Will there ever come a time

that I find myself unable to

write the tune to

the same ballad twice?

I've always prided

this part of me

as my sole therapy to heal.

My method to self-preservation.

To speak without speaking.

To crack without crumbling.

To have vulnerability without being

vulnerable.

But,

which time will it be

that the thread within

the needle of my own words

is to stitch these

old wounds finally shut?

From the ashes and dust
We rise again
Bearing the scars of death
As we count our lost
From the bones and graves around
Many have fallen
And the sword is red

We march through the village square
Bearing more corpses
Looking for a place to rest
From the raging sword of the invaders
We seek the face of the gods

Why do we dance on their graves?
Like masquerades in the village square
The kings come from afar
And we take them to the shrine
The invaders helped us built
And none shed a tear…
None raised a wail…
And none grieved
Because it’s not their lost

They said we wail too much
For the lost was small
A tiny drop in the ocean of blood
That has flooded the land

Our contribution was small…yes, small contribution
Or how else could we justify this ceaseless carnage?
So they took more
More women…more children
More boys…more girls
Some pregnant…some suckling
A sacrifice to make up for the rest

We thought our shrine was big enough
To pacify the gods and save their wrath
But we were wrong
Their white regalia is not red enough
The blood is not deep enough for a swim
But why desire blood as one seeks for water in the desert
Oh sword! When will you rest?

The king is coming
Maybe he will see the mountains of graves
And the waiting dead—candidates for mass burial
Maybe he will say it is enough
And the priest can take the blood
And pour on the altar of the gods
So the living can rest
And the land will know peace
And the sword be no more red
May the gods be pacified
This sacrifice is enough

The moon was full,
The rose had bloomed,

The stars were twinkling,
Her scars were glistening;

The dew dripped down,
Her tears trickled down..

The Sun had set,
Her grief left her wet

She lay down alone,
The horizon was her own.

With no interruption, on the side,
She could scream out, in the void….

The stillness of the earth, after the rain;
Takes my breath away, once again;

Your memories at rest,
My soul bequeath;

Those forgotten days,
Reminders of the haze;

Scars in the heart,
Barring the art;

The flow of emotions,
Became a halo of notions;

Those heartfelt things,
Were nothing but ruins;

Some escapades,
From my failures;

Beautifully carved,
On the canvas of life;

Presented to you,
My mistake;

Will try not to,
Repent what had been a stake..

Your eyes were the culprits,
They made me their victim;

We suffered together,
For neither could speak;

Afraid to love,
Unable to express..

Withering away,
With the bond intact;

Two blooming flowers,
Caressed by the showers;

United by fate,
Separated by twaite;

You & I waited,
While our souls mated..

Read the stories in my scars
I write love poems for the dead
Ink spills on the skin of my griefs
Pain written on African flesh turns to red
On black pages they read, wounded melanin forever bleeds
Not because of a dark past, but of present doom
Torn through the years, my tears on sand in empty beaches fall
Like rain on a sunny day, the storm breaks down my walls

raised scars prevent your velvet hands gliding up
thighs that were supposed to be untouched
each mark, each burn--it's all a different story
from when i was young,
you're still beautiful, you whisper
every aged mark tingles
as you kiss me everywhere
reminding me of why i stopped
trying to take away the pain of yesterday.