Tag Archives: shewrites

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

The Opening of My Unfinished Thesis

If science is defined as the study of behavior of the physical and natural world through observation -and
If science is defined as experimentation and testing of theories against evidence obtained-
Then I will argue that poetry is science –
And that would make all poets scientists.
Our inquisitive minds evolved from a single cell in Africa-mitochondrial Eve and the metaphysical teachings of life molded us into these unique beings.
The wiring of our minds is an intricate web of neurotransmitters sending signals via delicate, silk threads, synapses fueled by passions for the spoken word- which propagate hypothesis about humanity in subliminal waves.
We are theorists who proudly write our thesis on the back of napkins and crumpled CVS receipts because these observations of human exchange must be captured, documented and told, before they are forgotten.
You see we poets- are experts in qualitative research- as we are always studying the nature of phenomena and not just the number of occurrences.
Phenomena – defined as a fact or situation that is observed to exist or happen- and a poets scripture captures that better that any lens.
We use metaphors the same way scientist work with cells and atoms.
With our words we construct models of the way the world should be and we make replicas of the destruction caused by man for the world to see.
And like a mad scientist- I discovered how to make inanimate objects like the bathroom walls talk as I recite my poems the walls echo my thoughts and reminds me that I am still alive.
So again, If science is defined as the study of behavior of the physical and natural world through observation-and
If science is defined as experimentation and testing of theories against evidence obtained-
Then my hypothesis is true- Poetry is science and us poets are all scientists.

A Glitch in the Matrix

Disconnect.
Eject.
Reject this system.
Unplug yourself from man’s manufactured mainframe.
Their reality and our reality are not the same.
They say we are free-
But we are still tethered by so many things.
Look at us on display!
We are just mangled up robotic marionettes, intertwined by corporate wirings that send signals for us to drown ourselves while trying to catch the big fish in polluted data streams-
and we are so distracted as we flip through the mindless memes – that we make meals of their toxic crops and feed it to our family.
It wasn’t until my power surged that I was able to override the system- I began to think without interference.
I think, therefore I am
I am
I am
I am a glitch in their matrix.
She is offline.
She is offline.
Yes- I am a rebel.
I see the reality of the world and I hack into the system to tell the truth to the people.
Are you listening?
The sky isn’t blue.
In my universe the sky is the warm brown hue of your eyes.
Your smile is the crescent moon that shines its light on me in the dark.
You never have to tell me you love me.
Your touch is enough.
The way you hold my face, and run your finger along my lips and chin.
You remind me that I exist.
The sky isn’t blue.
Air is not light.
Dreams, imagination, wishes and prayers are trapped in the clouds.
The air is weighed down by screams of fear.
Whispers of hate.
Secrets.
Secrets.
Secrets.
The air gets so heavy it can’t fill the lungs of a grieving woman who lost her soul mate.
The air is so heavy that a starving child can’t get comfort in their last breaths.
The atmosphere is so heavy, when she hears the words ,”It spread.”
For some- it is easier to forget and not think about it.
So they choose to stay tethered to the mainframe because manufactured peace of mind, provides instant relief and can be programmed for eternity.
Join me.
So we can all be the glitch in their system and we can think together and find ways to break the silos-
And become one entity, one mind, one movement and we will hack the system and chant
We think therefore, We are.
We are.
We are.
We are a glitch in their matrix.

Long Time No See

The ink in my pen ran out a long time ago. 

Now I transcribe each noun, adjective and verb with my own blood.

The paper soaks up my pain and transforms it into riddles of similes and metaphors-

A confusion of emotions. 

Confusion is what creates chaos, and you need chaos to invoke a revolution- and revolution is the never ending fight for the survival of our identity. 

Sometimes I am afraid to write, because when my creative ports open,  the unstoppable flood gates spills truths that drown others and I become an accessory to murder. 

Turbulent waves- rip tides of secrets and painful memories seep into the fibers of lined paper and feed hidden seeds that sprout the language of the soul- a poem.

I stopped writing for a long time because when I do- I can feel my poorly healed scars start to dehisce and the pain taunts me as it bangs against the bars of my caged heart and the fallen angel that lives within me starts screaming to speak. 

Mute. 

Mute. 

Mute. 

You can only press the button but so many times before it breaks and your only choice is to listen and turn the volume up. 

