when I;m angry,
i throw everything
i hit myself
i cut myself,
i scatter about,
i slam on things.
but i never scream it ouT
MY BRAIN IS ON ANOTHER WAVELENGTH
AND I DONT KNOW WHAT TO DO.

I HATE NOT BEING ABLE TO CONTROL MYSELF
TO LET YOU GET ME SO ANGRY
AND THE THING ABOUT IT IS.
YOU DON;T EVEN CARE.,

I HZATEY OYU I HATE YOU I HATYE YOU.

N N

Although you may be to young
to understand
and too beautiful to comprehend.
I will tell you about this world
this world i live in.

This world you will live in.

This world is not sweet.
This world is the enemy of some
and the death of many.

This world has no patience for tears,
no compassion for the unhealthy.

This big onion of a world has
its folds
and as we peel the folds
we cry,
we cry for the death of many
and the impatience of the tears.

Today's my birthday
and I cried for the first hour of it.

I feel happy but sad,
just a few months ago
I didn't even want to live

Now I'm in my 20s,
officially a grown-up.

No more teen to fall back on,
I'm gonna miss it.

random day of the week.
I wake up,
sleep still in my eye.
  Haven't noticed that I don't feel anything,
just tired.

   Dusk starts to arrive, I feel angry.
No one except my father has made me disappointed,
I cried over past events.
My mood changes again,
I don't know how to describe the frequency.
I constantly ask my mother if she ever felt this way,
she replies that she can no longer remember,
nor had she noticed that she would snap at me.
   Nighttime has arrived, I order pizza.
Attempt to bond with mother over a new
tv show,
    she barely pays attention,
it hurts.
My father ignores me.
I enjoy the silence.
     Noticing this new movie coming soon,
I ask a (friend) to join me,
I'm rejected with excuses of non-violence,
confusion of the plot and (ask a classmate).
I pretend it doesn't hurt,
it upsets me,
but I would be less upset if it wasn't pathetic excuses.
Am I angry because of excuses or rejection?
Am I disappointed because of my father's silence or my mother's two-second attention span?

   I wish I could just bleed already so I could focus on the physical.

Those who say they will never leave you,
are always the first to go.

often i am asked,
why i don't smile.
i can laugh, i can show my teeth, but i can't smile.

taking photos of myself i can't muster up the courage to show all 32.

but with a group or
taken by someone other than myself,
i smile.

it's easier to smile when you can't see yourself.

most of the time,
i am asked
why don't i smile.

i am not happy.

i cry more than i laugh.
crows feet with puffy eyes are how i wake up.
worrying about laugh lines is not a priority.

"you should smile more often"
"i liked you because of your smile"
"you have a beautiful smile"

i wish i could smile,
but i can't
it hurts too much.

I am beautiful,
don't you know that?

My pimples make other pimples
bow in awe,
gaze with uncontrollable lost,
my flabby arms make the women
sneer with envy.
The stripes I acquired on my thighs
and luscious backside have men telling me
I'm the next best thing.
My unibrow and hairs on my chiny-chin
on my unpainted face have makeup companies
selling my skin across mediterranean seas.
My diet has been written about in many
magazines,
even Homer follows my diet,
it's a very important part of life.
I never smoke,
I hear the world is going to outlaw it.

I have married every mirror I've come across
even my reflection in the ocean
has proposed.
How could I turn myself down
I am beautiful you know.

I am beautiful,
I can't believe you don't know that.

Every piece of me is beautiful
even the fungus on my toes,
but I hear it isn't good to brag.

I am from Carmella and Peter, who are from Marie, who gave birth to seven aunts and uncles on each side and unknown fathers who were there but weren't.
From the Native tribes of Cherokees all the way to the Jamaican seas.
From the grandmother, I never met but love so much, from the grandfathers who died before they knew I even existed.
I am from the North-Atlantic Slave Trade, 400 years and counting, spread from the southern breezes of Georgia to the Caribbean waters of Jamaica.
From the robbery of my ancestors, the lynches of my great-grandfathers, the discrimination of my grandmothers and the fight of my parents and the reluctance of me.
I am from hugs and kisses of my mother to discipline and handshakes from my father.
From strict lessons about boys and the harshest of truths about life as a Black woman.
From the many years of Thanksgiving and Christmas spent with families who were always so happy to see me, from the hams and turkeys to the soul food made by my mother's hands.
I am from days with no tv, no heat, no idea about how to get by, but my mother made me feel the richest of rich.
I am from self-taught Christians, who never went to church but serve God as though he lives through them.
From the smartest of women and men who told me to never say "Can't", even as I rolled my eyes and told them I've already done it.
I am from a family of women, strongest I've ever known and compassionate as well.
From women who have beaten down by years of male egos and the darkness of their skin.
I am from the urban city of New York, where in two seconds and a metrocard, I am in the Gold Coast.
From the gentrification of Gates Ave, and the impending doom of it happening to me.
From the projects and two family homes of Bushwick, now turned into high-rises for the wealthiest of New York City.
From the architecture of a Trump tower right across the street from a low-income housing development.
I am from the hard times of depression and anxiety that were overlooked with alcohol and arguments, from the outbursts and crying myself to sleep, to not knowing the real thoughts of my father and what he thinks of me.
From the overachiever of my mother wanting to make a better life for me and me succeeding in her dreams.
From the many pages of poetry, I write to calm the mind and heal the pain.
I am from the generation who hopes to make our ancestors proud as they have made us.

