when the therapist asked
about my family history,
I gave her a history lesson.

I told her that growing up,
my house was a war zone.

I don't remember
what year it was, but eventually
the house collapsed into itself.
that trauma left me scared and hurt
with nowhere to go.

my mother moved out first.
she moved straight into
a life of addiction, and then
she found a new house
in the form of a jail cell.

my father also began
to call a jail cell his home.
he moved into the newspaper,
and then into the database of the
national *** offender registry.

now, we have separate houses
and conflicting beliefs.

we don't share anything
besides that story
and our DNA.

I couldn't tell her
about my family history,
because I don't
have parents anymore.

I have no family.
all I have is history.

Pushin my baby on the swing each one way,
        Bullets passing the wind not punching
me and my baby. But the fools be running
like they could outrun fate.

They can't escape the crosshairs of
  ill-prepared revenge.  
    Cadavers hit the floor blood outlines
that turn white after they felled.

I kept pushing my youth, hoping
she'd grow to an age where she
           could push her own.

But every day I playing Russian
   roulette with her swinging,
    me pushing her further so that
she's higher than the gunshots


          as they always hitting lower.

Today I was pushing her, she in her nikes,
     swinging her higher than death could
catch her tight grip...

But my neighbor she hanging low, catching
two unfollowed friend requests  flying through
the air, one in the thigh, one between the thoughts,

I kept pushing as her shadow swallowed by her
folding on the floor, her baby swinging slower
but still alive.

         Blue took her to her daddy, hope they
find out who they are as she had more than
           one by another man...


I m still here pushing my baby on a silent playground.
      No one comes here, that's good for me.
   pushing her low as there isn't a problem
of drive-bye byes... No more *******, no one to ****.
                  There is just me and my baby pushing..


Come on baby its time to go home,
                 the road is white, and we aren't
going to our usual place...


R.I.P to those who never didn't do nothing.
          


Another drive-by, grills smiling as flashes
greeting shaded window frames,
                                          hanging low.

sometimes I lay awake at night
and fixate on things I shouldn’t
whispers of my own transgressions linger

although it seems disingenuous
I am eager to fill the space
between this world and the old

please ward away the chilling breeze
make them apologize
because silence was one of my worst decrees

i am Orpheus in the clouds
playing clown for the masses.

i'm half of the shaft of light
breaking mosaically into
millions of pieces across the kitchen floor.

i'm a smoky chandelier swaying with
the bravado of a censure on high-holy-day.

i'm the royal velvet lining your blood.

i am a poem, without reason, read to you
by a stranger.

i am 200 tons of cracked granite one thousand
feet above you splitting off from the face of
the mountain.

but more so than any of that,

i'm a peculiar kind
of nothing

typing words onto
screens before
i die.

I am not stubborn. Rather , I am
  nothing beyond a soul who can't
  dare to rebel against her own inner    
  voice.

I talk myself out of having feelings for you every night.
I make a long list of how under-qualified I am to be yours.
My weaknesses far outweigh my strengths.  
It’s like someone with just a high school diploma applying to be a doctor.
I am severely unmotivated,
Terrible with finances,
And I do not work well under pressure.
Apply any pressure at all and I break.
You’re different.
You have accomplished so much in your 30something years.
Career.
Family.
Faith.
And you did it all on your own.
Then there’s me,
I don’t have anything to show for my 25years that I’ve existed.
I have books and movies to escape.
I read and watch life happen rather than live it myself.
Journals and papers filled with all my useless emotions and “experiences.”
Tear stained pages to remind me of all my heartbreak.
I have clothes that make me feel like I’m a woman.
Even though I’m a poor excuse for one.
I have makeup of all colors and finishes.
The only talent that I have.
Useless.
Not only do I have nothing to offer you,
I have nothing to offer anyone.  
But although I know all this is true,
I will still anxiously wait for you tomorrow.
I will still daydream about the conversations we will never have.
I will hope during the day,
And break my heart every night.

why should i wake?
only to make my bed.
cleanse my body.
eat without taste.
work myself to the bone.
be overlooked day in and day out.

grieving the loss of what was never there?
where are my answers?

no.
where is my will to live?