We like to decorate the female body
To disguise it with some metaphor in order to prove its validity
To see a woman as a flower that needs to be picked
To see a mother's arms as shelter for our souls
No, my friend.
Do not think that words will come to tuck you in at night
We are flesh and we are bones.
That is beautiful enough

When you are in love
Write an ode comparing your emotions to the weather
But do not speak of her as the fallen leaf of the auburn tree
Do not speak of her as the wind that cracks your window open at night
Do not speak of her as the blood your veins need
Do not speak of her as anything
Other than who she is,
A woman

If you were to compare her to anything
Tell her that her smile, that the life in her eyes
Does for you what love does to the human mind

And to you, my child
I cannot promise you the world
Nor a string of jewels to wear on your neck or even money
But I can offer you my love
A love so great with the magnitude of black holes
Not just the cool ones in your science books
But the ones that swallow entire planetary systems and clusters of stars
I can't promise you much, baby girl
But I can promise you that you'll never ask yourself if someone loves you
You'll never wonder if there's a point to life
You'll never doubt your worth

Baby girl.

I was raised by a hard man
But a hard man who loved women
A hard man who loved his women
His wife. His mother. His sisters and his daughters.
I was raised by a man that taught me to stand tall not like her father
But like the woman she would become
I was raised by a man that taught me to reason. To think. To question authority if need be.

Go out into the world, baby girl, and live.
Be who you are even when that's not enough for your crush next door.
Because at the end of the day,
The Sun will set
And the Moon will rise

Millenials.
The world ******* hates us.
We whine for a living
We feed ourselves with Xanax and Prozac
To remind the world that we are broken
Problem? I don't think so

We accuse the world of being awful
We accuse life, a life we have not lived yet
Of being too cruel when we are the ones
Who cut ourselves open for a heart we long to love

We look for the kiss that will heal our self inflicted injuries
Well, dear millenial, "there is no tyrant like a brain"
We will keep cutting ourselves
Keep drinking ourselves to sleep
Keep poisoning our mind with this "Golden Age Thinking"
Until we understand that
We are stuck here.

And life does not need to be good to us
Life owes us nothing.
Poetry and Paintings won't save the world.
Do it yourself

Some find comfort in warm hugs
In kisses, in long walks by the beach
Others in soft gazes,
Warm smiles given by a loving mother
I, for instance, have neither

I work with words
Where every inch of my body is a collection of thoughts
Each more complex than the other

Life has given me a fountain of emotions
And every day I wait for you
To come and contemplate your beauty
Because it wasn't about what you were looking at
It was what you saw

I don't find my comfort in words
Nor warm hugs or kisses
I find comfort in you.

If I were to do it all again I'd tell my mother that I was sorry
I'd tell my brother that I love him
And I'd tell my best friend that
Maybe the skirt was a little too short for brunch with the parents

I'd tell my sister that I wish I had an ounce of her integrity
I'd thank my coach for believing in me
I'd kiss my teacher on both cheeks
For not leaving me in the hallway crying
I'd thank her for being my only friend for almost an entire year
I'd thank her for carrying me on her shoulders for so long
But most of all I'd thank her for letting go at the right moment

If I were to do it all again
I'd be more honest
Not blunt.
Because blunt is uncompromisingly forthright
And I, for one, give a ****.

If I were to do it all again
I'd understand that in order to get to "success"
I'd have to climb the thousand feet tall ladder called "fear"

If I were to do it all again
I'd jump out of the plane on two
Because people hold on to the edges at three

If I were to do it all again...
Man I'd be at the top of that ladder

And to you, my child
Don't underestimate the power of love
Don't underestimate the strength of friendship
Son.
I am not made of stone.
But I can be the rock you lean on
When the world has beaten you to the core
I am small in size, son
But when the world decides that you no longer need to be seen
I will carry you on my shoulders
Longer than those nine months

Son.

I was raised by a hard man.
But a man that honoured family
A grandfather, for you, that'll share tall tales of his brothers
Son, your grandfather may be small in size
But he is a force not to be reckoned with
He'll show you ways of life
That belong solely to the male species
Ways that I might never even understand

I want you to listen more
I want you to know that when the streets have been too loud for your fragile ears
That mama, will replace gunshots with lullabies
Scars with kisses
Bruises with hugs

But most of all.
Hatred for self-love

I think that the reason so many of us won't love is because
We know it won't be those morning walks hand in hand
We know it won't be warm hugs by the couch every night
That it won't be kisses with lips swollen with love
Or passion that shines as bright as a thousand stars

We won't dare to feel because it's not what we expected
It's because it'd be everything we ever feared.
Putting ourselves vulnerable for someone else
Stripping ourselves with what we think is confidence
But in reality is pride.

