there are always victories in splitting threads and in being swallowed whole.

dark, warm,
blind,
reborn.

ONE plane ride, ONE bag of disguise, and ONE ocean more blue than the last,
do we deny our hues and fly, sit and swallow the sky, or
fall into dreams?

stay on the path of blue and fight for what is true because none of us have any ******* clue what lies on the other side of that pill.

sweaters WILL unravel.
there will always be another forest to explore,
imploring denial of bark, branches, bereavement;
leaves will only leave when they want to leave,
never because anyone else says so.

Shamans say that the eagle eating me in my dreams represents a readiness to plant seeds-
our forests will never touch the same ocean again,
but they will both grow in sweet sleet,
in sunshine,
in love,
in hate,
in promises broken and kept,
in love,
in love,

i think i have it figured out,
only to fail miserably.
but i still make progress,
failing less miserably each time.
a trial and error effort of sorts.
oh, each time,
i think i have it figured out,
that it's my time to succeed.
each time i fall short,
but each time i fall a little longer.
at some point,
i hope,
i will make it across the line,
and finally succeed.

I almost made it to the finish line
but somewhere along I took a wrong turn
segregation’s aftermath still lingering

self inflicted prejudice over one’s skin abstained
self antagonism over one’s curl pattern deeply rooted
self oppugnancy over one’s own race persistent

I know I’m not on the right course
yet blindly I continue
shackling the dependent to me
as i spiral down this cascade

too intimidated to speak out
too worried about social acceptance
too cowardly to admit it

taught that color coding is inferior
but favoritism to a specific color is acceptable


I see police brutality to a specific race
whereas other countries see
Americans killing other Americans

Republicans and Democrats both preach unity
Yet stand divided in one house
but I’m in constant denial
because I was raised as a hypocrite

I want change
but only half of me is willing to fish for that change

it wasn't always the way
minorities didn’t have a voice
so they fought for one

generations later they hoard that voice
locked in a shed
collecting dust

My people have the tools
therefore
don't be fooled
because it’s only a matter of time
before they put them to use
and mold a beautiful sculpture

Urge
to throw myself across the finish line
let in envelope me in arms
cold as death
let myself curl into a ball
in that dark, vast space of unconsciousness
where I will be,
undoubtedly,
forgiven.

Dontcha just hate trying to finish a poem?
It's always like there could be just a hint of this, a dash of that;
too much seasoning, not enough time spent simmering;
did you use the right amount of ingredients;
was it tablespoons or teaspoons?

Dontcha wish you could just pluck one out of the freezer:
One wrapped up in a neat little package?
Leaving it on the stove-top to thaw a little,
before heating it up at your timely convenience?

I wish I knew when these **** things were done;
Wish I could stick em in a microwave, clock in the allotted time for a work like that to be well-cooked and consumable--
Wait around zoning out to the droning tone of the toasting note,
then awake from my spell by the sweet dinging of completion.

I'd take that steamy sucker out of that commodious kiln
in such great haste I can barely hold it in my hands!
"Boy oh boy does this one look tasty!"

I'd sit down with my necessary utensils and have a go at it, chewing thoughtfully and enjoying this wonderful piece I have prepared by myself for myself--and without all the hassle and wasted time
spent slaving over books and pages and pens and inspirations!

But ****;
Nobody likes poems cooked out of pre-made packages;
they're a little too rubbery, a little too mushy, a little too bland--
and worse off they were made by the assemblyman's hand! (or claw).

Nobody likes their poems coming out of pre-made packages;
They ain't nothing like the real thing.

Don't you cry now,
Your world will always be alright.
This chapter of your life is one of many,
So don't dwell on me now I'm out of sight.

I'm starting to cry now,
As my world has never been alright.
I'll have to end these painful chapters short,
So you won't dwell on me once I'm out of sight

One thousand large books
a painting never finished
a song never heard

this is how I show my styles
this is how I improvise
this is how an artist cries
this is how I shed my pride
shedding tears as the ink dries
to preoccupied to even wipe my eyes
listening to my heart, closing out my mind
searching for space as I cross these lines
lost in thought, it's like I lost my mind
looking for the right words
stuck with whats left behind