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.
Tag Archives: Words for humanity
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.
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.
Inner Thoughts
I think I’m crazy.
I think, I think too much.
Like, as I drink coffee I wonder about the workers that harvested it.
Do they wake up every morning, with pain in their joints?
Just to make two dollars a week for this five dollar cup that I enjoy.
Or, were the beans picked by a child?
A child who knows no other life than to be a servant in the fields.
I wonder if they dream?
Do they sing children songs as they count the coffee beans?
Why should I be worried?
That’s just the way the world is.
Children starve.
That’s just the way the world is.
Deprived of a childhood because, well that’s just the way the world is.
We don’t need to know the back story.
Just get it here for us to consume.
Not only have I been told that I think too much,
I have been told I love too much.
“Girl, you love everyone.”
I used to be ashamed of it.
Now, I see it as a superpower.
Being able to see beauty beneath what others call, “ugly”.
Just the other day I was able to revel in the warmest brown eyes.
Each eye held shimmering glimmers of hope and dreams.
They twinkled with life under the moonlight.
I saw all this when he asked,” Do you have a cigarette to spare?”
You see, I have super powers.
You can tell me your fears and I will listen.
You can tell me your secrets and I will lock them away for you.
I am able to love when I’m hurt.
I am able to love when I’m sad.
Even when life beats me down and I am on my knees begging god to help me understand this mess called my life.
Even when the warmth from my tears drown the sides of my face in dispair and my heart aches like it only has one or two beats left and I clutch my chest trying to soothe the painful blows from the realities of life and my lungs harden and don’t want to breath anymore.
I can still pick myself up from the muddy puddles of the world and look up at the sky and get lost in the beauty of the universe.
I can still dream about love.
I can still love you.
I love you.
