i used to be eighteen with blue hair
exuding the pure waters of my heart
to the tangled tips of my salt ridden curls
by nineteen the colors of my waves were stolen by darkness
oil spilling out
to leave a story told in the blackest parts of my eyes
but like oceans before me
the murkiness faded
and sunlight began to graze my waters
but my heart never flowed quite as strong
and the colors no longer touched my curls

Dark is to light, as black to white.
When we write, from what place?

I wrote,
dwelling there,
amongst the shadows,
without face; leeching for love,
my cup empty,
heart scattered into pieces.

I write,
divinely guided;
exploring unclimbed mountains,
where weakness and courage elope,
advancing towards freedom,
My cup fills,
healing below the glimmers of hope.

I accept,
my world of black,
as it mends into white,
for I know, what is in the dark,
is to rise to meet light.

I am of the past,
the present, and the future;
reminiscent reflections of incomplete potential.
Never satisfied with the present,
I seek a brighter image.
A confident black woman fulfilled.

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

Pause

For thought or effect,
the end’s the same

Played your hands in the game like always

But

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

And where did the vitriol get you,
old man?

To a better place?
Where fat white women sing your praise?

While at home your carbon copies
bust their lips
when the home team loses?

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

You waiting for something?
Applause for working a nine to five
and allowing a fraction
of your take home to be spent on living,
raising?

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

I’ll stand over you now
As you stood over me
Instead of raining blows
I’ll let the misery of your truth
Catch in your chest
and fight for the cause

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

Glimmers in the hinterlands
as I begin to settle
into reaching my Old Ben days.

So rage reshapes, tempers
and can be passed
to the compassionate and energised youth

Torch will still be borne
and saber swung
but I’ll pay in aches and pains
in coming days
and likely collapse to
sage blue spirit status

My anger slowly feels
like an elegant weapon
for a more civilised age
while the streets call
for the bluntness of a blaster

I’ve mastered thinking round and round
and missed chances to parry,
but my force will be added
to the great wave of change

This empire is dead

I've grown into the type of person that says "I will go on with or without you."
Into a person that loses people left and right, but knows that as long as I have myself everything will be alright.
So, why is it I still check everyday for your response?

Words at the tip of my tongue
At the nib of my pen
Refusing to step outside
And see the light of day
I nudge them a little
Encourage them to see the world
They don't have to be perfect,
They just need to be my vessel
My messenger
To contain and carry my thoughts
I just need someone
Or even something else to know

I don't force them outside
If they refuse to obey
I just **** them gently
Day by day
A scribble at a time
Until the words tumble out
Ready to come outside
Each step easier than the last
Tripping less often than they used to

Maybe on some days
The words become more stubborn
Revert back to their old ways
Refusing to be written
But it's alright
They just need a break
Give them some time
And they'll get back to their groove
Words dancing on paper
In perfect harmony
In sync with the rhythm
Of what my heart
Wants the world to read