Love me
cause I'm your ragdoll
Kiss me
cause I'm yours and you can
Hug me
cause I'm your comfort at night
Touch me
and hold my hand

Play with me
cause I'm your toy
Hold me tight
cause I'm your weapon of choice
Sing through me
cause I'm your voice
Dance with me
cause I'm your midnight joy

Cut my throat
cause YOU'RE the reason
Stab my heart
cause YOU'RE the anger
Burn my eyes
cause YOUR blood soaks the gauze
Sign my skin
cause I'm your paper

The hearth of
white marble,
seasoned lightly
with shining
flecks of
obscure black.
The wood,
cradled by the
sizzling metal grate,
crackling
and at it's redhot feet
piles of ash
gleaming yellow and red.
The red glow
illuminates my flesh
sending angle-flattering
shadows upon
my face
putting my features
to prominence.
I put my hand
out above the
flames,
the tendrils
licking at my palm
like a leaping
dark orange tongue
slithering between my
fingers like many
multiheaded snakes.
The idea of pain
nags at my conception
of what is real.
I feel nothing
but the pressure
of the atmosphere
as it grows heavy
and suffocating, smothering
crushing my lungs.
Suddenly,
there is no air.
There is only
fire and light.
Such a strong
vengeful fire,
I wonder if it
has the ability
to be snuffed,
to burn low
With embers flitting
about like pixies
in the night.
Images cast in the
changing lights,
dreamlike faces,
deep caves and
strange alien landscapes.
A circus of seductive
fiery gypsies, a menagerie
of tiny dancers
playing with
the fire, the light, a custom
conflagration
to call me, to draw me
among them, their bright
flame meant to
distract, trick the mind
into submission.
Pulling at my
consciousness,
pulling at my will
dragging me away from
the depth of the
reality of death.
I realize that
I'm dying
that now I am
Of flesh and flame.

Do you know
how your body is fed?
Do you truly see
how we make the bread?
Do you wonder the ingredients
concealed like a bedspread?
Well, I heard a fact
That's got me seeing red
About artificial flavors
that 'bout made me drop dead.

Now, it may not be visible
You might see it in a museum
In a petri dish, in a *****
It's called
CASTOREUM.
It's not very pretty,
You wouldn't want to see 'em
Big business would tell you
If they were to take the veritaserum.

I apologize for the nastiness
but someone must be told
Its not on the nutrition label
Though it should be written in BOLD
I'm not sure how to phrase it
But it comes from the ***** hole
Of a dead ****** then
into your coffee, cold.

Once you realize
What's truly inside,
Coffee creamer goes from
Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde.
Now, I have been scarred
I don't want it cold, I don't want it fried.
I don't want it at all, I'm mortified
That they would put in the food I tried.

So fear the vanilla
And eat the chicken
And never forget that ******
was kickin'
Before it was deprived of its ***** matter
and stay away from things you don't know what they stick in.

I say  
‘Marguerite Johnson’
and you don’t know.
Who she really was, what  
She really did.

Maya, a childhood nickname turned professional
Angelopulos, past other, Greek and unknown.

She was a poet, a woman of many
words that changed America.
Words that touched our hearts,
Words that opened our eyes
to truth.

She was an actress, in the Obie-winning “The Blacks”,
Off-Broadway, “Calypso Heat Wave”, inspiring her singer.

She was a singer, writer of song.  
West Coast and
Hawaiian nightclubs were once
Embellished by her voice.

She was a dancer, a portrayer of emotion, through movements
Rhythmic and graceful
Calm, phantasmagoric, and beautiful.

She was an author.
She knew why,  
“The Caged Bird” sang.
But, once. She had no voice.

Traumatized and scared. Age seven, suffered at the hands of the distant mother’s boyfriend.
She went mute,
feeling responsible for their crime,

After her uncles rid the world of the problem.  
A candle’s flame blown out.
Mrs.
Flowers

A friend and fellow lover of the spoken word.
Helped Maya find her voice.
Introduced Hughes,
Du Bois, and Lawrence Dunbar.

Then, the canonical Shakespeare,  
Dickens, Poe.

She was a scholar.
She was a mother.  
She was a fighter.

She stood for her rights and the rights of her people.
She stood, side by side, with many known and recognized.
Malcom X.
Martin Luther King Jr.
His assassination on her birthday stopped the celebration forever.

Then she sent flowers to Coretta until her death in 2006.
She was an inspiration.  

I say
“Maya Angelou”
And now you know.