The dreams I dreamt,
The tears I spent,
The sorrows I have,
The love I gave,
It was all meant for him.

His love,
His hate,
His laughter,
His sorrow,
I wish I could accept it all.

Our time,
Our thought,
Our laugh,
Our smile,
It’s now in the past.

My wishes,
My dreams,
My kisses,
My gleams,
I give it all to him.

Soft and warm
sealed with care
sweet and kind
will ever share

brave and strong
yet so fair
it's you
it's always there

sensitive to despair
harkens to other welfare
delicate
it's elsewhere
beautiful
beyond compare

if you meet her
best beware
she'll  steal your heart unaware
her name is love
this i swear
there's none like her
anywhere

You died,
and a year has passed

I don't know how to explain
how much I miss you
without being stabbed
by needles in my throat
sometimes I wonder
if the pain from losing you
is drawing me closer to you
but I pray it isn't time yet

You died,
and a year has passed

And every time I write those words,
it hurts me inside
because I can't believe them;
it can't be about you,
you're here

You died,
and a year has passed

I loved and I lost,
and I will continue to love
with your memory inside me
with every person I meet

I died,
And a year has passed.

In all honesty I've never been good with words. I never knew what to respond after the doctor would ask me what hurt, or what to tell my mother after I saw her cry when my dad left. Poetry is placing words in all the wrong places in order to build something right. Poetry is taking apart the puzzle and forcing the pieces into spaces they don't fit. I tried to write you a letter to tell you that I miss you, the problem with poetry is that there's no metaphor that makes this emptiness inside my chest any more beautiful. There's no personification real enough to make my sheets feel like you're laying in them. There's no simile literal enough to make my heart feel as though its healing. I wish I could place these words on my tongue and roll them out for you to hear, but since I've last kissed you I can't even find the motivation to part my lips. I always find myself questioning why I keep writing; because the problem with my poems is that you're never the one reading them.

Like air to lungs
Like love to lovers
Like life to death
Till death do us part
Till God makes us see
In him we all need
One another
One after the other
Brotha & Brother
Sister 2 Sista
Like water to a well
Lets not wait until it runs dry
Eyes wont dry
Until another color cries
With us, not for us
There is only one race
the hueman race
translation
man of color
many colors of men
Color coated pain
Assorted flavors of oppression
All leave a bitter taste
In the mouth of a wordsmith
these words hit like bricks
against walls
in glass houses
with paper doll people
the revolution is being televised
because revolution cannot be heard
without being seen
focus your lense
See yourself