The only part of my day
That I look forward to
Is when I go to bed
And lay there making up scenarios
In my head.

I think of comebacks
To 8th grade bullies.
I think of witty retorts
To my mother's snide comments.
I think of intelligent things to add
To conversations I had months ago.

I think of all the things
I was too scared to say.

And in my mind
I say them.
And pretend how things would be different
If only I had the courage to speak.

turn a set back to a come back dont let it get you down
you can use the come back to take away the frown
setback is the passed a phase that you go through
comebacks they are better and is best for you
take away the setback and just soldier on
simply use your comeback till the setbacks have all gone

I’ve been conditioned
like freshly washed hair
for years
do not offend
unless the end of the sentence is “im sorry”
let the shoes and boots and heels of many make indents on you
like blueprints of demurity swaddled in insecurity
kept alive by the blurry ideas i once held about femininity
because i couldn't be a girl if the words that flew from my chords
were anything but rosy
ring around the Josie, pockets full of suppose he was to compliment your ****
when walking down a thorough-fair
busy people back and forth and grandmas with wrinkled sweaters
thank you
muttered from chapped lips and an even more chapped psyche
why must i keep my wits about to not risk making him angry
that was not complimentary but i am fearful he might spit my words back onto me
in the form of fists and slurs and honestly
im tired
of being the sidewalk beneath the feet of creeps
i am the sky and the trees and the moon
but i do not speak with the wisdom of travelling seeds
i speak with the warmth and subtlty of freshly microwaved milk
like soft silk i wish i could tatter
i wish venom soaked words could be spit in response to your “compliments”
but i would rather let you diminish me for the few moments it takes to objectify me
than to risk angering your inner beast and suffering the consequences of meninism or masculinism
whatever the word is this week
i will not be another number
ink soaked paper red with the monthly bloodshed of the sisters
every second is another unspeakable act
i see women
with tongues as round and large as planets
and tonsils the size of solar systems
birthing new galaxies in the words they speak
and shooting comets like fiery ***** of comebacks
when that slack-jawed fool sat and wished and drooled
into his monthly issue of mens rights magazine
she tore down the even minuscule belief he could have had that he had the right to comment on her body
in three seconds his pride, and entitlement
shifted into shame
and embarrassment
and i envy these women
because the only time i can take back my power
is when i am standing in front of a room
speaking rhymes and metaphors preaching independence and strength
to a group of people who now think i am a hero
i am not a hero
i put my shoes on one foot at a time
and i still manage to forget a couple days of birth control here and there
and i cant stand up for myself
in the moments after an attack i retreat into my latte and pray today will not be the day the male dominated society takes my power away
because i am small
and though i am growing every day
i still can only pray
that one way or another
i will be able to be as strong a woman as my sisters
my mother
and take back my power
and speak not with the beauty of a flower
but with the sharpness of a bumblebees sting
and one more thing
your compliments
are not complimentary

Mr. handsome stranger
He’s coming after
Desperate like a last request
Frantic delusional lunatic
Unhinged fragile losing what’s left
Self serving sadomasochistic
Easy on the eyes but doesn’t quite fit in
Playing it cool in social situations
His intelligent banter he claims as his own
With somewhat smart comebacks he practiced at home

Trying so hard that the sweat beads down
Onto his stressed wrinkled furrowed brow
the stories he skillfully misdirected  
Carefully darting  unwanted questions
Mr. Indiscreet can’t blow his cover
Disarm the girl of his unrealistic dreams
How quite average and normal he can be

Mr. Stalker walks over to the Girl
works up the courage and talks to her
Strikes up a witty conversation
With his movie star smile and education
Using the words that he pre rehearsed
Says all the right things and compliments her
Looking past his rather peculiar behavior
And when politely asked gives up her number

He rings her up the very next day
With a romantic scenic picnic date
Under the shade of a lush green tree
Upon a blanket with wine and cheese
Playing the part of the handsome boyfriend
Gains her full trust and faith in him

Joking in a effort to make her laugh
To put her at ease and follow his plan
Jealous of her ex boyfriends
Knowing their names and full address
And when he drops her off at home
Tracks and follows her every move
Knows all her weekly kept routines
Threatens and blackmails all her friends
Studies everyday mundane errands
Unaware of his decent into madness

a comeback with
a draw is no
comeback at all
no matter how
rigged the game is

we are demanded to
be ******
to end the fight
with a ****
no matter how
rigged the game is

and for sure after
each fight
the worry never
stops because
the last one means
there is
a next one coming:

another comeback

why do we go back if the
audience expects another
comeback after the last one?

o well
after all
we are the modern ****-gladiators
and before us are
the unentertained gods of insanity.

