When I feel myself unhappy
I take up my pen and my diary.
Then I sit by the window on my chair,
From where; I can feel the blowing air.

Subsequently I begin to write
I write about the ‘Sight’
I write about my pain
I write like a crazy insane.
I write about my feelings
I write about every thing.

No matter it (story) is a good one or bad
But I only write to escaped from sad.
I don’t expect it to be great
I don’t expect it in a higher rate
I only write to get relief of my pain
I don’t write for gaining my fame.

Only writing brings me tranquility
Only writing removes my anxiety.
This is why I always write
And this is why I will keep write.

Old Dan Tucker and endless
hours of hanging out at that little
coffee-shop-convenience-store you liked
turned into hours of writing about the
fragmented memories I have of the
time I spent with
you.

Five years ago, in January,
Hours turned into
Minutes and
Minutes slowed into
Seconds. And then suddenly,
all the time elapsed between us
And your ticking clock turned out to be
a homemade explosive you
marked as ‘flammable’.

But my clock still ticks on,
and deep inside of me, it’s
forever set to summer.
Summers I spent hours with
you; playing Old Dan tucker
on the piano, and singing while you
pushed me on the swings and I
screamed with utmost delight
and glee. I begged you to let me
soar higher and higher, still,
far away to heights unknown and
forever un-dreamt about.

Even back then, I thought I
was an angel.

But then
Hours slowed to
minutes, and while your
explosive clock broke down,
and minutes trickled down to
seconds and your beautiful lungs
that sang me pretty songs and
whispered to me how I was
your “favorite grandchild, “

Your once beautiful lungs were
as black and as dark as
charcoal is before
it burns up.

Though your lungs went black,
and the strings that held you
together were wearing thin,
your heart never did.

And even almost six years and
six million tears later,
you still hold our family together with a
glue as strong as the heart that
never stopped beating,
and as beautiful as the
lungs that sang me
softly to sleep,
even from six-feet deep.

Don’t become infatuated
Don’t fall in love
Especially not with poets
Because they only ever exist in their words
They will write you love poems, and lengthy paragraphs
With words said in ways you have never heard before
You will fall in love, with love poems, the way they say their vowels, and the look in their eyes when they read to you  
They will lull you to sleep with sticky sweet words
And they will speak of the colour yellow, in a new light
A new meaning will come to its definition
And it will slowly become your favorite colour
You will wear yellow dresses, and put daisies in every room  
You will see the speckles of yellow in their brown eyes
But you will find them at three in the morning sitting in the bath tub, bathing in the words of metaphors
You will find them having an affair with Stanzas and Verses at the same time, sleeping with sonnets
You will see that poetry was always their mistress
At night they will no longer share blankets with you, but they will wrap themselves in ballads and couplets
You will only be able to express this new distance with eulogies
You will start seeing yellow everywhere
In the beds of your nails, and them hems of your skirts
Till you start seeing it so often that you will want to puke up every word they have ever said to you
You will realize that talk is cheap and Rhymes are easy
You will realize that poets only ever exist in their words

i will
Always
go back to
Never.

we both said
things we regret and
promised each other with our
Nevers that we will
Always make sure that this
Never happens
again.

but with eyes as full as
empty skies;
eyes the size of
saucers beg
for this
secret meeting of
Nevers to
Always happen
again.

so one week later,
we find ourselves
at this place once more;
breaking promises
sealed with
Nevers and
one a.m. tear-
stained cheeks.
because
Never will
Always
Never be
enough to keep
You away from
Me.

Nowadays the love songs don’t focus on love
Only thing the songs are expressing is ***
And taking the girl back to your house above
All else and then have her leave if the next
Logical point in the song
Everyone jams out to these signing along
Saying these are the next big thing to hit
The radio making the guy be the strong,
Macho type and the damsel throwing a fit
Because of his attitude and complaining
About how love should be and not this
“Why can’t you be like an old song?” feigning
Anger to play hard to get on him but it’s just a diss
She’s laying on him
This is the usual nowadays except for the rare
Few who were raised on the classics actually
Falling in love with her instead of a hit and
Quick and a see ya around but is factually
Never happening again, looking for the band
That sung that sweet melody that touched the
Soul
Now this isn’t me saying I’m a classic Romeo
No not at all babe, I’m just trying to say
I’m looking to make her fall in love
And find a happy ever after in this
World that killed the love songs

