They call me Cubes

I see an ice burg
I feel an ice burg
I am nothing more than an ice burg

So connected to it that my friends call me cubes
once upon a time there was a warm organ there..back then when i use to feel
happiness came in so many forms …africans, indians, 20, 21, 22
now happiness comes in vodka, appleton, marijuana

once upon time sex was profanity because back then i called it making love
a kiss was never just a kiss, it was two lips whispering physically just how much we meant to each other
it was once music …. like the birds and our play list joined in the chorus while we moaned and made beautiful music…our heartbeats the perfect rhythm

but now sex is nothing more than porn that I try to digest because i lost lead role
its something may even happen between my index finger and my uterus
no music is needed for this short session of meaning less of whisper

once upon a time my poetry had rhythm, something to smile about
that three point plot, climax, resolution …now writings have fallen off the blueprint, there are now just black letters typed abrupt because somewhere inside me someone has something to say…. GIBBERISH

Once upon a time …… now i’m an ice burg
what do i do when the greatest part of me was you??
how do i even solve this mystery when i don’t even know who you are?
But whoever you were..if you are out there ….I miss you

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