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Emante
Washington-Mobley
Poems

About the Poet

Emante Washington-Mobley is an 18-year-old SUMMIT Scholar senior at Bowie High School. In addition to writing poetry, he participates in Poetry Out Loud and placed second in Prince Georges County’s most recent competition.

He is also active in NJROTC, Poetry Club, chorus, and dance. Outside of school, he has held business and law internships, and enjoys running, yoga, and kickboxing. In the fall, he will enter college to study business, economics, and foreign languages.

washington.mobley@gmail.com


Spring 2013 Poems »
Truth Be Told

I don't like your smile,
The way the light
Captures your cellulose
Is quite repulsive.
You were assembled
To be alone,
Like classic Barbie,
You had no Ken
But let's look at the fact
That you both embody plastic,
Impossible manic behaviors
And are at the disposal
Of any who are willing
To pay the chump change
To take you home.
It's really about your personality,
You remind me of rainbows
To the depressed,
Nothing but a sign
Of passing sorrow;
I feel like an allergenic
Stuck in a field of flowers,
I'm allergic to your presence,
I can almost die
From your breeding,
I can feel the histamine reactions
Taking place as you permeate
My action potential.
We found you to be
Denominations of the gay community,
Ostracized for the stereotypes
You employ
And the ones you don't.
Enjoy the low life
And don't bother to tell me
If the grass is greener on the
Other side of the land
That you weren't made to walk on
But somehow, forced through
The soil and given legs
To ruin the lives
Of those you encounter.
And yes,
That shirt does make you look fat;
Truth be told.

 

~

The Corrupt in the Findings

Bottle, shelf, bottle
Spill down my throat,
Bottle more in a roll up,
Puff, pass, puff
Strange clouds blow
From the surface of who we once were.
I found myself there,
In the middle of aisles
Searching through bottles
For a little me trapped inside,
Trickling with a burning sensation
Slowly, I found myself in ounces
And mornings after with shades.
You found yourself
In strange clouds
Vented from street corners
In quick passes
And a sleight of hand,
You puffed out vapors of
Who you could be
And passed every ounce of yourself
To the next lover
In front of churches,
Wondering if you could get high enough
To reach some kingdom in the clouds
And if I,
A wayfarer on a similar journey,
Was waiting for gates to open before me.
She found herself in a place
She once visited as a child,
On her knees, hands folded
Mouth silently breathing
But nostrils furious,
She laid there
And let him find his manhood
In her for minutes
As she counted the seconds
He lasted compared to the last;
She threw herself into bottles
And in my inebriated escapades,
I channeled what
She relinquished.
He stood there,
Judging and hating me
For finding myself
In an unconventional means
But it is he who
Was found in closets
By the wives of married men
Wondering if the knife
Was the best way out,
Or if he should just
Let his life become
Full of empty bottles I never drank.

 

 

Emante Washington-Mobley ~
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