I challenge you, I dare you to feel
Feel the pain, The anger
The sorrow, The joy but mostly
Feel the love
Open your hands to the sky and let the world cut you
For those scars will heal
And you will love again
You will hope again
And in time, you will heal again

You have to be the best
You have to be the best
You have TO BE THE BEST

Kaye told me if you repeat something something over and over, it looses its meaning
Growing up I was a very competitive kid
I was raised with this mentality that if you weren't the best
You were worth nothing
"Why did she get 100% ?"
"Why is he faster than you?"
"Does she have two brains? "
"Does he have four legs?" my father often said.
This put me in a continuous race where no matter what happened
I had to be first
No matter what happened, I had to be first
No matter how many times I kept tripping, falling on my face,
No matter how many times life kept beating me to the ground
Waiting for me to get back up only to trip me again.
The best.
We were taught to be the best when none of us knew what it felt like to be good
It was always a battle between more and too much
As a kid, I kept aiming and aiming and aiming
Without really knowing where my target was
Didn't matter. I had to be the best.
I fought with endless ways to get eyes of approval and pride
Forgetting that it is is human nature to never be satisfied.
Enough was never enough
That didn't stop me.
Everywhere I looked, people had stopped running
Whether it was in the middle or the end if the race
We all have a long way to run
However, we shouldn't be allowed to define ourselves by our destination
Because, remember, it's the journey that puts the focus on the finishing line.

Artists.
Praised by lovers
Adored by dreamers
But also victims of the ridicule of over-achievers

I've dipped my toe in both waters
I've seen the world learn how to swim
While artists took a dive in the ocean
I've heard the world practice its symphonies for ages
While artists created their own

For the artist doesn't aim for perfection
It aims for satisfaction

Do not be fooled by the artist who fills galleries with red roses
For those thorns have endlessly scorched the walls of his soul
Do not be fooled by the artist who's arms stretch to the sky
For those muscles have been the victim of life's cruel judgement
Do not be fooled by an artist's kind words
For they have learned how to make lies sound like love

Do not be fooled by an artist's fears
For they've discovered the ocean
In hopes of loosing the sea

There isn't that much ''new'' left. Poems, songs, paintings, sonnets etc. It's all the same idea. They're all about the one that got away or the hurricane of emotions left behind. Or maybe that childhood kiss that was sweeter than the strawberry jam mom would pack for lunch. Maybe it's about those days you'd run out in the storm in rainboots, waiting to feel those droplets on our face because there was nothing that a little rain couldn't wash away...right? Those tormented nights when the big bad wolf known as life, reminded you that not everyone thought you were a "superstar".
And in those moments, mom or dad, aunt or uncle would say "Life happens, honey". Those words never felt like comfort. They were more of a reminder that they had already experienced it and more was coming. Which brings me back to: there isn't that much new left. Although the canvas might be different or the medium could be thicker, there is still the same picture.

Everything has already been done before. Someone already felt it.

When I was a kid
I spent time alone
Probably more than my fair share
But it wasn't bad at first
It was liberating.
At first, I discovered myself
I discovered the universes that existed
At the pinpoint of my imagination
A true world of wonders

I remember tiny snippets of freedom
Long walks in the park with my hands tucked into my pockets,
Or my hair getting soaked from the rain when I'd walk home

Back then "on my own" was somehing I fancied
Like a childish crush
Where I only wanted it because,
Hell.
It made me feel good
It made my heart pound
When I could spend just a second listening to my breath

But now. I've learned the consequences
The damage I've done to myself
From spending that much time
Alone.

Where do you see yourself in fifty years? I have absolutely no ******* idea. I don’t. I really don’t and for the longest time I thought that was something to be ashamed of. It probably still is but I certainly am no longer on that boat. I can tell you where I would want to be, if that makes it any better…
The proper or more common way to answer this would probably be to describe my future employment of choice or the amount of little Julie’s and Tommy’s I plan on having around the kitchen table. Yeah, that would be ideal but then again, there is no substance in that. There is no honesty in that type of answer, only social norm. Or our need to go against it.
In fifty years, I hope to be sane. I hope to have developed the capability of living with my sins and not let my anger and poor decision crowd my mind. I hope to see that behind every stupid act I’d done in the past, were hidden good intentions and not just a broken window where the frigid wind of teen rebellion would flow through. I hope to be able to sit on my front porch, watch my grand-Julie’s and Tommy’s run around freely, knowing that the life they have is much better than the one I wanted.  
In fifty years, hopefully, I’ll have learned that grey hairs don’t mean wisdom but experience. That instead of guidelines to live by, I’ll have stories to share. I hope that my skin will have become creased with tall tales like a vase molded by life’s hands.
In fifty years, I hope to be young. To be filled with vibrant energy and to resonate love. I hope not to be the answer to problems, but a set of hands that’ll hold a loved-one when nothing can be done because that is when we truly need saving.
In fifty years, oh, how I will have lived. I will have fulfilled my most wanted wish from childhood.

