In every individual's life there are shackles, genetic and learned. They may result from insatiable appetites, i.e. sex, the need for power, to live in a world without consequences, even the need for peace of mind. And these "logs' hold us in place and we grow acquainted with them and flaunt and curse them try running from them. . . yet we always seem to meet them again.

Something is holding me Back

By Othello BornEl

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Othello BornEl
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-6869-1

Contents

Something is Holding me Back............................1Messenger of Change.....................................8Flashback...............................................13Door of the Sheep.......................................17Manuscript of a Maniac..................................30For Granted.............................................39Too Disgusted to go to Work.............................44Self-Fulfilling Prophesy................................49Flabbergasted...........................................55Man in the Trunk of His Car.............................60Just Keep Reading It'll Come to You.....................65The Interview...........................................74The Longest Tantrum.....................................81Who is God..............................................86Nepotism................................................90

Chapter One

Something is Holding me Back

I have degenerated; degraded by a phenomenon called, Desire. I am a black sex locomotive and an, otherwise, worthless negro. She does with me what she pleases. How can she know she is evil? Right and wrong do not exist in her world. How can she understand she is evil? There is no one to correct her. How can the ignorant question the [so-called] intellectual, or the impoverished, the wealthy? She is her own law-giver.

When I mount her she beats vehemently upon my chest, she scratches and screams. Her icy eyes tell me she hates me for bringing such unique pain & pleasure to her frozen libido. She beckons me, sinks French manicured nails into the small of my back. I pump more ferociously, delivering thrust after thrust, after thrust, after thrust, after thrust, after thrust, after thrust, until she finally collapses into unconsciousness. She is a slave to my phallus.

* * *

For this long I have resided in this place. No longer a journeyman, I am now a prisoner, redefined by a different species of beauty. A beauty consumed by desire. A beauty most do not consider as such, for her motives are misplaced. My days and nights are symmetrical. Darkness is my greatest constant. This darkness resembles the primitive womb I evolved from many moons ago, before she called me out of my identity.

But here within this cold concrete, whether I be her black, powerful sex machine, her barbaric negro, or even her sovereign prince, if I do not transcend this place, if I do not walk those stairs, if I do not exit that door - but where on earth shall I go? I built this house, and the one next to it, as well as the one down the street.

She does not acknowledge my work, my labor. She says it could have been- even should have been- done differently, better. Those black dots in my eyes have become so discombobulated that I cannot tell the difference. Truth be told, quiet as kept, this is why I am here. My own possibilities are too bright for me. I fear I may not be able to adjust, and even if I could and did, then what? Are there others in these dismal crypts? Will they hear my story, be inspired, dare to tread forbidden ground? Or will the thought of meeting such light cause them to curse me for sharing those things that have become so unattainable? But I am a living testimony! And my master was a most vicious, cruel one. Today I have another master that I have begun to nurture and appreciate. So much that that evil master starved of my attention and I marched out of that murky basement and burst thru those doors as a new-born being born again!

Ahh, they would not listen. Their surrogate mother has their loyalty. I am but a has-been, a reflection of past greatness, and no one cares what was great on yesteryear. I might as well merge with my jailor, love and procreate with my persecutor, screw her brains out, forbid her to leave me and withhold my hypnotic phallus from her if she disobeys.

If she raises her hand to strike me, I shall not strike back, but instead dodge her licks. I will not abuse her in that style. I will be unmoved by her, only look at her from time to distant time. I will look thru her when I mount her, look past her when I pass her. Our offspring will have more of me; I am the richer, the original. She will not win because I will not fight. I will assume a position all my own. One so concentrated, so confident, so perfectly focused, that my discipline shall inevitably drive her to me, to embrace me or attack me, or completely drive her away.

* * *

Tis' a wet day outside; spinning rubber meets sparkling pavement. Steam rises from the sun-burnt asphalt.

Tis' a wet day outside (outside of this flipside). My window of view has grown smaller to my hungry eyes. So I close them. I smell the freshly fallen rain. I hear the rustling raincoats of children as they mimic the hero characters emblazoned so colorful upon their "shield from the inclement."

Alas, I am weary. My body aches to be kissed by the cooling droplets of sky juice. As I lay my sweaty frame down atop this narrow cot I think back over all I forgot and remember to write down my plans next time. And thinking of which, I must prepare myself, my soul, for soon she shall enter. Enter with a very strong expectation to achieve a surreal relaxation. Her confusion will prevent such a height. She is twisted by her own convictions. She searches for resolution outside of her and therefore can never have it. As her search will only send her in endless circles. And she circles back to me almost daily. I am detested by her because I bring her to the brink of bliss.

We are in love with one another, yet it differs in aspects. I no longer hate her for this sub-human imprisonment. Today, I am capable of exiting this man-made purgatory. But I have convinced my own self that she needs me. I misbelieve that I can get thru to her, defrost her sub-zero prejudices and sweat out of her every impurity, watch hate, murder, lewdness, theft, flow like overdue extract from her vanilla skin.

The impossibility of my mission has hypnotized the loyalty of my heart, commanded the focus of my time.

My passion is sustained by my very suffrage ...

* * *

She took away my family, pillaged my territory. Sick actions make pale skin ugly. Here she comes. Exotic fragrance seduces me before the door creaks. She takes off her shoes at the door; the softest feet. Her hair is thin, stringy. Yet it smells of fresh cinnamon, completely blonde, matching her skin.

What will she say to me today, words, or will her clear blue eyes study my sweaty bulk? The footsteps have ceased. She's at the door. I hear one shoe hit the floor, then the other.

The knob turns very slowly. No key is required. Why would she lock it when she knows I will not leave?

She enters. Firm, bare breasts led by powder pink nipples. A petite frame carrying a tunnel whose entrance is made of thick, tender folds of flesh.

I open my eyes and see her there, beside my cot, breathing calmly. Her face is without expression, yet she seems pleasant. She straddles me and covers me with soft kisses.

Her lips are supple. Icy lips meeting muscles channeling blood of fire succeeds in warming her while calming me. My massive hands all but hide her small head as she bobs upon my head.

While her brain-filled head flutters with colors of smoke blue I seemed to slowly be transported into a...