'felicia' poems - Hello Poetry

kenye Jul 2013

Felicia

kenye Jul 2013

Felicia

Felicia,
I'm off my meds and I need you.

My mind is somewhere between
rock bottom and a dark place

My mind is my frenemy
that I'm sleeping alone with.

I feel more alone again.

Felicia,
If my minds the weapon
How to I get my heart
to back me up?
Because it feels like
it's set to self-destruction

my own prophecy self-fulfilled

Felicia,
How come I'll never get the time back I killed?

What about the madness
and how it manifests
into impulses?

Like biting my ******* lip.

and how come I imagine everyone naked still?

I feel like biting my tongue off
when it's freudian slipping
But I need that for the times
when these fantasies start projecting

Felicia,
I'm sorry for all those times I swore in your office.
I'm the impatient patient still locked in the waiting room of my mind

Waiting for the ******* world to fall in my lap.

Felicia,
I'm ready to dig myself out of this bed I made in falling for tired cliches when all I needed was a metaphor.

unwritten Jan 2017

mercy

unwritten Jan 2017

mercy

on tuesday,
dylann roof was sentenced to his death.
on tuesday we tried
to make one body feel like nine.
to make one body feel like justice.
on tuesday we said
there has got to be some price to pay
for entering the house of god
with a sinful tongue
and a handgun.

today,
six days later,
we remembered the rev. dr. martin luther king, jr.
we looked at the world,
called it a place with potential for change,
called it that because there has to be some softer way
to look at bloodshed,
for sanity’s sake.
if not then
all that remains is a solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave because he knows,
knows that breathless black bodies
are a constant,
are transcenders of time,
whether sunken in rivers,
hung from taut ropes,
or bathing in blood on historic church floors,
singing, singing, screaming, shrill
for some messiah bringing mercy, mercy, mercy.

felicia sanders wants mercy:
prays for it, wills it down from up above,
unfolded from the hands of god
so that it might fall upon the head and in the eyes
and within the very being
of the man who killed her son.

it takes a certain grace —
one so foreign to me i can hardly write of it —
to see god in such men who deliberately defy Him,
to ask that heaven’s gates
be so indiscriminate and overt.
i would want him to burn for this.
but it is not my say,
not my life,
not my long, resounding, unflinching “hallelujah!”
not my certain type of grace.

breathless black bodies
are a constant,
are transcenders of time, a recurring motif.
but so too, then, is the black body full
of breath,
that inhales and exhales faith
without ceasing.

such is the black body
that sees a little bit of god in dylann roof,
that prays that he prays for forgiveness,
that thinks there to be but one kingdom,
and he, too,
a worthy subject.

the solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave
is not a surprise.
the black body has always known
so well
how to die.

but felicia sanders hopes her son’s killer finds mercy.
perhaps the one thing the black body has always known better
is how to love.

(a.m.)

written 1.16.17 in honor of MLK day, and of the charleston church shooting victims. #blacklivesmatter, today, tomorrow, and always

#peace #justice #mlk #blacklivesmatter

Fel Apr 2014

Confession no. 4

Fel Apr 2014

Confession no. 4

I've always felt "too big."

I have never felt small.
Even when I was little
I was always fat.
I never remember
Being referred to as "little."
My brothers
They always called me fat
My friends, too
And I was always too tall
Just too big, in general
And I hated it
Still do
Cause all my friends,
They're ******* tiny
And they complain.
"Oh, this [insert name of clothing]
It makes me look fat."
Or
"I need to lose weight
I'm at 130 now."
Or the classic,
"My [insert body part] is too fat."
It makes me want to strangle them
Cause they have no idea
What it feels like
To have the only color you look good in
Be the color black
And be labled
As "gothic" or "emo"
Because you can only wear black.
They have no idea
What it feels like
To be anxious around scales
Or anything that has a weight limit
They have no ******* clue.
And my name?
I get called "****** Felicia"
Or
"Felicia the ******" sometimes
Cause of how big I am
And I ******* hate it!
No one knows
How much I hate myself
Because of my weight
And how insecure I am about how big I am
It is seriously why I wish I wasn't me
It makes me wish I was someone else
And it always has
Ever since I can remember,
I have always wanted to be littler
Skinnier.
Just anything
But "too big."