The Comeback snapped the ball
and looked desperately for somebody open--

I stood in the endzone
franticallywaving my
handsjumping
sporadicallyyy

HEY! I'M OPEN!!!

With an eye-roll hardly concealed
within a muddy helmet,
he begrudgingly tossed me the ball--

The buzzer sounded
and the fourth quarter ended
just as the ball was in my sweaty clutch--

But the visiting team had already clapped
each other on the backs and
my team waited for me in the
locker room
smelly and defeated.

Alas, I was the most distressed,
standing on the field alone
with the winning boon
a moment
                                 too late.

You sold your soul to the devil and spoke hateful words to the ones who love you most.

Your soul is turning black like tar.

You've gone too far there're no comebacks now from wherever you Are poem by Shelby Kathleen Nightingale

I'm in this game of tug of war
with myself.
One moment I want to change
the way I act, because I can be
better, more gentle, more relaxed
and calm
but then again, I love the way I
am, I love my honesty
my quick comebacks,
my jokes, my laughs.

Even if there are improvements
to make I still have
to love what makes me, me.

IM SICK AND TIRED of you thinking that the only thing I do on a daily basis is get up drag my feet to go and eat my cocoa puffs, sit back, max and relax, watch cartoons and reminisce about 8 tracks.
NAH **** THAT!
Because it doesnt matter to you that I’ve proven how intelligent I am,
because
you still think my skin is a sham and I’m supposed to be in the back of a classroom hardly able to read and write my name because thats how the
“good” ones have been tamed.
But the lights are dim back there because the brighter students get the brighter lights in the front row chairs.
My hand is raised the entire hour and 15 minutes but you never even attempt to stutter my name.
Because what I say is not your reality.
As far as you are concerned it is incorrect. I have tourettes with absolutely no regrets as to what I say,
but I’ll make **** sure that you know the truth.
I get my paper back and it says “plagiarized”...
now what the **** makes you think that?
Because I can use words that have more than 3 syllables and form a sentence in your vernacular this is syntactically more capable than anything that your low IQ has ever been able to form easily?
I apologize.
For not being politically ignorant
ebonically incorrect
and generally not being dumb enough for you to laugh and point to call me ******.

Please, Slim Shady...sit the **** down...this is grown up talk now.
Realize. The colonizer knows not of his privilege because he blindly walks with it.
While we, I mean me, walk very knowingly with shackles and chains with your name, that speak she has not yet been tamed with every jingle, and threatening step that I take toward the invasion of your future.

I’ve taken all your required high school courses
******* Pretentiousness English 3 and 4.
And my score means absolutely nothing, despite the fact that it is higher than your front row chairs that stare and nod robotically, because they are afraid to question your ability.
Understand...your PhD means jackshit to me.

Don’t hurt yourself in trying to comprehend.
You’d probably go insane but lets not try to think about that.
Lets get back to your wack *** philosophy that I because I don’t speak in the proper vernacular I don’t know nothin’.
Like the fact that what I just said is a double negative. But see its funny, because when I use ebonics and incorporate double negatives to illustrate a point, I’m ignorant.
And yet Mark Twain is a literary genius for doing the exact same thing.

Would it change if I said that Mark Twain was black?
But I wouldn’t do that.

It would set me up for an attack and you’d try to have these literary comebacks and I’d have to smack....
some knowledge on you.
That your Twain, got his twang from being in the main presence of we. And yes I mean we. As in people like me, and Talib Kweli. Or to date back in history Phillis Wheatley, who messed with you psychologically, but you thought she was too stupid and you are too naive to see that she was an O.G.
The true original gangster.

There are too many -e’s
but they are necessary to eeeeeeevoke,
no elicit the response your failing to recognize that your ties to 21st century humanity are short
ragg’ed
and slowly splintering away.

You missed those entire 3 pages in your history textbooks when it said that
BLACK doesn’t make any less of a person.
BLACK is a crayon color.
And BLACK doesn’t even exist in skin color...we are brown.
That was another thing your genius colorblind mind refused to recognize.

I am stamping “plagiarized” on every Mark Twain book ever written because our swag was stolen!
In 1492 Columbus sailed to ocean blue
to give us diseases and call us illiterate savages.
Thats not very nice...better table manners would be appreciated. (And we’re the savages)

YOU CAN TAKE THIS PAPER AND...
use it as a book mark. Those history books are screaming your name, its time to answer your call.
Come back to me when you realize that I am intelligent and hold the key to all that is not  a rainbow
or unicorn and fairy princesses.
We all live in reality that your bright lights and shiny piece of paper is blocking you from seeing.
Come to the back where the lights are dim,
and your dissed on a whim,
but it helps you realize that just maybe...
your life is plagiarized.