A love is a love,
absurd & real,
phony, & fake.
For it’s worth,
it’s yearning,
regret, illumination
& painful.

aren't we all a little hesitant
to allow unexpected love
to enter

born a sinner,
under crescent moons
and among chants of "talaq, talaq, talaq"
forced to hide behind a star studded veil to be preserved against blood thirsty eyes
glass bangles and silverware replaced the dolls in her hands and the fairyland of her dreams
led on a rose colored path, and into a gold painted cage marked marriage
greedy scars crafted by her lover marred the canvas of her body
only punctured fairy blue wings and dying embers of an electric soul remain
but she rises from the ashes,
sits on her velvet throne
and adorns the bejeweled crown
she reclaims the legacy of her goddess mothers,
durga and cleopatra
this time you don't get to see our strained faces,
this time you don't get to mock the dying fire of our eyes
because now,
we know our rights.
now we're armed with spears of knowledge.
we're the queens of our own kingdoms, unique in our reigns.
we were supposed to be treated like flowers, right?
but you threw us into the mud of your crimes
and we bloomed like lotuses,
reckless and vivacious.
we earned it all.              
                    - standing beside, not against

To a poem,
I can say whatever I want,
but often with regret,
for its something I don’t
say in a previous moment.

Tubers cry in anguish as water dance to the tune of furnace
My nose walk daintily towards the newly birthed yams;
That dress in different shapes and lie in separate sizes
And I watch it move to the beat of time

Mortal refuse to retaliate the knock of angry Pestle,
Skin begins to shed tiers like a pregnant cloud
Heart begins to whisper incessantly,
Yams begin to walk step by step to the land of giant kings

They are wrapped into the beautiful home of leaves,
Can my heart bring out vegetables from its hide?
Can my head push out Vegetables and Meats used to paint its beautiful face?
The only visitor that knocks my heart when I see the king walk towards the table

All hail the King and Queen!
That spoon the heart with smile and bestow the mouth with bliss
All hail the King and Queen!
That could baptize the heart of an handicapped man by lightening his finger

For other foods bow before your table,
And their knees kiss the ground when their eyes hear a whisper of your name
My great pounded yam and vegetable that puts a ring on a Spinter's finger,
The Nobles I wish could visit my table over and over again.

The irony of feeling,
we’ve all felt horrible.

If you’re going to write poetry,
tell the truth before expressing
beauty, love or any mood.
& in that process, an eventual
understanding in the sadness of
it all how much this life lacks of
it all. Minds get lost when reading
those poems, praying only to
get closer to the truth. Oh poetry,
look how I live my life outside
my written word. Look what
you done.

There’s nothing profitable in poetry,
but everyone looks at the poet in awe,
there’s something about reading a
poem at the time, in the right mood
that sparks nothing that’s contagious,
but something illuminating.