this door exists,
stately and staunchly it stands,
disheartening and terrifying it remains.
the door is unlocked, yet cannot be opened,
for in it, a path in time...
one decision that can affect everything
[such as my choice to wear the necklace you adore,
which lead to you noticing me for the very first time,
or my idea to play you the song that you fell in love with,
which i can no longer listen to]
...for in this door, one path
is intimidatingly located.

every bone in my body,
every last muscle, tendon, ligament
each artery, each vein, each capillary
every single nerve,
even each microscopic cell,
implores me not to open this tempting door...

[it is almost as if my hand refuses to grasp the handle,
to unleash the unknown upon me,
the colossal chain of events that would ensue]

the immensity of the unfamiliar,
the unexplored,
tends to perturb me.
change is unnerving
and is almost as chilling
as an abandoned graveyard at midnight.

but i bring my mind back to the door,
yes! this preposterous door that i have contrived for myself.
why is the **** so easily turned?
why does it not put up somewhat of a fight,
at least jolt me suddenly,
as to frighten my curious heart?
it is a constant battle between my body
my mind
and my heart
as to which doors to open
and which ones to leave ever so steadfastly closed.
but never once has there been such a struggle
for them to reach an understanding.

somehow my heart,
[even though a fraction of me,
a fist, dripping in blood]
is prevailing for the moment.
my heart reaches for the handle,
attempts to unclose the door...
yet, with the best of its ability,
withstanding my strong-willed
and obstinate heart,
my powerful body and commanding mind
overcome this hostile takeover,
and the door remains shut.

it is my body,
my skillful mouth,
my soft, rose lips,
my elegant tongue,
and my vocal chords...
all of these pieces must
contrive the words,
conceive the change,
which will unveil the path that will forever alter us...

slowly, opening the door.

being as in love with you as i am,
i will not let you slip away from my arms right now.
but when we are not together
[i wish you’d have been there,
i needed you there]
i stare at this humbling door.

if i wait too long, i’ll forever lose you;
for it is you who will make this choice for me,
opening your own door, fearless and dauntless.

We’ll meet again some day, once again as strangers.
We might talk for a bit,
maybe even pretend like we don’t remember what happened.
Maybe we’ll run into each other in a coffee shop,
you with your new love and me with mine.
We’ll act like old friends should,
but your familiar face won't carry familiar feelings.
To know I've been replaced is disheartening.
To think about what we once were makes me wistful.
It’s even more sombering to think of what we are now, strangers.
How is it that someone who once meant so much can become nothing more than a stranger?
Emotions are now rendered into nothing but memories.
Memories are now distorted from hopeful wishes.
Hopeful wishes are now abandoned like a coin into a wishing well.
Yet even after everything that happened,
I can’t help but hope that somewhere, somehow,
We’ll meet again some day, once again as strangers.

A ball player and a thief
Will likely be pregnant by age 16.
Lives in the ghetto and is poor,
Often identified as a *****.
Runs fast and does drugs,
Hangs around with gangsters and thugs.
Has a gun or a friend with one.
Speaks in slang, must be part of a gang.
Mess with her, she'll pull a Sharkeisha on you.

If you were to picture a person of any race,
That fits the description that just took place.
A baller and ****, hmm... what race matches that?
Yeah you're right, that person is probably black.
Is fast, does drugs, and speaks with slang?
Lemme guess, is he also in a gang?
A young mother who is also poor?
Bet she doesn't know who the dad is, what a *****.
All these negative stereotypes associated with being black.
Its disheartening, sicking and its really sad.
And whats sadder is that if you are the opposite of all of that,
You are often told that you're not really black.

Does your skin colour change for going to Harvard?
Will it change for speaking like an English scholar?
Because I play hockey and not ball, does that make me white?
So what if I'm the type of person to run away from a fight?

You don't have to be irresponsible and rude to be considered black.
It's your ethnic background that determines that.
And to some people, all we are is the complexion of our face.
Light, dark, somewhere in the middle, to some, the bad of a few defines
our whole race.

Does running away from a cop, and being black give someone grounds to shoot?
Why is it that my skin color is what is most important to you?
Is asking a question when getting arrested for no visible reason really resisting arrest?
Does struggling to break free from restraints to catch my breath, give someone a reason to grab on tighter to strangle me to death?
The actions of a few don't define the actions of a whole group.
And this assumption that all black are thugs, thieves and liars has done clear damage to,
Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Trayvon Martin and so many more.
They didn't know it, but just by being black, they put their lives at risk when they stepped out their door.

