In society,
Women are always told they are too much.
Too angry, too calm
Too quiet, too loud
Too big, too small
And we are all of these things
We are angry.
Angry about the internalized oppression that still flows on a day to day basis. We are angry about our predefined roles of what girl is, what girl should be.
And we are too calm.
Calm about the man that called you a name in the street and all you wanted to do was cry
Or the teacher that told you you couldn't do what you wanted because it was a mans place, not a woman's
You should have yelled, but you didn't. Because we are too calm.
We are too quiet.
We are silenced.
Our opinions are ranked of worthiness by our physical features, our body types. Our intelligence is last to our ****** appeal. We can not be heard through the babble of social media judging and critiquing and pointing out our flaws. So we are quiet.
And we are loud.
We have the ability to speak for the world. To weave the revolution out of the words of women. We have the voice to speak to our sisters globally, teach women that we are loud. We can drown out prejudice with the power of voice and bring down the barrier of how a girl should be.
We are small.
Told that our personalities are preset by the gender normalities that the patriarchy has placed, we are shrunk to fit our predefined roles. They cut us into shapes so we can not realize that we are so much bigger.
Because we are big.
We are huge. We have global impact. While we are cut down, I would like to see us glue each other back together. I want to see women take back our voices. I want to hear women all over the world speak how they feel, bust through the barriers of what the patriarchy has told them. Fight back against their rapists, abusers, silencers. When someone tells you that you are being too much, say "I am. And I am becoming so much more."

In a forest, where bird songs are silencers to a pistol and their feathers are scattered hopes, like broken dreams are to fantasies, I sit.
I stretch my arms, wide enough to fit grief and happiness in my muddy hands that I use to bury unspoken apologies and eulogies for days I have not yet lived.

I begin to stare aimlessly at the sky trying to spot the night moon. Its silhouette, that I trace with my finger.
I've drawn
And in the folds of the night, I hold you close
like day does dawn.

I let your depression stain my cheeks and see it drip between the gaps in my teeth,
sting my gum,
and so your language interweaves itself upon wounded scars on my tongue, so when i return back home, i return with the same cuts identical to your tongue that you hung


I don't want to sound too much of a stranger to you when I talk thus tonight, I’ll choose to tie happiness to things that have asked for no such burden
and stictch my lips silent to silence our silent violence.

My eyes bounce back at the hazy sky as if it’ll tame your inner broken and mould it into a less wild creature
more civil, more mature
less aggressive, less of a spirit

Your spirit appears in the bezels of my mind
my trachea catches fire burning deep into my whines ,
my breath disappearing into a silent hymn in the dull light
and watch my tongue chameleonize into a trillion hues of white
until my tongue becomes a graveyard for all my white lies

Until pain becomes a part of my diet,
until I'm able to chew the residual images of a broken girl, until her sadness becomes the air I breathe
until her inner warrior becomes the battle field never fought in
until I'm able to swallow sadness when chugged down my throat,

until I'm able to befriend your wild.

A flock of mandarin parakeets found themselves a perch amidst the strategy play in green palace trees, for which they are responsible, having laid not one single claim upon future tyrannies. However, the forests in their emerald, sensing disarray, took on a maternal stare while attaching silencers to those beaks in nests where, cries of newborn chickadees may attract the murderous affairs of flight invasion. The young baby birds now protected inside carefully wrapped tiny leaf cones. How unfortunate for them, with their cruel linear perspective of this cylindrical summer!

The army of parakeets pitch up their parachutes in invisible tents. They do in fact plan to stay for awhile. As they keep close watch over the tree terrestrial, their heads spin 360 degree tropical smiles.

They have come to avenge the ****** of color orange.

I walk a path paved in penciled graffiti,
Where outlined music notes
Amuse my anecdotes,
I walk with break beats in my blood,
With brain waves pounding bass drums,
I got liquid
808 fingertips
And lips
Malted with crossfade grins
To spin surges of synergy
Out of bottled up battles,
Even my baby rattles
Used to shake with rhythm.

Wars
Should pause for music.

The power of harmonic symphony
Just pimping me,
Creeping up through cracked sidewalks,
Wrapping shadows around legs,
Up hips to necks
As it grabs,
Just pimping me,
A dance floor ***** with
Peace in and of mind,
In circles of 32
Note by note,
That lump of emotion
In my throat
Could choke,
With neon freedom.

