-like,
but it is you my sister... That I want to touch.


Contact has it's advantages. If I am physically
connected to you, even by hand means that
you have also extended out to me and want to
connect both at a cellular level and spiritual.

See, words have the power of life and death, so
imagine if I were to extend my hand to you, gently
causing ripples of sensation on your skin.

This means that the big bang theory meant nothing
because whatever we create in this moment
is much more powerful than stars crashing
in the cosmos.

It means that we build in the simplest of movements,
a symphony is composed with my finger being the
bow and your skin is the soft alto string of a violin.

Babies are made from the simplest of contact.
Let me touch you and render thought of creating
life by letting my fingers do the undressing...

Let my hands caress the smooth silkiness of your
left leg and release the tension is concrete and
steel by letting me massage your calf...

Your thoughts are softer and less threatening
dealing with the world after my index fingers
rotate gently on your temples...

You cry out in ecstasy, but not loud enough
for the neighbors to hear when my hands become
the stimulation tool that manually plows your garden.

As I dig I find a bulb that I did not grow but has
risen from your briar patch that needs to be
watered and stroked. In that moment, the secrets
of creation are revealed in actions much too
complex to put into words.

I'll just let my fingers do the walking.

copyright 2006 Hassan Olumoroti Ntimbanjayo

Enjoy your weekend and be safe blogfam. Chele, I ain't forgot to address the stress and blockage thing, look for an email forthcoming.