I just don't get it.
It -being defined as the objects of pandoras box.
It being defined as-
the pain
the loss
the hurt
The things that I should have gotten over-
but still hold me under.
My soul
feels like its drowning.
I am trying to breaststroke in quicksand and
I don't know how to swim.
Ironically,
I don't want to be saved.
I want to survive using my own means.
I need to learn how to trust my own capabilities.
I need to learn how to believe in me.
I am tired of looking into the mirror.
Who is she?
Where is she?
No response.
When my reflection smiles,
she is mocking me.
I am still not whole.
I still have work to do.
Tag Archives: free thought
Dearly Forgotten
I didn’t write this for the majority.
I didn’t write this for the generation of entitled personas mimicking the human form.
You know the ones that ridicule you for being different because what the majority says goes- and they created this dystopia where anything that is different is not welcome in this bar, store, school, park, bus, train, sidewalk, church, earth.
I wrote this for the vast generation of have nots.
Those who picked the shorter stick by proxy-
Via decisions that were not of their own-
Decisions chosen by those who chose not to try harder-
Decisions chosen by those who chose to not clear a safe path for us.
I say this with pride- We are the have nots.
We are the ones that were trained to endure walking barefoot- down roads littered with shards of fractured dreams – and promises-
With jagged edges that are inoculated with the past transgressions of others and we suffered from the subsequent wounds that festered deep into our soul-
We were eager to wash away our sins by running to get baptized in muddy water and drinking spoiled grape juice with stale crackers- because the silver lining is not always sparkling, fresh and new.
And we struggled to keep our mind free of gangrene, which is rampant because we have to trudge through the unsanitary conditioning strategies of society- you see-
Decay of the mind starts with the censorship of our thoughts, emotions and truths.
So I urge you to continue to make as much noise as you can-
Our voices in -unison can break many glass ceilings throughout eternity.
This is for the have nots-remember- Losing is never an option
My One Ton Life
Every day I disrobe the tangible elements of life and stand on the broken, unbalanced scale of society and stare in the mirror and weigh myself.
Some days I scrutinize each tear as they fall, imagining that they are shooting stars that could grant my wish of taking away the weight of some of these burdens.
Even when my tears filled forty gallon pails, I still weighed a ton.
Everyday I disrobe the tangible elements of life and stand on this broken, unbalanced scale of society and stare in the mirror and weigh myself.
This weight is too heavy for the farce called Reality TV.
No network is brave enough to share the real faces of you and me.
Fate hands us the most beautifully wrapped trials and tribulations as heavy and deadly as the atomic bomb, and lovingly lays them across our chest, forcing the air right out of our lungs but we still have to stand up straight and function as if this weight does not exist.
We still have to stand up straight and walk as if our body doesn’t ache from the pressure of depression compressing our soul.
I find myself unconsciously, robotically sucking in the extra weight so I can fit into the different molds of the personas the outside world befriends and society accepts.
The mother mold, the wife mold, the friend mold, the model employee mold- there is rarely anytime for me to wear my- just me mold.
I suck in the extra weight so I can fit into these molds that have no windows, so at times my creativity becomes stagnant and my soul begins to drown in the puddles of sweat formed by anxiety.
I suck in the extra weight, hoping it doesn’t show as I greet you with a warm hello, or hug or smile.
I discovered that there is no surgery that can cure this weight problem.
So I get my therapy from poetry.
Each poem encapsulates the burdens from my soul into verses that recycle them into something meaningful.
This poem is for you.
This is for the 280 million people in the world that suffer in silence on a daily basis.
This is for you.
I am you.
Everyday we disrobe the tangible elements of life.
Everyday we stand on the broken, unbalanced scale of society.
Everyday we stare in the mirror and weigh ourselves.
This poem is for you.
I see you.
I feel you.
I write these words with hope that they penetrate the manufactured molds of society and let you know that you can do this.
Manifesto
I was birthed in an altered dimension constructed by the hands of deferred dreamers’- souls bludgeoned by burdens until they turned into concrete slabs and bricks, which were used to construct cities of catacombs with exits that only put you right back at the beginning of a path of footprints that lead to self destruction.
Can you imagine being buried alive for over 30 years?
