I am a pariah. Some see me as a joke, some see me as a mystery, some see me as a hot mess. But they all see me and refuse to stop seeing me. They unforgivingly gape and gawk at me.
Everyone has their own version of the story, and I cannot tell you how many times I have been told that my version is wrong. They seem to forget that after all, it is my story, but then they remember, and then they stare.
The few people that I have left continue to attempt to explain that this will all blow over with time. It has been three months since the incident occurred. Three months of staring, stories, and acting as if I’m not hearing their versions. As if I’m not hearing them call me a slut. As if I’m not hearing them say that I liked what he did to me. As if I’m supposed to sit there and act like their condolences are genuine and fake a smile, just for them.
At this point, I am unsure if they are even staring anymore. I am uncertain if it is all in my head, or if this is what my life will be now. I am unsure if I will ever be able to be just looked over again. I am unsure of myself and my choices and my thoughts. I don’t even know if they are mine anymore.
Sometimes I wish that I could implode and make a colossal scene, but then I remember that it would just make the stares last longer. So I sit there, stuck, having to take the stares and hear their stories and listen to my uncertainty. Because after all I am just another one of their stories, and subsequently I will eventually disappear again.
If you ever want to
Look inside yourself
To see how your blood pumps
And the color of your flesh
Take a pen and tear
words into paper instead
Bleed worlds and people
Scream through the mouths of others
But not through your skin
It will only scream back for more
And there is no harm in being unable
To stop a pen
Rather than a blade
There have been numerous accounts
of my failing life
and the reasons of my silence.
And these stories never cease to surprise me.
From time to time
I find the people in my life
have had a story about me
that even I was not aware of.
Their uncalled kindness
and their uncalled cruelty
all had an explanation.
Explanations that had nothing to do with me.
In everyone’s heart their is someone by my name.
They have put me in colors
when I always was in grays.
I never had a friend.
And I find them lonely
just like me,
when I look at the people
I have colored myself.
when i was younger i used to think i could be anything
and in that thought i said i wanted to be a writer
but it seemed as though everytime i tried to write
the words would run away on me and i couldnt seem to catch them
so eventually i had piles of unfinished stories
stories with beginnings and no end; a sad infinity
but then i realized something
with poetry all the mess of words i had sitting on my heart
they could be thrown into a slob of lines and called art
all my messy feelings could begin and end whenever
this made me happy
because i'm terrible at ending things
but i'm an expert at being a messy poetic fool
Time flies like bullet everyday
Scrapping youthfulness as she speeds away
transforming and changing the way we look
Time has no special handbook
Telling us how to behave and live
Time takes away many opportunities
Yet valued as one of life's most precious commodities
It's like saying we don't deserve it
Yet real time cannot be dealt with
So call her the silent unseen enemy
Because She heads the aging army.
Time can chose to be both slow and yet aggressive
But to others she can become vile and abrasive
Especially when she claws evilly away at beauty
Leaving her sad ,all alone and empty..
And Wrinkled, useless and quite old ,
Left only with sad stories to be told
They say time waits on no man
So you have no time even if you can
It's so sad that time tells stories we don't believe
Time was here, Time is packed , ready to leave .
If only Kunta kanti had a camera phone
He would've captured many untold stories
stories of a sad slave girl sitting all alone
Sad stories of overworked slaves with worries .
Stories of ''Massa'' holding the Holy Bible
And in another hand the everpresent whip
There would've been images of souls no longer able
To work from dawn to dusk without a drop to sip .
If only Kunta Kanti had a remote controlled drone
Or a Facebook account to share stories and go LIVE
The world would've seen the master's no go zone
Where he buried the bodies of those no more alive .
Stories of the slave master's cruelty would've gone viral
And on the other hand exposed the ugly slave trade
He would've been seen as a vile man who lacked moral
Maybe a jail sentence because of the video Kunta made .
Maybe ,just maybe if Kunta Kanti had a camera phone
It would've caused a public outcry and a Black Lives Matter's rally
Al ,Martin Luther King III and all Black folks would've gone
The names and stories of all slaves would've been read at that rally!
Always been a city dweller
Maybe since the promising age
Of six, a child of no stories
Then, started turning pages
Of brilliant bounded books
Felt compelled to invent
Fiction that felt real inside
Even though I hadn’t meant
To open up my world so wide
Letting other travelers pass by
And told them mostly truth
But also planted careful lies
They grew into mutated flowers
Soon becoming leaning towers