your name is so beautiful
it's written on my walls
and my wrist
and my thighs
and it's always on the tip of my tongue
written in my fogged up mirror
after a shower
doodled on my notebook
under "favorite contacts" on my phone
title of my poems
(even the really dumb ones)
and etched into my brain,
engraved into my heart
A lion on my left
A tiger to my right.
Housecats, in all actuality,
Wouldn't harm a fly.
Until the titles come
And the stereotypes must be
With their personalities stripped,
Keep their vicious reputations
Kill for their names
The title that begs them to:
Don't you realize
The label "cutter" hurts more than the razor
When you sum all of me, him, her, them in one word
It's as though whips of ice squeeze
Insisting you fit in the confines of that label
And I know
It's hard when that's all we know
Everything is labeled so we understand, but I still hate it
I ask you
What did he look like?
black, brown hair, glasses
If he were a white man, you'd describe his eyes and hair before you'd think of mentioning race
It's not your fault (only)
We name the different to get it under our grasp
A snug bottle in which we can keep the errant genie
But even the words I love are just labels
A mirror is only as good as what you see on its surface
and when what you see isn’t what you want,
you start to wish the mirror was broken,
that someone bought it from a fun house,
that what you see isn’t really you.
You start to avoid the mirrors in your house,
pretending not to worry about how you look,
claiming that you’re not a vain person.
But the truth is, your vanity hides
beneath a layer of disgust
like a sheath of decaying sanity.
You want to curl up,
curl up until you disappear,
because maybe then people would look at you
the way you want them to,
they would look at you fondly,
missing your little quirks and they would say things like,
“They were so beautiful, it’s such a shame.”
But the thing is,
that’s not what happens.
That is not fondness,
it is pity. They feel bad for you,
but they feel no guilt
for how they ignored you.
Disappearing won’t make people look at you.
I thought like that once upon a time,
and sometimes the thoughts still creep in
like little worms trying to eat away at the confidence I have built.
But damn it,
I have worked too hard to go back now.
When I look in the mirror,
I no longer see that layer of disgust
that sheathed my decaying sanity.
Now I look in the mirror and I think,
“Fuck, I look really good.”
I do it anytime I look in the mirror,
because now it’s true.
I believe every word of it,
I finally like what I see.
And if that makes me vain
then I will gladly accept the title.
I have wasted too much time avoiding my own reflection.
For once in my life, I’m finally happy with what I see.
And nobody, nobody, is ever going to take that away from me.
Look at yourself.
Embrace what you see, love it.
If you don’t like it, you can change it.
You can change the cut and color of your hair,
you can change the clothes you put on,
you can exercise and you can eat right,
you can even change the color of your eyes.
All I ask of you is that you don’t hurt yourself in order to change things.
I scoff at those
Who feel inclined
To ruin my good time
Human ignorance imbued
Don't believe the hype.
There are many great men called fathers that didn't take flight.
Who didn't plant a seed?
And vanish on the run.
Who frown upon a system demanding they take care of their daughter or son?
Then, there are some in jail or prison pondering , why they are there?
When many mothers, who bailed hardly ever see the walls of a prison or jail?
No, don't buy the fiction.
That the news or some non-profit foundation presents to you.
Cause, they never promote the good guys.
Who always have time for their child, at anytime?
Listen to the number ratio.
Listen to the hurtful woman upon the news.
Then, ask yourself about the fathers that has tried to help you.
It could have been a male pastor keeping a child involved in church.
It could have been a law enforcer taken many children's too camp.
It could have been the grandfather stepping in for his son the father.
Or maybe, the grandmother.
Who didn't want her grandchild being directed into trouble?
If truth be told, many mothers are fathers.
And many fathers, are mothers.
If truth be told.
Cause the only thing separating the two is the title we apply to them.
Because, when we call to say we love them.
It doesn't matter , if it's a her or a him.
If truth be told.
you may need to read twice or trice.
Thanks for reading
We decided things were over but there wasn't anything to end
We never had a title.
There was no changing relationship statuses,
Because it was never official to begin with.
There was no breaking of picture frames,
Because there were none put up.
No need to return your things
Because I never took any to begin with.
We said things were over but you still look at me the same way you did
We said things were over but your hug is still as tight as ever
We said things were over but our feelings didnt go away
So who is it that wants things over?
Because it's not me.
An impulse of a theme,
in a sensation of a light beam:
I sat near by you to scribble
a verse on your beauty;
When lights and shades are on
You form a beautiful shadow
When kissable lips blooms,
the music drops away;
Sensual arousal inhibits
While nipples groomed
On your tiny tits….
Its night sky lit from
within by a strange
The title begins
A woman’s hands,
With her beautiful nails,
Slaking through a junk bin in a dark,
fire lit, ash dusted place…
a lyric is born….
You are the trembling in my lower stomach
Teeth clinched against my bottom lip
The reason for my slipping focus
The feeling of my heart
Beating so damn hard
Beneath my bouncing breasts,
The remembering of how your
Strong arms held me to
Your perfect, tan, chest
How you lift me up,
You fill me up,
You make me my very best
Bathe me in your needing,
In your wanting
Knowing you want this
Sigh, sinking in and I
Can’t help but think you
Take away my trembling breath
And light me on fire
The next day I breathe a confidence
Lost in my inner goddess
Born from the ashes of our desire.