I just really hate my body sometimes.

#self #hate #weight #bully #fat #bullied #uncomfortable

Ryan Bowdish Jul 2013

Chromosome

Ryan Bowdish Jul 2013

Chromosome

Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria
Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah
Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo
Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia
Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India
Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline
Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda
Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine
Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra
Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily
Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen
Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura
Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey
Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien
Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine
Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene
Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel
Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral
Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne
Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie

Female names are beautiful. Poetry on their own.

SP Blackwell Apr 2014

Bye Felicia

SP Blackwell Apr 2014

Bye Felicia

I am slowly drifting further from the unrealistic reality
that has been imposed on me by others.
The end was not cordial nor was it polite.
It was spattered with hate and rage
and malice and anger and loss but those are not mine.
The end for me was very matter of fact.
As if it never ended because it never started.
My end was casual highlighted with words like "k"
and corrections on his awful grammar and a nod
at my phone intended for him to see and the icy reply to a
one sided heated conversation that he was having with himself
because i never participated.
The tone of my indifference remains steady which is
what angers him most. I have been killed by far better men
than him. But they are cheap in a sense.
Cheap ***
Cheap words
Cheap rooms
Cheap emotions
Cheap lies
and even worse
Cheap truths.
And after all is said and done
Here you are in a sense getting
what you wanted.
A small piece of immortality in an
otherwise meaningless life.
But alas my dear, your name is not mentioned here.
And as I warned before,
You are just another line.
Another sentence which will be forgotten.
Sad isn't it?

Ironic

softcomponent Oct 2013

The morning of January 13th, 2013

softcomponent Oct 2013

The morning of January 13th, 2013

Anya is lying next to me like a dormant sheet. The bed wears her as unassorted dress and I sit perked to her right, righting?

Writing.

What I'm writing about is better left unsaid for the darling teens afraid of themselves and unable to psychoanalyze through their fancied word. I guess I am a little afraid of myself but I'm not afraid to admit it and, if you ask the state, I'm an adult now. No ******* darling teen so you can tag your assumptions at the front door.

Anya slept over here last night and it's almost like the last 2 days are some ecstatic, beautiful blur. I can prove to you my state of disbelief by describing my Freudian revelation of a dream.

We were all down at the theatre. There was some strange minor citadel at the top of good old 1913 where some slightly chubby early-20's daughter-of-a-railroad-man watched these strangely Shakespearean woes on the street below. A little bleak and depressing.

I assume we were here for a movie. It was me, Anya, Felicia, and Chris. I could tell Anya liked me but I wasn't sure how to present my VCR of a heart to her and ask for the chance. So I didn't say a word. Instead I tossed boomerang smiles as the daughter-of-a-railroad-man gawked at my progressively punctured lung 2-stories up. I started trying to talk to Felicia because she seemed familiar and more likely, but she was taking photos of smoke-stacks and materializing groups of people so she had no time to listen, and I woefully backed off with an 'I'll tell you later, I guess.'

Things moved quickly at that point and it was like jogging through a Philip K. **** novel. I'd waited too long and Chris had his arm around Anya. I then backed off assuming the worst and as soon as I woke up I realized the dream had revealed a legion of my insecurities all out on a drill away from the main barracks, ready to march closer-to or away from my field of battle *** it was a question of Ghandi or God now.

A battle on open fields? Or non-violent resistance?

The funnier part of waking up was that my dream had been profoundly upsetting and darkly self-fulfilling, but this time it was a dream and what I woke up to wasn't the neutral dune of the everyday life of distraction, but one of those profoundly holy literature’s of the past 2000 years.

I suppose the biggest revelation the dream gave was the observation of my never asserting myself, nor in pursuit. Just the head-tilt mope of a poet with a bleeding heart that not only denies the need for bandage, but keeps double checking the hole is big enough to bleed but small enough not to **** me.

Have you ever seen those kinds of cars that look like they have teeth and eyes and noses?

/ancient history\

/pseudonyms applied\

— The End —