He seems to take my hurt
my tears
my mistakes.
Use them with his tongue
say failure without a slight change
in his voice
his posture.
I feel smaller than krill
in his vast ocean,
in the dark he keeps me
from reaching the light
from being me.
I've lost the smile in  my eyes
months of crying have darken them.
Secretly i wish he would go away
but how would i exist if he was gone.
I hate him but i am desperately
horribly, sickening in love
with him.
I doubt he knows this
for i keep everything in.
A big ship of secrets that he knows
while inside a trap door are more.
He promised to leave me if i said more
than the ones he knows.
So I'm keeping them hidden
until he goes away
But how can i exist
if he was to go away.

the tightnessofthechest

  the d i z z i n e s s

the SCARES AND JUMPS.

  the inhale and the e
                                      x
                                         h
                                              a
                                                 l
                                                     e.
the t e a
          rs of failure
and worry.

**hopelessness, and doubt.

those who like to clean and scrub,
are you really cleaning?
are you really scrubbing?

Did you find something worth scrubbing?
Was it a love letter, a ******, an incriminating photo, was it drugs? was it nothing to you but the world to someone else?
Did you clean the love letter by shredding it or throwing it in the trash? Did you save the ****** in a plastic bag?
Wonders of what you did with the photo
And the drugs, well we all know what that you smoked-- i mean cleaned

When you were finished, did you tell the person what you did? Or let them come home to a place where everything was rearranged and scrubbed.

Did you notice when they ignored you and didn't thank you for your cleaning services?

I wonder often what satisfies a scrubber. Is it the control you get from knowing all you can know about a person? Is it the feeling you get when you've finished scrubbing all the dirt off?
I wonder often what satisfies a cleaner. Is it the notion that you're bettering someones life when you've just erased the whole of them? Is it the thought that when you put them in new clothes, they shine.

Do you think you are making them the image of what you've scrubbed?

those who clean and scrub,
are you really cleaning and are you really scrubbing?
I think that you are.

It’s been awhile since I wrote something worthwhile

A moment since I sat down and told you my thoughts,

Thoughts that came and went,

thoughts that haunted me ever since.



I think I created a space where a part of myself

can think, while another part of myself, stops thinking

to think about you.



This may sound confusing,

but this is just me,

hopefully you’ll see that too.

I no longer look forward to the promises you keep.
You often break them and never apologize for the disappointment
Many times, I have fulfilled my own promises.
With no congratulations from you.

I no longer look forward to the promises you keep.
They are weak lies with hope dangling off of them.
You often make these promises and I laugh at the knowing expection of that promise turning to dust.

I no longer look forward to promises,
they are weak, unfulling and excuses for people to hold onto with no reassurance that it will ever come true.
I no longer make promises to those I love, I try my hardest to give them a promise before they even make it.
Promises are foolish to me, they rely on hope.
On which I have none.

I no longer look forward to promises you keep,
and I will send this letter to no one, no one will ever read this
I promise.

I feel stronger than i did last week
even though my body feels broken.

My heart is beating slower than usual
but i can keep running faster than
rain can fall from the clouds.

My eyes can't see as sharp as they used too
but everytime i see your face
it's clearer than the skies on a spring day.

My legs seem to drag each step i take
but when you start to walk towards me
I lift each leg as though it doesn't hurt.

My arms can't lift groceries anymore
but when you wrap your arms around me
they fall unto you without any struggle.

My past is scars inside and out
but when you're around
it doesn't exist.

The scars i see
every morning i wake up
and every night i sleep
with them caressing me.

Never forgotten shall they be.

Replaced with your face
every morning i awake
and every night i sleep with you
caressing me.