I was forced to draw the frames of a million windows on miles of stone walls using blood from the wounds of my wounds that had been standing one on top of another fighting to get some fresh air.
The toxic environment caused parts of my soul to slough off and evaporate into the stale atmosphere , which mocked me with precipitation that consisted of my innocence dispersed into rain drops which would form twelve feet deep lakes that would taunt me with the reflections of what was lost, taken by force, and I had no choice but to swim across and continue on my path to the surface.
It took me years to slither above the layer of sediment made from decaying past forms of me that I shed in order to lighten the load-
while I struggled to ascend mountains of spines, the remnants of skeletons in the closet, navigating across fractures caused by the weight of the world on weak shoulders demineralized by societies leaching tendencies which erode souls and strip the nutrients needed to produce creativity which in turn depletes the energy necessary for survival.
Now I sit here free.
Dictating this manifesto, unafraid to call out the wolves in human skin.
The life force behind the revolution is us!
We emerge from the swaps, we emerge from the sewers, we emerge from the slums of nightmares holding hands-tattooing your mind with diamonds from the abyss every chance we can get because this is the movement of the rebels.
This is the movement of the rebels.
This is the poet’s manifesto.
Sangre
Yesterday I drove through a thick, blinding fog.
I hoped it would lead me into a portal that would take me to the places that I visit in my dreams.
The places where unfamiliar faces greet me with familiar smiles and hugs.
Here they remind me that eternity is a real place.
This fog caused me to levitate in memories, and before I knew it –
There I stood.
Lost in my mental Labyrinth, which shape shifts with my emotions-
filled with dark alleyways lined with street lamps with flickering bulbs that hold the pieces of the souls that still continue to guide me with the light of their memory and love.
I soon found myself in a house of mirrors.
As I walked down the forgotten corridors- I started to break every mirror because I didn’t want to see the reflections of me-
Images of my past – the puppet that I used to be.
The wooden girl without a cricket for a conscious- who just wanted to be free.
I painfully stepped on every fractured piece of me – as I remembered that I was
a shattered girl living in a shadow world, trying to hunt for the sun- barefoot on hot city concrete, standing in line waiting to get baptized in the river of illegally open fire hydrants- which was the only time I felt relief.
I always watched where the water went as it trickled down the grates into the belly of the beast.
Wondering if it all ends up in the same place that the blood went when it spilled onto the city streets?
I was the forgotten Tarzan, a child raised by sewer rats, swinging through life’s jungle holding on for dear life to the lines from discarded children’s bibles and National Geographic magazines that I saved from trash piles and used them to build paper houses for me to hide in, while I treated my wounds alone.
Lifes lessons built a warrior like no other.
I am a walking, talking enigma.
My soul is grotesquely disfigured with scars and missing parts, but the one thing that was never touched was my heart.
My blood type is the rarest of them all, not A , not B, Not AB, not O-
It is light, it is heat, it is energy, it is unapologetically me.
When I get hit by the fists of life, this rare emulsion flows freely from my busted lip and bleeding nose onto paper – and dries into fragments that form love notes from my soul reminding you and I that anything can be conquered with love.
Lost Letter To Heaven
It’s days like this when I miss you the most.
When the sun is out and the air is still cold.
When the trees are half barren, yet the buds are beginning to grow.
When the ice starts to melt and the water starts to flow.
You are no longer in pain, but my heart still feels the blows.
So I close my eyes and I reminisce about the beautiful years you spent watching me grow.
You were my hero and you taught me how to fly.
I remember seeing so many colors in the sky- my mind is forever stained with vibrant hues of orange, pink and blood red.
I remember you taking me to the top floor of a building – just to let me look out of a large window – so that I could observe the sky after a thunder storm and watch a rainbow form.
I remember imagining that the rainbow lead to a world filled with teddy bears with magical powers.
I remember my belief in other realms waiting for me to explore.
These early memories are my comfort.
Comfort is me falling asleep on the shoulder of my hero as
my father carries me in his arms after our trip to the circus.
His cologne and the smell of his fresh leather coat-
I take a breath in now, like I can still smell his fresh leather coat.
I miss him.
I miss those aromas of life.
My heart aches as I remember the feelings it gave me.
I remember the feeling of pure love.
