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    I taught my tongue to carve Lassie out of cantaloupes


                              So I guess my style is melancholy


    This whole world’s a fucking circus and my son’s the bearded lady




    Everybody’s got their faces painted but the make-up cracks and peels


      And we all go round, to shallow music on this moonlit Ferris wheel




    My world’s frustration, silent agony, insanity, up all night


    God made me an artist with no ability to paint and capture this starry night


    And I can’t articulate the colors, my marble statues cold and hollow


      My quartet, missing all the strings, so I specialize in the bravado


           And my voice of many waters muted, by the words I’m influenced to speak


      My thoughts form sounds that crash and hiss, sands the water and the beach




    In my honesty lies the power, But I’ve been taught to carefully hide


      The cracked walls and broken glass, the imperfections on the inside


    My heart’s a rented room; I charge them $90 a week


      Six months later, after believing their stories, I’m thinking this ain’t the business for me


    And I’m feeling I’m some kind of spirit, just trapped in a human body


        I taught my tongue to carve Lassie out of cantaloupes so I guess my style is melancholy




    Maybe I got unrealistic goals and it took me too long to see this


      I dedicated my life to writing without fingertips and moving the pencils by telekinesis


                    Through my eyes you’ll find a hobbit hole that houses a little genius






    And the music plays all night, his soul bleeds of lost affections


      Stacks of papers, books, beers, trash


          The endless pursuit of inexplicable perfection




    And the demons always taunt him, but his spirit guides him through


      That’s why his lips move when he’s all by himself


             You always wondered who he was talking to


    Trying to process the information and become everything I was sent to be


    I taught my tongue to carve Lassie out of cantaloupes, so I guess my style is melancholy




    A stagnant pond that dreams of waterfalls, Excuse me while I kiss the sky


     A square peg trapped in a circle’s hole, a stone gargoyle’s hopes to fly


    And I still believe in magic, fed by a fantasy that keeps me sane


      A prism trapped inside a four sided box, it’s writers block, I can’t explain..


    If I had a chance to do it over, I’d do it all again


      I yanked the I.V. out, my body’s cold, but I really needed a pen


    Drunk driving in the rain and I’m not accepting any calls


       Wondering if I hit the gas and close my eyes, would I splatter art across that wall




    My past a dead end of so-called friends, and I lost track of the names they call me


    I taught my tongue to carve Lassie out of cantaloupes


            I’m pretty sure you’ll find this melancholy






    You’ll find this poem on the roof, next to the sketches of some lady


       A list of names of people that fucked me over, then turned around and called me crazy




    You’ll find a note that says I ran off with the circus


              I’ll be that clown, but nobody plays me…


    I taught my tongue to carve Lassie out of cantaloupes


        And my son’s the bearded lady







    I noticed you didn’t move…


              You never touched me back,


                   It was like you couldn’t feel, and I was wondering what made you numb


    I looked into your eyes and I noticed the pain, through the glazed look


                          Afraid to ask, because I didn’t really know you that well


     But, I noticed you didn’t move


                All at once understanding the power of, “wanting to be accepted”


                         Maybe even, “wanting to be loved”


    I wanted to ask you questions


                   Deep inside feeling like I was exploiting your weakness


                       Telling myself that I, one more person


                                               Couldn’t, wouldn’t, make a difference anyway


    I felt your doubts, your confusion


    And I noticed you never moved


          Willing to give yourself, in return for something……


              However uncomfortable it made you


                               Knowing you had secrets


                                  Not wanting and wanting to know at the same time


    But we didn’t have that much time


            You holding the door,


                   Me trying to get you onto the floor


                            Feeling like you had been placed in similar situations, a dozen times before…



    But I remembered how you didn’t move


       And I caught glimpses of your inner-child


                     Whose story was long-winded, heart wrenching and sad


    And I’m almost certain it lived in fear of something


    And now, all at once I’m glad you changed your mind


        I’m happy they pushed the door open


            I couldn’t live with that on my conscience


    Because I noticed you never moved


        And it was a beautiful thing that,


                                        “Nothing really happened”


    About The Author


    A spoken word artist, poet, and author from Rochester, New York whose spoken word piece, “Covenant” was published in the fall-winter 2014 aaduna issue along with a video of him performing that particular piece. A guest on “Conversations,” he has been writing and performing poetry since he was a teenager and was awarded the gold medal in the local NAACP Act-So competition two years in a row and then went on to compete at the national competition in poetry and dramatics. Since that time, he has continued to write poetry and perform spoken word on the local Rochester circuit and in Central New York. He has completed two poetry CD’s, the latest EP called “The Obsession” with his group, The Vagabonds. When asked about his stage name, he says “Tearz is perfection; it’s the exact moment when everything inside you is manifested in physical form and the world gets to see how you feel….” His poetic style can best be described as dramatic, aggressive, emotive, and poignant, and his debut novel, Before I Wake, was published under the pen name Julian Foster. A participant in Rochester’s First Annual Black Author Expo (May, 2015,) he hopes to bridge the gap between people from different walks of life through the written and spoken word art forms.