In fifty years…I will have lived.

I've done it again.

I lost track of time and put myself before everyone.
I forced myself to look away because I knew it was true
I quickly became ashamed of what I'd become

I so easily turned into what I hated most
Someone who values her own opinion so much
That she is unafraid of hurting everyone
Someone who "loves" herself so much
That she tears people down
Someone that is too smart
Too intelligent, to discuss just exactly what the hell is her problem
Someone who is so broken
That she allows herself to shatter others

Someone that put up the famous walls
But couldn't break the 4th one.
Someone that lost touch with reality.

Someone that refused to admit it.

Yes and no?
When I was younger, I would walk around with my breath held in.
I felt like I never really had a chance to exhale
and that’s because I thought I’d let too much escape.
I’d reveal too much.
Too much frustration,
too much sadness or anger.
I was always being monitored
Always being controlled.
I did not have the oppurtunity to express my feelings
It sounds childish now
But those were life skills I simply didn’t have
Some that I still struggle with today.

So I guess not. I’d love to have some space.

I've gotten a lot better now
I am much better now
I'm not at my best but that's ok
Because I like where I am right now
I like it because I'm going towards somewhere
More importantly, it's at my own rythm

It's been tough, however
I've scraped the halls and dark alleys of my life
I've learned the "nasty" ways of survival
I learned that "You don't climb the social ladder without picking up bad habits"

I am well.
I like where I am
And that's good

Ok

Yes, it’s not all about love, or pain but surely it’s a metaphor for the depths of the halls we walk by ourselves amongst ourselves in order to confuse anyone that tries to wander too close to our hearts. Oh come on! Poetry is so pretentious.

To hide through rhythmic syllables, to share a sonnet with thee. To dedicate an entire repertoire of acoustic melodies in order to talk about her body?

Do not get me wrong, I love my fair share of dramatic soliloquies but it seems, to me that honesty has lost its value. Especially with writers. There’s no more truth anymore…no. It always has to develop into a complicated string of ideas. There was a time when writers were able to talk about a woman or lover or whatever, without invoking all the gods.

Learn how to love for what simply is

you know, I thought I'd feel something
anything really
anger, sadness, rage...
but I just feel numb
i don't think it's because of you or what you've done
i think it's because i've felt so much
you made me go through too much

just like a water bottle
when you fill it up with too many things
it starts to empty itself
and that's where i am

emptying myself
from all the tears i've cried
from all the nights of fears
where the monsters weren't under my bed
but they were tucking me in
from all the days i'd curse the moment i met you
from all the moments you ever made me feel like i wasn't special

I wasn't unique
That I wouldn't find someone that would wake up by my side
That I would spend the rest of my days by myself if I didn't try to change

you know, I used to be scared of that
but now, it's all I want
I want to spend some time alone
some time to think,
to pick up the pieces
that you effortlessly smashed on the ground

so here i am.
planting my inner garden
and decorating my own soul

My mother is almost six feet tall.

5′11 for whoever is curious.

I am barely five feet. 5′1 for whoever’s wondering.

As you can see, my mom is tall and that means that her eight other siblings: Jack, Jackie, Jackson, Annie, Francine, Aimé, Michelle and Noelle are equally if not taller than she is.

On September 6th our pastor called me into her bedroom and there stood the three eldest siblings: Francine, Annie and Aimé like three beautiful angels. My aunt Annie was particularly hard to look at because she is a spitting image of my mother.

Mom. On September 6th people walked inside the house with their shoes on. I know how much you hate that.  Mom, there are people in the living room with their shoes on. Mom, on September 6th I was inside the house and you weren’t there. There are people flying in and out of this home and none of them are taking their ******* shoes off.  As if the ground where your body had lain a few nights before was *****.

Sometimes I can’t even look in the mirror because all I see is you. I see the woman you created. The little girl that you raised. The little girl who would put her head on your lap when the world was being mean to my four feet tall stature.

Mommy. I am so sorry. I was an absolute demon to you. I ignored you just as much as I avoided you but you also have a part in this. I hadn’t woken up one morning and decided that I wouldn’t speak to you or that I’d move to a different city. These type of things build up. They accumulate and yet, I mourn you like the messenger of God you believed you were.

Mom, I am so so sorry.