I remember being engulfed by the aura of happiness.
I remember the love in your eyes.
I’m honored to be your daughter and I hope I made you proud.
I promised you in your last few days that I wouldn’t let you down.
You became my guardian angel and I know you’re still here.
Physically gone, but your spirit is still near.
Anything beautiful I see, I whisper thank you for sharing.
Thank you for reminding me that this world is still caring.
I know you have your hand on my shoulder during the nights when I cry.
I can hear your voice saying, “Listen sister, wipe those eyes.”
You prepared me the best way that you could,
and I held your hand like any daughter should.
I whispered in your ear, dad just let go, I will be okay, you will see.
You held on for days because I know you were worried about me.
I was a rebel in the streets, trying to find my way.
No real home, adrift floating, trying to find my place.
It still hurts so bad.
It doesn’t get better with time.
That hole is left burning deep on the inside.
I had to share this with you, because I know we might all share the same kind of pain.
You have to keep going, your life matters the same.
We are here for a purpose and we have to find our way.
Our loved ones are all shining lights from above, which helps guide us down the dark paths of life which we all trudge.
Dad, your love is what keeps my heart warm, at times when it’s cold.
Your values I instill in my kids, you will see.
If I had a genie and he granted one wish for me-
The only thing I would wish is to hear your voice say how proud you are of me.
Or to smell your cologne along with one last, long strong hug.
To the man I adore the most in the world, I’m sending kisses and hugs to heaven above.
Love daddy’s little girl.
A Poets Pantry
I remember when I took my first bite of heartbreak.
I didn’t see ill intentions hiding underneath the perfect layer of milk chocolate-because I was only dipping the tips of my fingers in the icing.
I was enticed to take a bite, and that was when I first experienced the taste of malice.
The bitterness hugged on to each of my taste buds, like the barnacle colonies on the hull of my self esteem’s sinking ship.
I couldn’t eat for days.
I remember laying in a fetal position, retching in my sleep.
Everything reminded me of him- and I was sick to my stomach over and over again.
I thought I knew what the scent and taste of love was, but my senses were so immature.
Eventually, this taught me to observe more.
I have a habit of reading people like nutrition labels- because I need to know what your value is to me.
I need to know the repercussions of adding you to my diet on a daily basis.
Do you increase my risk of heart disease by clogging my arteries with false friendship, fake forevers and parasitic tendencies that hardens not only my heart but the vessels that lead in and out of it?
I want to know what percentage is organic-natural, real, wholesome, fresh, light.
Are you a superfood- packed with dense nutrients?
You see, I am a glutton.
If you invite me to a buffet, I will pile up my plate with fulfilling, perfectly seasoned conversations that have been marinating in this frigid world.
I prefer to leave my food for thought out in the cold – on the back porches of society where other poets also thrive.
It’s a place where we can have a better view of the stars as we allow our brain cells to marinate into a savory fusion of enigma, dredged in understanding about the beauty in our differences.
Differences that amalgamate into an exquisite delicacy that we deliver in the forms of verses.
Bon Appetite!
Gifts from the Uninvited
A poet’s words are the unexpected visitors that arrive without notice.
The poet’s words are intruders of the soul.
They find their way up and over the walls we build, walls that we think can’t be breached.
They break the locks on the gates that we secured with chains that we think can’t ever be broken.
They ring the doorbell- they bang on the windows and whisper- “I know you hear me.”
Knock.
“Let me in.”
Knock! Knock!
“I know you are there!”
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Eventually we have to deal with the flood from our inner wishing wells-
Which regurgitate after choking on the bones of reality and spew out long forgotten thoughts, prayers, emotions, memories-
and the people around us can’t see we are constantly drowning.
Poets are constantly drenched in the ink that oozes from our mind.
We dry off by rolling around on paper which soaks up and reveals the vulnerable parts of us.
I was standing ankle deep in my thoughts, playing catch with my son,
when I realized that I was playing catch with myself.
I tried to step back- out of the thought –
but I lost my footing and fell in with my head barely hovering above the surface.
Then I heard my soul say-
He is a transposed, better version of you.
I then realized that I am playing catch with the innocence that I lost a long time ago.
An innocence that I had forgotten about, and here it stands right in front of me .