Never forgotten shall you be.

that class
the one where i knew nothing
i came unprepared.
i felt like a spotlight was on me
and they all knew it.
they all knew i knew nothing
they were waiting for me to
whimper a wrong answer
and to ***** their faces into
confusion.

"did she even read the book?"

i wouldn't give them that satisfaction of hurting me, i was so quiet i almost disappered into the seat.
the only kind of recognition i received was from that blue eyed high priestess who glanced at me with piercing questions.
it was the worst day of my life.
i pride myself on at least being prepared and today i wasn't
that class was the worst and i hope it never happens again.

the early memories
of childhood
were grimm,

they included black eyes,
****** noses
and scars.

The mice were never
their friends
nor were they fashion designers

they lived with rasputin
who neither died nor got sick

being awoken at midnight
from your apple slumber
to yelling and thunder.

they wished for those memories
to burn
with cinder and coal
pricking their fingers
on every needle in tow.

the memories were
sound asleep
with no kiss
on hold.

I feel so much time on my hands, and with so much time.
I waste it away,
I feel I have little time on my hands and with so little time,
I rush and scramble about to hold onto it.

It's been said that time is an illusion,
a phenomenon made by humans.

Animals don't worry about time,
they worry about family, food, the sun, the moon,
water, no water.
earth, no earth.

Humans worry about birthdays, lateness, money, bills,
manicure, no pedicure.
gas, no gas.

Time. I worry about it,
I worry about my family, food, the sun, the moon,
water, earth, birthdays, manicures and no pedicures.

Will this mean something in a few years?
will time wear on the pages?
Will my time have run out to see it?

I feel so much time on my hands, and with so much time.
I waste it away,
I feel I have little time on my hands and with so little time,
I rush and scramble about to hold onto it.

I think about death too often
my death, I think about too often.

Will I die young?
Will I have accomplished
all I wanted?
Will I have children before my death?
Will they have to live a life with
no mother?
Will I live a long life,
growing old with loved ones
and friends?
Seeing my grandkids have kids.

Will I have neither of those and
live the world's loneliest life?
Will I dedicate myself to work
and work only
Will I die before I even live my life?


I think about death too often,
my death, I think about too often.

For the first time in months, I can finally be myself,
I can finally open my eyes and heart to tell you everything I've been holding in,
been struggling to find my heart again,
to tell you my days have
even become hard to breathe in.

Instead of hitting myself and
letting my eyes cry me to sleep,
I started being me and I missed me.
The sad lonely me
but somewhat content with life me.
The no longer angry at the world me,
the no longer I will scratch your eyes out if you even think of asking me a question.

I'm glad I found me again, she's hungry.

When I was 15
I lost the written innocence
of girlhood
and gained the status of a woman.
When I was 16
still a growing girl
with the reporters
spreading rumors of my
newfound womanhood
I was a target.

Still 16, I was manipulated by a devil with an iron fist.
Six months of being a mindless zombie
following his agenda
wondering if an exorcist
would ever save me.

By the time I was 17,
I had no words of my own
was constantly smiling on the outside
while unknowingly dying on the inside.
As I approached death
a reaper saved me
holding my hand
as I was ready to go.

When I was 18,
I fell in love with the reaper
who told me of my faults
and my truths
who allowed me to love myself
even while loving him.

Still 18, I had a voice of my own,
a smile of my own
even words started to flow easily
I no longer mumbled
or held my head down in shame.

By the time I was 19,
the reaper saved me again
from the impending doom
in my head
and I was so selfish to not see
I was making the reaper sick.
sick of me.

As I reached 20,
I hated the reaper
he who saved me from
death too many times
even though he could've
let me pass.

The reaper was tired of me
wishing for death
when I had life
all around me,
he eventually reaped himself
and left me alone
wanting me to feel what he felt
when he had to saved me from every reaping.

Once I was 21,
I wished for him to come back
apologizing for all the pain I caused.
He didn't believe me
testing me with my life in his hand.
I let him have it
as he gave his life for me.

i struggle with life
Out of my control
Not of sight.

pain is all i feel
In my eyes it flows

Simple is what I want
I receive the ok
Settle for the less

I struggle with life
Who doesn't
but what can we do?

Cest la vie

I spend most of my time alone.

I take all of the day
going over what makes me, me.
And what has made me, me.

I go over any memory my mind has
experienced, collected and preserved.

I pick them apart,
I try to see what when wrong
when I didn't walk away,
and what could've happened had I said no.

I pick apart the bad memories,
the memories that caused me pain,
and still do today.

I study them.
I cry over them,
I sometimes cut over them.

I rememeber the bad memories more than the good ones.
The bad memories seem to live
just below the surface,
while the good memories
I have to search a whole ocean for.

