When it happened
I was already dying
everything
happening
slowly
and then
it
was
done.
and I fought
but even if I hadn’t
I would still be to blame
for the shame
i ran from
that night
followed
me
for
ever.
so now I’m a dead girl-woman
writing to you from the other side
just to talk.
about this
Well not really talk
just describe
a story that
happened
to
repeat
itself
again.
and
again.
Until we were
all
silenced
by
our
own
admission
as damaged goods.
knowing
that people
look at you
with
fear
somehow
you're catching
contagious
victimhood
and
tell
you
“well just don’t walk alone tonight.”
As though somehow
you would be to blame
if it happens again
but this time
you're sure
you’d just *******
**** him
before
running
again.
because at least this time
someone
else could
bleed
instead.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
Woman,
The world has been wonderful, awful and everything in-between.
You’ve muddled through storms of responsibility
And challenges to your identity
Woman.
That’s you
And me.
Woman.
Walking through this world
Confidently in the direction
Of dreams
For success.
Is no small feat.
Our lives are defined
By this beautiful mask of
Perfection.
I’d like to toss in the trash
And **** on——indefinitely.
Woman.
Confined to the words;
Crazy, pretty, sweet.
I like my mothers and sisters shameless and brave.
Defiant and enraged.
Do not lower your voice.
Or your gaze.
Tomorrow you will wake
And do all of the things, that are expected of you.
But you will do them with extraordinary resilience.
On the mornings where you cannot
bring yourself to rise from the ashes
Of another defeat
Know
I am here with you.
Whispering.
Woman,
You are not perfect. You're extraordinary. The stuff of dreams.
When this world dims your light,
I hope you know you can count on me to hold your heavy heart in mine.
And ignite your spirit so you may once
Again, be
Woman.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
the many brushstrokes of our love transformed
colors into muddled messes.
kind words come out in curses
and silence obliterated foundations strong as stone.
Shifting narratives paint
murals of sadness and neglect
instead of illuminating the truth,
as they filter through the cathedral’s stained glass
like my many sins
in a life before i knew the lines in your irises.
green like grass.
watching the moon for expression
is like waiting
for your words to bandage a wound
pride tore open further than
the deepest depths of an ocean
and the tiny cuts
i feel every time i hear your common name on another man’s body.
they are not the same.
logic tells me
you were by no means extraordinary
or excpetional.
but to me?
you were every breath
in my heaving chest, running out of room for sorrow
every gust of wind running through my hair
and all the tiny atoms of my being that were reborn when you woke each morning.
Someday far into the future,
you will die in a regular fashion
and my heartstrings
will break
one
after
another.
and
again.
as
i
too
become
dust.
in a life before i knew the lines in your irises.
green like grass.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
I am alone with these thoughts.
And I call them god. As I furiously long
For silence.
Among the frantic quiet.
The pestilence reeks of livid fights
That lend themselves to morning terrors.
I must remember I am only waking to a lightfilled night.
This consoles me to a point.
After which I remember times when---
I found a lord less lane and walked
To find the hungry taunting.
And the poor throwing all their riches at my feet.
It was worth noting.
the brick houses shattered in the presence of( looking )
Glass streets.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
Did you see the children in grave washed masses.
Going to their regurgitate-bullshit-white middle classes.
At the altar bent over in prayer
Giving it up to father almighty
With their false sincerity, and moral ******** gripping ever so tightly
To cultureless social constructs.
Encouraged under thinly veiling drapes
To discriminate, in-tolerate, and perpetuate hate.
Did you see the bravado, pomp, and gilded age?
As it passed by sixty million in their chains of rage.
While authority figures in houses of might
Turned the cheek, cocked the gun, closed their eyes and set their sights.
I wish I could say
This is talk of former days.
But sadly this will to indoctrinate
Others minds into a foggy haze
Of superstitious dogma
Where messiahs are no more than profits, and missions to save souls
Are only to serve strategic end goals.
Is not history
It is today.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 10:06 PM UTC
There is a line of men with withering yet seasoned looks against the bar, crouched over the dregs of beer and lacing dripping down respective glasses.
Some of them are wrinkling the corners of their eyes to signify a smile as they loudly laugh to be heard. Others are slowly staring into the space before them as though it will disintegrate just as their will has over the years.
Tonight I am one of them, crouched in the corner drinking nothing but water placating my own need for mournful self sabotage with false notions of failure. And tonight, I know I will succeed at last in solidifying my own identity as a stranger everywhere and a friend to those who live on the brink of disaster. And tonight, I breathe in the sweet saltiness of
******* nothing, no one
nowhere.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
tomorrow.... i may not wake in a cold sweat wishing you were next to me
instead of nothing
well theres someone there
someone perfect
and wonderful
but i know i will wake in that cold sweat
because
tonight of all nights
i know
the shape next to me is not
you.
and someday in the future
you will still
be too unkind to hear my tears
as the ever-growing pool at my feet
turns in a silent plea
for your benediction and forgiveness
you cant afford to give
because, in spite of all this,
you
might probably love me
tomorrow
someday
in the future
you said.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
This one time I felt your pull of my
Hips, subtly curving to meet your touch
Fingers c
a
s
c
a
d
i
n
g
through my hair hanging
Medium to fine
Fire
Down
My
back.
And pulled it hard-er. Please.
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 4:46 AM UTC
This road less traveled, has been walked down before
A million times and a million times more
So much that people’s feet have gotten rather swollen and sore.
As they sit from the sidelines watching you limp through the road that has been traveled
Some more
Thinking, ******* this road’s a *****
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
YOU aint no gangsta.
With a pistol grip pump.
******* underaged girls
For money to buy junk.
You’re a player for sure.
Playin with minds of children is easy.
Capitalist pigs like you make me queasy.
You smashin the man?
Youre jackin off to the sounds of the system,
Beatboxin records while the ignorant minds listen.
To illusions of grandeur…
Your caddy rims rollin.
All the while corporations controllin
Your mind.
YOU aint no gangsta
With a pistol grip pump.
youre just a **** Prick-average guy
Walking a racial divide
Elitist **** telling another whitemans lie.
To the masses of laborers.
Buyin what you be sellin
Your notions of success
Aint my version of rebellin.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC