When they forgot your name, but he made headlines,
When they exalted him, despite your pleas,
When they probed your body in a sterile room,
We held your hand.
When they let him free, but questioned your past,
We cried for justice.
When they asked what you’d be drinking or how you’d been dressed,
When you told the truth and they branded you “liar,”
We believed you.
When it seems like progress falls stagnant, the villains win, and hope is far too fleeting,
I promise, we are with you.
She’s built of divinity.
Mother Earth birthed her,
sculpted her figure.
She’s the generations past;
She’s the collective future.
Her voice carries over the crests of waves,
harmonizing with the wind,
uniting the stars.
When she cries,
her tears rain from the heavens,
eroding sharp cliffs
and rough quarries
She created nations from dirt,
and power from her hands.
She is Woman.
They stitched me up and sent me out
with a world-class, white-toothed smile.
Tradition sewed with thick black string
until its thumbs went numb and calloused.
Truth tarnished the needle and burned my skin,
but who was I to talk?
If you don’t have anything nice to say,
you best not say nothing at all.
Grandma prettied me up and dried my eyes,
said I should talk with God.
He’s an awful bad conversationalist;
The Saints remained silent night after night.
When that town was done, I was a right lovely thing:
delicately embroidered, just enough flourish.
Unsung secrets where a soul should be;
I guessed Blood was overrated anyway.
Now seams have ripped and sutures popped,
revealing gruesome wounds and ugly verity.
Momma, I’m sorry, it didn’t last;
I am not as strong as you are.
When memory does not serve forgetful minds
Consult the unkempt pages; I’ll do mine
The Era of Suburban Apathy
Of Pinky Promises and Blasphemy
When boredom struck, and this it always did,
We’d drive your car until the tires skid
We’d rather listen to static than news
Lost in reverie, not much to lose
Jumping picket fences hand in hand
Rowing your grandpa’s boat til it hit land
I’d yell fractured beats, raucous refrains
You’d pluck your guitar’s strings, neighbors complained
When drops of rain cut through the humid air
You’d twirl about with flowers in your hair
I’d trace the ones that fell down in the sand
And there we’d spend our days, with nothing planned
Those flowers, now preserved with utmost care
Rest between pages starting to wear
Reminders of the prologue of our lives
Before the race to win or just survive
Our sanctuary, long since disappeared,
In your brush strokes now remains revered
Ghosts of summers past, i reminisce
Dwelling too long, though, would be remiss
chosen by divinities
following the solstice
a zealot in essence
but still merely a novice
did his fervor deceive you?
were you plucked by his hand?
did his danger entice you?
was this what you had planned?
bend to his will, then
but keep morals intact
this is picturesque violence
but his polish will crack
her marked atonement
for many a crime
seemed to console them
at least for a time
but soon that too faded
right back to the dark
right back to the epithet
the Beast with no Heart
that gave her no option
but to whip up a spell
for that is all she knew
that devious belle
the noxious, thick vapors
soon spread like a fog
and none were the wiser
A Queen’s monologue
and now i pledge
my undying allegiance
my never-ending fidelity
to the noble cause of
never moving your head off my shoulder
(no matter how many times my arm falls asleep)