His laughter was the laughter that my soul had forgotten about.
His laughter awoke my soul and she broke through the brick wall of my consciousness and took a front row seat to see.
I just continued to tread in these beautiful thoughts as I watched a part of my soul reliving the beautiful youth that was not afforded to her.
You see, a poet’s words are the unexpected visitors that arrive without notice.
The poet’s words are the souls intruders.
Getting through the walls we build that we think can’t be penetrated.
Breaking the locks on the gates that we secured with chains that we think can’t ever be broken.
So when you hear them knocking, let them in, invite them to the table and take the time to hear what they have to say.
Oh, The Webs She Weaves
My mind is a jungle of words suspended on vines.
My thoughts crowd every corner.
In order to make sense of it all, my subconscious mutates into millions of spiders-
They collect my thoughts onto a spindle and weave a network of webs made of gold.
Sometimes they craft dreamcatchers that are able to recycle my nightmares-
Turning them into fabric that I use to dress scarecrows who protect my field of dreams from destructive thoughts that inhibit my growth.
Destructive thoughts that still sneak in from time to time and blow out the flames in my eyes, which darken my mind and mutes my voice.
When this happens I can’t see my poems.
So I have to walk with my hands stretched out in front of me- desperately searching my mind-
Feeling for my words suspended on vines.
My thoughts crowd every corner of my mind.
In order to make sense of it all, my subconscious mutates into millions of spiders-
That catches and records the passing conversations of my soul transcribing them into a network of webs made of silver.
I like to sit in the center of my mind and watch my desires, my fears, my pain, my love, my passions, my daydreams, my infatuations, my memories all coexist in this vast web of silver and gold.
I inhale deep – and
I inhale deep -and
I inhale deep-
and with pursed lips I exhale slow-
With just enough force to release the breath from my soul and the webs of silver and gold become windchimes playing the melodies that you hear in my poems.
These vines in my mind are my lifeline.
These vines help the world make sense to me.
These vines suspended in my mind, lined with words, binds me to my network of enigma-
My own secret garden.
My safe place and many days I don’t want to return.
Holistic Medicine
How do we continue to endure this sad happiness?
We wake up physically free, mentally confined by what society deems as the norm.
We are dying to live.
The global warming caused by emissions from hate melts the souls of many- and the remnants trickle down the cracks in society
and collect
and collect
and collect
overflowing the clogged gutter-
until they form stagnant muddy puddles of man, that we trudge through and leave footprints that generations follow-
and they follow-
like blindfolded orphans lost in a modern jungle chasing and surviving on the molding bread crumbs that were left, because when you are starving for a purpose, consuming something is better than nothing.
Humanity is poisoned.
What is the cure?
A poet’s words.
We see the universe differently.
When a poet walks their feet never touch the ground.
We levitate on metaphors and we visualize the world in similes.
It is never just raining outside.
It’s heaven’s angels pouring out bucket after bucket of our tears and prayers that burdened the roof of God’s palace until it bore holes right through and started to flood.
It is not just a heat wave.
It’s the draft from the devil’s bedroom window that he left open as he sits- eavesdropping on our inner demons discussing whose soul is in jeopardy.
We are the imperfect perfections that humanity needs.
We are the vulnerable.
We are the brave.
Who else can stand on stage, undress and show each scar, each bruise, each blemish of our soul to strangers?
A poet.
Our imperfections are a superpower that grants us the gift of always finding the perfect words for imperfect situations.
A poets words are not shiny and new.
A poets words are like old clothing, the hand-me-downs, the washed and worn, tattered and torn, blood stained evidence of our imperfections that perfectly tell our story.
Imperfections that give our words purpose.
Imperfections that make us stand out from the masses.
The masses who choose to continue to stand in life’s assembly line trying to fit into a mold that is two sizes too small.
Conforming is not an option for us poets.
We are the last warriors left and our words repel labels.
Our words ignite flames.
Our words burn barriers.
Our words bash in the glass ceilings.
Collectively our words form a ladder so we can all ascend-
And we do it so respectfully, so eloquently and so unapologetically-
Like-
fuck you- society
Creative minds like ours should be feared.
We are the imperfect perfections that humanity needs.
