Whenever I meet my man
He must understand, that
There is a certain Style, that
accompanies my pen’s strokes
He must always agree, that
I am ten strokes away from a master piece
Bear with me

They say my pieces reflect the Brooklyn in me
East New York,
Canarsie,
The Bushwick In me

He must know that my pen…
My pen learned its swagger from cracked concrete
It learned how to bear weight from watching my mother
Carry children and groceries simultaneously

I’m only as sick as the way I grew up

He must understand my definition for Fancy ?
Fancy was every time mom bought a new plastic cup

We were never up on trends
Fashion was the new shit; I
received every time my sister outgrew her pants
So when I write
I scribe the newest clothes for that little girl back then
I hem metaphors into my hands
And sew similes into my knees
They told me I wrote too many dreams
They said
Pray
Pray
Pray little girl that poetry looks good on you

And I did
I just want to attract a cocky guy, who
Was always hung up on appearances
So that when he says:
“Damn Baby, you’re styling”
What he really means is that my pen is wiling the fuck out

He must understand I want to be a pen when I grow up
His spine must be as strong as tree barks
Because I want to marry a page
And tongue kiss poems into existence
Break the back of a Haiku
I want him to tell me he is more than 17 syllables
But make me describe him in 3 lines or less
I guess what is most important, is
Whenever I meet my man
He must understand that
There is a certain Style
That accompanies my pen’s strokes
He must always agree, that
I am ten strokes away from a master piece
He must bear with me
And recognize that I,
I am simply a poem in progress