Are You Winning Your Master’s War?

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Image: Dick Price, The War After The War

The doorknob turned as anarchy stormed in.

Violence ensued.

Mercy fled.

The war waged on the battlefield of time.

The adversaries bellowed their distinctive battle cries charging to defend their cause ordered by their respective commanders.

Like any good soldier, you fight the battle without understanding the cause—that’s what you signed up to do.

Since relinquishing your thoughts, feelings, and views to your leader, you no longer command your own life.

Someone else dictates your actions, your every move, and your way of living.

You have only the voice of your leader’s commands and orders echoing throughout your being.

Your true identity’s been stripped—dead to the world, dead to anyone you encounter, especially noticeable to those desiring a connection  with you.

No chapter exists in your war manual  for appropriately interacting with those longing to be close to you because you’ve been programmed to die.

Relationships necessitate life.

Your life’s no longer yours.

Regrettably true, you’ve sold your soul forgetting you were born free with liberty to move about unfettered.

As the battle persists—lives cut down, enemies (of your leader) destroyed—you feel victorious because it seems you’re winning.

I inquire of you, “What are you winning—your master’s war?”

You can give no thought to my questions presently. If you do, you will die on this non-self-imposed battlefield.

Your commander equipped you with the art of war to do combat in his battle, defending his interests, in his stead.

For your survival, you must follow his instructions to the letter until this battle’s end. Only then can you embrace your truth and purpose lying just beyond this war zone.

Hold on soldier—fight for your survival so you can live to determine your own destiny.

Peace…

 

Nesi Writes

Plaything 

ART: PAUL CHATEM, DEVIL’S PLAYTHING

She purchased me—like I am a hooker or something. Supposedly, she needed me—instead she hid me away, out of sight out of mind. Occasionally, she glances at me when she is nearby—toying with me like I am her plaything. Even though I am available for her, she goes to someone else instead of thinking about me. 

Sometimes desperation causes her to grab me, loosen me, and pour me over her cushiony friend. After I satisfy her sweet spot, she is content—casting me aside once again. I return to my isolated dark place longing for her return. I know I behave foolishly by acquiescing to the way she uses me. She willingly, openly, and freely allows her friends to pass me around tending to their little dirty deeds.

These acts leave me humiliated—feeling so cheap, and filthy. Her constant neglect and disrespect frustrate me—rendering me helpless because I am in her possession. However, I wait in desperation for her return to me.

Signed,

Her Nail Polish Remover

Nesi Writes

Writer Man

What are you doing, thinking, being, freeing?
Like a see-saw or whirling twirling swirling but never unnerving
I do dig you like an ole school record
‘Cause, Baby, I love your ways
You are re-quieting enticing spicing like the House of Atredis, my Lord
You are worthy I’m glad you know that
Float on, soar, and carry on your Highness
Beauty is her name—so accommodating, ego stroking spirit of yours elating
I don’t know if I trust her, but, if you do, if that pleases you, go on through to do you ‘cause she is pursuing you though you already knew
We all need our Strokerz for they give us that flesh zinger that twinge and fix we need
I guess the rest of us have to sort through our own mess as we see your groupies serenade you, throw their word panties at you
It sickens me when some floozy tries to woo you with her honey dipped words rolling off her lips
The pretty ones make us wince because we don’t believe in our own beauty (have mercy) see our own worth our own value if we did we would not be jealous it’s true
Pure jealousy haunts me when I see you flirting with those Prancers and Posers because I can’t have you
Now, I see that I want to own you, control you, make you the property that I so loathe being for anyone else…
Nesi Writes
 

Spiritual Vexation 

Spiritually ascending souls frequently encounter irksome guides as they sojourn.

Stoicism and defection cause these souls to stumble as wee babes for temporary moments in time.

A more enlightened individuation of themselves mastered the aforementioned characteristics, long ago.

Nesi Writes

Romanticizing Smoldering Embers

I can feel you in my loins—your smile and sexy voice peeling back my layers.
You’ve got me wide-open.

Our proximity is eons apart preventing satisfaction.

I need you to gratify my decades long of soul yearning. My itch desires relief. Can you do it, huh?

Honestly, until recently, neither of us knew smoldering embers for the other existed—intriguingly interesting.

Look at your sexy self, pushing all up on my psyche, whispering your feelings and crackling my synapses.

Oh, wow, what do we do with this latent itch we metaphorically need scratching?
I’m digging the depths out of you. You feel me?

When restraint weakens, will we telepathically unite satisfying our unresolved groove?

Will we welcome each other in out of the emotional thunderstorm to remedy this thing—this us?

Say what? I didn’t know it was like that.

Mind thrusting each other match-for-match as I come up to meet your truth-telling flow arching my mind’s back—taking all of you in.

That’s it. Lay it down. Put your word-spell on me—like the best you evah had.
I’m feeling your truth all of what’s inside you.

I’m digging your flow, maestro, anticipating you even more.

The tempo of our life’s concerto quickens—oh, the crescendo.

You have me right there like once upon a time when you were my refuge the place I’d go when I needed shelter from the outside world’s disharmony.

As I reflect upon what we once shared, I wonder if I’m over romanticizing what was or am I feeling your psychic energy flowing towards me letting me know that it was and is all real.

Nesi Writes

Bless Our Hearts

Artist: Elizabeth Catlett

My heart feels kinda bad ‘cause my man done gone.

Wudin’ mine no mo’ anyhow, bless his heart.

He won’t even give me da time o’ day.

I feels pitiful ‘cause I wants to rekindle some thangs that used to be.

I thought the fire was out but sumpin’ done sparked.

Don’t mean I wants to really strike up no romance ‘cause too many years done gone by.

But my l’il self tried ta reach out, and, maybe my efforts was in vain.

I feels kinda foolish now—shoulda let him make a move.

Aw, but he didn’t.

So, my l’il fast tail couldn’t wait.

Now, I’s just gone have ta put this here woe aside ‘cause it’s so unbecoming.

©2012 Nesi Writes

 

Lethargic Nothingness

Carly Hardy, Birds of Prey

Boredom takes a seat pouring a slow molasses like lethargy over my being.

I feel imprisoned in this nothingness—nothing motivates or stirs me.

Yes, I know the masses stand with their little list perched as sheet music ready to sing their operatic song of what I should or could do to escape boredom‘s hold.

Sing on if you must.

My ears hear you—my mind won’t listen.

Enfolded in the lull of boredom’s cradle, nothing penetrates this trap.

I wait it out until the next day.

Upon rising, I’m as good as new with a million and one things to do.

However, right now—this moment—I’m boredom’s prey.

©2012 Nesi Writes