Don't you think it's gotten too far when we have to prove Black Lives Matter, or when we the saying of a movement is Hands Up, Don't Shoot.
Should people have to be reminded that blacks are real people and that our lives matter  too?

We are athletes and musicians.
Lawyers and physicians.
The leader of a nation.
An anchorman of a news station.

We don't all fit into that mold that is preset for us.
You can and should expect great things of us.

Because we don't have to be a ****, or a baller to be considered black.
We define what type of black person we are, we determine that.

Two teens with too much time left to themselves
Both experiences represented by flat lines on hospital machines during sad times
Flipped on it’s *** end quite literally
My youth is my virginity
Finding religion suddenly
Praying in my head “God, if you exist, don’t let the ****** break”
Her face in angst
I begin to flake
Spine reverberates
Elbows Shake
Bedside table vibrates
Text message
Receiving
Mom: When will you be home
Response: I won’t, I’m leaving my old self on these bed sheets
Send
My youth is my virginity
Time becomes an illusion
Not knowing how long we’ve been doing this
Minutes become seconds
Seconds to years
Years are months
Months.... minutes
I alone finish
Quickly getting dressed separately
Previously so ecstatic to slowly peel each others layers away
An eternity of silent eye contact jam packed into countless repetitive heartbeats
A mix of misinterpreted expressions cross our minds as we sink into the realization that we are no longer children
Our youth is our virginity
Your inner thighs have defined the ending milestone of my childhood
In return I thank you and grace you
No other person I’d rather have that connection with
Though we’ve long departed, our current standing is disheartening
Let’s give birth, not to children, but to friendships
I want to to represent my life with a cobblestone road
Being able to get to the end to find success, not regrets
I hand you the first stone

I don't know what you could call this exactly,
I was at a musical concert in one of the states
And a school filled with children of less than 13 years of age
Presented a song which I could call a petition.
They were praying earnestly for God to save Nigeria
From lawless people, bloodshed, assassination and a list of other wreckless things
It touched me that finally, it has gotten to this! When children start to file a petition to God against our leaders saying for their sake God should save the nation
It's a bit disturbing that even the kids know that there is a problem with this nation.
Do we have to ridicule ourselves forever? The children who were in the ***** and groins some years back have come to understand the situation and are crying out.
The educational standard is falling to pieces and the threads would have to be carefully woven together if we wanna make something out of it again.
It's embarrassing to know that there are so many sectors that has failed, absolutely nothing is working.  
Our leaders still apportion blame. Roads are not good and then you get to hear one is a federal road one is state owned. Does it matter who owns the road if it is in their country?
Why aren't everyone looking beyond their noses and see what's wrong. Our youths have resolved to fraud when hard work and talents aren't appreciated.
Universities have been shut down for months now in the name of strike and the government officials could afford to eat and carry on their daily activities!
Aren't they meant to be in the hospital, complaining of one illness or the other as a result of the unrest the matter has caused? Disheartening! Even the hospitals go on strike and innocent people are left to die as a result of no medical attention.
I was moved to tears when these children sang. The nation's unrest and matters have become prayer points in all places of worship. God should indeed look down from His throne, have mercy on us and save Nigeria!

Another slimy page absorbed by gentle, tender hands
Another reality channel infected by impossibilities
Another grainy film shaded by green to hide the truth

All eyes are glued to these perfections
Simple utopias I can never be

Her hair, his eyes, their laugh, that smile

How disheartening it is
for my friends to say one word
when the tags on my clothing say another

A dent here, a scar there, a bulge elsewhere
hips too wide, skin too rough, hair too straight, eyes too red,
toes too small, nose too big, scar too dark, skin too light
My entire being is stitched together faults

So my eyes burn as yours shine
I guess it is yet another imperfection

But then again, are the blemishes even mine?

Do you remember when you thought you loved me?

The confused expression on my face must’ve been disheartening

I didn’t understand
You were so beautiful
So smart
So absolutely amazing

I was just a girl
Riddled with scars
Afraid of failure
Already burnt out

It killed me when I realized
You weren’t in love

You were exposed to so many unattainable expectations

It wasn’t love
It was hope of love
Hope of at least meeting expectations

You were already flying above expectations, my dear

I love you