when i told people in my first block class at school, a science class, that my favorite movie was straight outta compton, they all laughed.
and i guess i understood why. im a little white girl that was wearing a skirt that day. okay, so thats nice.
i guess i cant like things because i live in a pretty nice neighborhood and im white and im a girl.
but guess what.
i like straight outta compton because i understand the people part of it. like oh god.
i used to love going to the movies because i could escape my reality, which ***** more than people know because i dont tell them things sometimes, but i havent enjoyed a movie in years because every reality in my life has completely taken over and defeated me.
but maybe i like straight outta compton so much because for the first time in years, i actually connected with something that felt real to me.
yeah ok, its just a movie.
but watching the movie, i got to meet these characters and they became my friends. i dont care about how lame that is.
this is a poetry site. look at all the angst. and my gosh, look at that fourth wall i just broke.
ice cube is my friend. ren is my friend. yella too. all my friends, and i watched them get shoved to the ground outside their own recording studio.
because they were black.
and sitting in the movie theatre seat in my nice neighborhood in my white skin, i cried.
i cried my eyes out, because those actors onscreen were telling me a story in the personas of these new friends of mine.
i cried when eazy found out he had aids. just when nwa was about to get back together.
it was like watching a personal potential victory slip right between my fingers. it felt so close.
and i watched his body shake in agony. eazy cried. he had months to live.
in my white skin in my nice movie seat in my nice neighborhood where ive never had to watch anyone die, i cried because in that moment, all of it was real to me.
you cant explain something like that, not even to your friends.
in my nice neighborhood where there arent streetwalkers and people doing coke and peoples houses getting rammed down by the cops, my friends dont want to listen to nwa because of all the cussing.
and i think, there is so much that you miss if you initially reject it because you dont like it, because you think that it hurts your character.
hear no evil, see no evil.
you dont want the cussing floating around in your head.
its bad. its sinful.
but my gosh, its only words.
i dont think that eazy wanted the doctors diagnosis in his head.
i dont think that he wanted to deal coke and get almost caught by the police. i think he wanted to stay in the safe neighborhood with me in the nice movie seats crying about some other character on the screen that had their dreams crushed and their life taken.
i dont think that ice cube wanted to be taken advantage of by his manager.
i dont think i would like that either.
i dont like that people think that my friend, ice cube, isnt as smart as the little white girl in her biotechnology class. people might look down on him because hes black, or because gangsta rap made him do it, or because he didnt come from the nice neighborhood with the movie theater that i was crying in because my friends were being beaten.
maybe im crazy for saying this, but....i think maybe the movies arent supposed to always entertain us or make political statements or educate us or wow us with light shows.
maybe theyre meant to give us new perspectives we dont get because we live in nice neighborhoods with our movie theaters and our friends nwa that dont get to live here because they came from compton and got thrown in jail because they used their right to freedom of speech or got aids and died.
my friends werent all good. they did drugs and abused women, and im not okay with that, but i love them anyway, yknow?
because theres just one type of folks. not real or fictional, not actors and audience, not black and white.
just folks.
just friends.

America the Brave,
did you ever look beyond the porch, and see the smoke?
I have felt each gunshot wound and bookmarked each media news story
and even catalogued some photographs
for you to look over again.
because it seems you have a strange habit of forgetting
all the times
where places that children should be learning and laughing
began to look like cemeteries, the doors closing like a cruel purgatory,
when another **** maniac rages in with a legal firearm –
“mommy, I’m okay, but all my friends are dead.”
red crayons will never look the same—
I’ve found that bleach does not clean out
the stains on the carpet and words alone do not console the masses.

America the Free,
have you heard the terrifying orchestra of screeching tires on pavement?
didn’t you learn that running away is the same as running to meet a date with the reaper?
America, please tell me why
I cannot look for safety in a blue uniform, tell me why
the word “police” inspires more fear and pain
than it stands for justice?
there, in the empty streets, are the echoes of the voices in the night that you failed to hear when the sound of
sirens drowned the world in shades of wrong--
“I can’t breathe.”
“I don’t have a gun, stop shooting.”
“please don’t let me die.”
I stand at the gates between crossroads but nobody looks each other
even if there’s the unspoken truth
that some of us are more likely to be studying obituaries than studying to
be finishing our high school and college degrees.

America the Bold,
  please listen when I tell you that there is a pain you cannot hide
beneath IPhones and reality television,
when all I see is hallowed eyes,
empty hands, and
more parents that shouldn’t have to know
what it’s like to buy caskets in mass production, before they even knew how to read, before they could sing praises of your liberty, before they even had a chance to pray for a different fate, one they actually deserved.

America the Beautiful,
for all your Spacious skies, and amber waves…
have you looked at the ugliness of your ****** palms?

She saw a rainbow where he could only see black.
But together, they made a frame, keeping their picture perfect life intact.

She saw the sun where he was always captivated by the moon.
But together, they made each other's wishes come true and not a moment too soon.

She saw smiles where he drowned in the sadness of eyes.
But together, they made laughter and found truth amongst a million lies.

She saw beauty where he could only see regrets and pain.
But together, they made a life that could always be and would always remain.

She saw him where he would always find her.
And together, they made happiness that could span galaxies forever.