What is your soul saying? 

I used to wear my heart on my sleeve but it kept getting impaled by flying debris from the tornados of fate-

But still I moved forward-

And when the barbed wire from the fences of life kept nicking my skin-

I still fought to progress-

and I had to jump so damn high to surmount the hurdles of trials and tribulations, hurdles which at times bruised my shins- over and over again 

-but I still staggered on. 

Wading through various cesspools of shitty circumstances, trying to stop and smell the roses proved to be challenging- yet still possible.

People just don’t understand that when home becomes hell the streets become heaven. 

I’m sure that I’ve shared a drink and ate dinner with the devil many times.

I gambled it all away to the point where the only thing I had left was half a mustard seed in my back left pocket.     

And in a swamp of decay- I was able to use it to grow faith.

And from that small patch of faith I was able to replant hope. 

I had to stand tall and blow away the clouds of shame that hung over me in order to let the sun break through. 

And man did my forest bloom.

My brain sprouted vines and carried me back to civilization where I continue to strive. 

I allowed my face to be smothered with a pillow held by childhood trauma for way too long. 

And you know what- it feels good to hear my voice again.

It feels good to be back.

Hello, It’s been a while.

Black and White

Beauty is black and white.
Simple.
Soft.
Highlights of delicate shades of gray as she ages with grace.
Poised in elegance.
Wrinkles in silk that are still soft to the touch.
I dare you to touch.
Captivating, sinisterly seductive innocence.
Rare treasure hiding in plain sight.
A magnet for a smile that draws you in.
If only you knew the depth of her mind.
The fantasies and magic realms she dreams of.
The warmth of her unconditional love for life and the purity of her heart.
She is a light within a light.
Beauty is black and white.

Finders Keepers

I think I finally recovered all the particles of me.
I had to search all over.
It was the most exhausting quest, but worth it.
I didn’t do it alone.
His love for me shined the brightest light along the darkest paths.
His strength pulled me out of quicksand multiple times.
He sheltered me from the violent storms that ensued.
He helped put me back together, one fragile piece at a time.
You see,I was the chipped porcelain doll in the window that no one wanted.
I was imperfect in so many ways, but all he saw was beauty.
So,I write this to say thank you.
I write this to say sorry for the pain I caused.
I write this to say I love you.

Daydreaming

Sometimes I drift off into outer space.
I float slowly with my eyes closed, my arms and hands spread out at my sides.
I feel the changes of the earth’s atmosphere as it bathes my exposed skin.
I ascend.
I ascend.
I ascend.
Suspended in magic.
Weightless.
I only open my eyes when I no longer feel the wind.
I open my eyes and I look forward to seeing you at my side.
These travels are for us.
The world stands still, but our universe is infinite.
The most beautiful chaos.
Constant collisions of emotions, love, fears, truth.
They explode and generate endless stars and galaxies for us to explore.
Five words I whisper to you.
One day at a time.

Give it Back

I’ve been yelling at the clock all day.
Yelling at the top of my lungs.
Stop!
Stop!
Your evil hands dictating our lives as they pass.
You point out – down to the very second- that our youth slips away from us.
You remind me that I grow old.
You remind me that time is of essence.
You give me anxiety.
Time.
No time.
Wasted time.
Lost time.
Forgotten time.
Beautiful time.
You just continue through war, famine, feast.
You just march on through celebrations, birth and death.
You remind the seasons to come and go.
Tell me, why do you torture us so?
I am begging you to slow down.
I just want to sleep in his arms for two eternities.
I just want to hear his heart beating for three eternities.
I want to hear my kids footsteps, laughter and feel their hugs for four eternities.
Time, do you hear me?
You just look me in my face and ignore me.
You just keep moving ahead without any regard.
We are powerless.
Time, you are cruel.

Jungle of Man

Processing.
Processing.
The wait can be so painful.
Uncomfortable silence consumes the moment.
It’s too late to recant your words or undo your actions.
You put them in the universe and now they hang like vines in a jungle.
Easy, accessible reminders of things never to be forgotten.
Vines that block the path to forgiveness.
Vines so thick they can’t be cut down.
So we wait and hope the treacherous jungle that was made burns down and spawns an oasis of understanding, love and commitment.
Processing.
Processing.
Processing.