I curl my hands into
His tight curls loosened by shampoo
Briefly kisses my hazy gaze

Grab his hand before he scrubs
Into the generous pile of soap and
Buries it to my chest
I greedily soak up the soap.

The bath water is delicately blue
Balanced between a light smoky exhale
And the edges of the midday sun
Reflecting impurities from our bodies

The news he broke like an egg
About to be dropped into boiling water
The tension seeps past the skin
And settles into my newly softened joints.

Confined to the four walls of my room,
Lost without you,
Locked away in my self made tomb.
Crying into my pillow
Til its tear stained on both sides,
Knowing that that was our last goodbye.
I miss you.
There is nothing left to do but
Reminisce you,
And I intend to.
You were my ******.
And when I was down,
You were my heroine.
But now that well is dry,
So I drown my sorrows in *****
And all I do is cry.
I don't know why you left me,
But it makes sense;
I'm depressing, you see.
But it's okay because
I have a lot of time alone,
To think of where I first went wrong.
But you're all I seem to want,
You're all I ever think of,
And your presence haunts my thoughts.

I surrender to the God of liberty
who makes me lie down in eternal love,
and the malice-infested swamps
dive in my peace
trying to impurify the
esteem of my being.
Here stands a society ready
to annihilate me
their guns point with rage
trying to contradict my black skin
into the depths of sin
I am not a badge of shame.
I always kept myself locked in
became a fiend of my own mind
suppressed in the name
of slavery and injustice
my roots were planted in a dry harvest.
My heart is worn out,
dogged up is my throat
when my speech is unable
to cultivate the capacity of my ethnicity.
Where is the pride?
Where is the peace?
Stay woke, my people.
We need to develop
inherent worth and dignity
resist conformity of the regime
revive our immortal spirits
and begin to breathe in the cosmic of superiority and solidarity.
Black people, we are magic.

on toes right round
conversing with god
the edge very close
almost falling down
when the strawberry
lips of the betweens
came and I came and
all was frozen in the
true sense of the word
she called me  by my
name at the time
superman

I hear voices in my head that guide my actions. I'm not crazy, I just like knowing somebody agrees with me.
Around the age of 10, these voices came to me in an attempt to make me forget about all my struggles. They were there through the thin of my lips to the thick of my Gluteus and stayed ever-present through the first feelings the spark of love.
And once that spark was extinguished and I began to shame my body, my voices calmed me and quelled the rising need to escape the gloom. They told jokes. And I laughed heartily, kissing my palm and placing it to my forehead as an offer of complete infatuation with the voices.
But it didn't remain that way. We began to argue in my mind, shifting my action into chaos as I began to realize that my brain had become a cave harboring a snake like a zoo. So I stopped listening.
I didn't want to hear them anymore, I wanted them to shut up.
But they never did.
At times, they would get very quiet just to yell at a rate to leave ringing in my ears, and I would cry at their pains.
By mid-puberty, I had grown accustomed to these shouts. I had even learned to ignore them. And most of the loud voices began to disappear.
But One remained, a single cage to my canary. A bite to my jugular and a constant reminder of the sickness I claimed in my mind.
He only came around when I was upset, and he’d always etch me into actions so regrettable that he didn’t realize affected him as well.
He wanted me to die.
For years I combatted him, cursing him into a withdrawal but then speaking up a weakness that would inspire his powerful words and presence again. Oh how mighty his power over me was.
His very voice sent chills through my spine and blood rushing through my veins. His tone turned my blackened skinned the color of used, sopping wet coffee grinds. The bite present in every consonant he uttered made my ears pop with unease as if the pressure grew under my eyelids.
He was my demon.
After my second attempt at love had fizzled he had been the one to tell me to slash that tire. He was the reason I bit Jamea’s lip and drew the taste of rich blood to my tongue hungrily as if vampiric. He was the reason I spent so many nights up crying in fear as I would chant “What’s happening” or “what am I doing”… or “why am I still here”
His counsel became sadistically acceptable, nearly sexually desired to me as the depth of his voice boomed with close proximity to my heart. I could feel the warmth of my body grip the chill of the air and I’d chuckle like a school girl.
This became my reality, a bubble of sadism sautéed with fear and drenched in disgust. He would addict me to the taste of blood, the color of death. He would introduce me to the feeling of pain and the emotion of anguish.
And I began to love it. I would press pen tips to my skin and draw the sweet nectar of my essence.

Of course, no one understands me. They say I need help.
Maybe they’re right
But every time my mind becomes aware of the hold from him, he soothes me with box cutters and cuddles in the warmth of my skin’s openings.
I’m in love with his deception and his truth. I love the life he has given me and never again will I complain when I hear
the voices

I am a child , I am a mother

I wonder when I will find my joy again.
I hear the wind blow
Looking up,I see the dark night sky

I am a child,I am a mother
I pretend I believe in happy endings,
I feel the pain.....so deep
I touch my collapsed veins.......

I am a child ,I am a mother
I cry about The evil in this world,so much violence and hate....
I worry about dying alone .....
And ....about dying

I am a child, I am a mother
I try to hold on ....hope,for better days
Be it so,
I am a child,I am a mother