Poetry

She smiles, I smile;
She walks — no, she glides — softly by me, changing night into day;
She opens her mouth to speak, and so, sounds ring in my head;
She speaks, and I want to dance to her rhythm;
She moves ever so gently, increasing my desires;
Desires to place my arms around her waist, hold and squeeze unto me;
I want to melt into her body, and discover the base of her warmth;
Her beautiful black body that no human mind could ever conceive;
She's love, she's truth —
She's real, as real as the stars that shine in the heavens;
As real as the sun that bathes her body;
As real as the moon that glows, and the birds that sing, and the rose
That blossoms in spring, for she is that rose;
And not just any rose — oh! — but a black rose;
A black rose that stands taller and stronger than any other plant;
A black rose that stands as creator of nations of black rose;
That never loses her petals and blossoms all year 'round;
Black rose, sweet rose, thornless rose, eternal rose —
Please look my way...

— “Mind Sex,” Dead Prez.

[These lyrics are in the song, but they're spoken by another poet — if only I knew his name!]