I question myself on this preservation of pain.
I let it sleep on my shoulders
and darken my eyes.
I let it enjoy me,
enjoy every piece of me.


I spend most of my time alone.

Sometimes I make no sense at all.

But to the memories inside me
that make me me
that controls every part
comes in pieces

pieces of me.

this morning i woke up, stripped naked out of the womb
cold wind hitting my body, making me shiver
feeling so small
curled up like a ball.

this morning i laid in bed for hours upon hours
thinking of life
the mistakes i made
the ones i wish i could fix and the ones i wish i never made.
feeling so ashamed
stuffing my face in the pillow.

this morning i watched the sun come up
and on my skin i felt its warmth protect me from the dark days
feeling its arms around me
there is a smile on my face.

this morning i woke up alone
no one to cuddle with
tears on my face that they’re gone
never to return
feeling invisible
i don’t get out of bed.

this morning i turned old
gray hair grey eyes
feeling that I'm overdue on earth
i sleep forever.

You’re telling me how good the food is,
and I can see him grab her wrist.

"Isn't this salad good?"
I nod yes.

He's now reaching for her face,
she has fear in her eyes.

"Try this, it goes great with the wine."
Everyone can see.

"Isn't the wine great?"
She's crying, he's red.

"Should we get the check?"
They get the check,
she goes for the concealer,
covers the bruises.

"Did you have a good meal?"
I nod yes.

He leaves and starts the car,
she struggles behind him.

"I had a fabulous time, did you?"
I nod yes,
wasn't that wine great?

who wants to go first?

The girl with a voice only
in the privacy of her
teddybears?

The girl who used to be scared of her shadow,
lowering her eyes from every
passerby
not knowing they're looking right through her.

The girl too scared to tell that guy off
when he yelled all the flithy things he would do to her
when she was only 14.

The girl whose extrovert inside her head.

The girl who covers her mirrors with sheets
so they can't see her dance.

The girl who has storybook love,
but lives the life of a tragic hero.

The girl who believes she can succeed at everything,
but tries with only a few.

The girl who wears heavy tshirts and hotpants
as her legs are the only part of her body
she loves.

The girl who doesn't tell her loved ones
she loves them that often
as she feels they don't love her at all.

The girl who wonders about fame and fortune,
then decides on the simple life.

The girl who has yet to turn into a woman,
the girl who didn't think she could amount to anything,
but still puts in 110% even if life only gives her 80.

The girl writing this poem
with no start or ending,
she wants to go first.

the world is a bit dimmer today,
trust is a nonexistent word.
the only thing we have to look forward to is time,
time can heal all wounds.

my friend's boyfriend broke up with her.
(on her birthday)
he told her, (while she was already hurt by
the lack of care he'd given her) "we are not together."

confused. she asked him why.
his usual answer was: "you decided this months ago."

her memory as it was told to me,
she decided to end the relationship
after months of stress and a dislike for
him and herself.

after a few days, he'd made a horrible
plea for her heart and as weak hearts,
most likely do. she gave it back to him.

nothing changed, *** was still regular.
( not better, not any worse)
love was there, but only on her side.

after days of trying to talk and not annoy him,
he revealed that he was not in love with her,
he only liked her and stayed for so long,
as not to hurt her.

this hurt more than her heart could stand,
she thought it was going to pump its last
few breaths from the shock, she felt.

then after comfort from her sister,
she felt relief and free.
In the back of her mind, she knew the truth of him.
He didn't kiss her anymore, didn't ask for hugs, didn't
take photos together or try to hold her hand.

she was in love with a figment of her imagination
and he was better in her mind.

when she told him, that she already knew for a long time of her one-sided love. he seemed shocked that she knew. she told me

(how could one pretend so horribly to love me and seem to think I not
notice?)

Confused that she seemed to brush him off,
he decided to blame her for their failed relationship
due to her lack of emotion and telling herself that (she'll be fine.)

He wanted to break her down, have her crawling back to him
like before when her heart was weak and he was weak and alone
without her.

She asked me, why do men do this?
( play with your heart, blame you for equal failures, then leave you to clean up the mess)

I told her, I did not know.
Maybe, just him, wants you to feel how he feels.
Or maybe he wants to laugh and mock you for being so naive again, so
gullible.

She told me that he'd asked to fix it.
( I want to try again, I want to fix it.)
But there was nothing to fix.
There had been nothing there for years,
no love, no compassion, just a distance.

When I saw her a few years later,
she was with him,
it seems she did not take my words to heart
or her heart was too weak to leave him.

I just hope he really loves her now and if he hasn't,
then he's become a really good actor.