Maybe it’s a pipe dream,
That we could put down the guns
And rave to the drums,
That even silencers will be silent,
And the smell of gunpowder
Will squander for an hour,
That there will be a day with no death,
A day free of neurotic nail biting mothers
Holding their breath,
That their children will walk our land again,
A day that suicide bombs
Won’t detonate,
That cries of loss and sadness
Won’t resonate,
A day that we won’t decimate,
Our own race,
The human race

Maybe it’s a pipe dream,
But that’s my pipe dream.

I’ve spanned seas to see,
That music brings harmony,
I’ve danced along
An African diplomat named Ife,
Which means love,
A Polish carpenter named Sebastian,
Which means dignity,
A Vietnamese banker named Ly,
Which means Lion,
And collectively,
We,
We're individuals,
Smiling to that same pumping beat,
That,
Breakbeat,
That brain wave pounding bass drum,
That strum laced
With a graceful hum,
Making our race numb,
There was no color,
There was no history
Because my history
Won’t dictate me,
Not that it's non-existent,
Not that I’m resistant
To believe that people hate
Because of the past,
But I understand personalities,
And believe
Everyone deserves a fair shot
At being an individual

Everyone deserves that music,
Everyone deserves to have
That path paved in penciled graffiti,
Where outlined music notes,
Amuse their anecdotes,
Everyone deserves to feel
Breakbeats in their blood,
And brain waves pounding bass drums,
Those liquid
808 fingertips
And lips
Malted with crossfade grins
That spin surges of synergy,
Everyone deserves what we have to offer,
Everyone deserves,
To dance to their own breakbeat
Of peace

There is a balance between science and intuition;
only the myths of priests can disturb that account,
can sadly arrest the bloom of human consciousness.
As we look deeply with telescopes into the cosmos

or inward to the radio-waves of cranial thought,
the No Smoking sign of religion holds humanity back.
There is no Paradise Lost, only that not yet attained.
Silencers muffle, as if the skyes were empty,

the mind subordinate to some Proper Name.
If we are to Live, we must go there.  Out where
the nebulae birth new stars, in there,
where the id recklessly whispers, Good-Bye.

A flock of mandarin parakeets found themselves a perch amidst the strategy play in green palace trees, for which they are responsible, having laid not one single claim upon future tyrannies. However, the forests in their emerald, sensing disarray, took on a maternal stare while attaching silencers to those beaks in nests where, cries of newborn chickadees may attract the murderous affairs of flight invasion. The young baby birds now protected inside carefully wrapped tiny leaf cones. How unfortunate for them, with their cruel linear perspective of this cylindrical summer!

The army of parakeets pitch up their parachutes in invisible tents. They do in fact plan to stay for awhile. As they keep close watch over the tree terrestrial, their heads spin 360 degree tropical smiles.

They have come to avenge the ****** of color orange.

Today was a good day,
I woke up and loaded my gun, going postal is the plan.
No real reason, no real plan, just pick a place and aim for people.

Here’s the school, here’s the office, here’s the steeple, steady hand and aim for people.
Hair trigger and hog wild, going ape but having too much fun to care.
Smile on my face or least on the mask I wore today;
Left the house today with a plan to see the bodies drop by my hand.

It’s as much fun as you can have on a Monday.
Service on the Sunday gets shaken up with I burst down the door, pulled my trigger and watch the bodies hit the floor.
The mall was more fun after I lit up the food court,
The movies were a scream filled with screams from the survivors.
Picture day and everyone is dressed to impress at least they dressed for the funerals.

Today was the plan, just drop as many as I can.
No one to stop my fun, no one saw it coming and as soon as I started I moved on, location, location, location and the hospital is next.

Quick stop at the post office to take it back to where it all began.
Falling down is fun as long as you take everyone with you.
Now some will say I’m crazy, or some will say I lost it or some will say I snapped along the way, but they’re just repressed. I do what they think about.
They would love to blow away the people they complain about on a daily basis.

Just get a gun, get your gun Johnny, get your gun Jenny, get your gun Janie and Tommy’s got his gun.
We can go the park on Saturday and make a field day out of the people swinging on the swings, we can hunt the hunters, we can hunt the sheeple.
Run rabbit run, I’ll give you a ten second head start but I’ll close the distance and soon you’ll be boring, I’ll need a new target.

I need a new mark.

Silence in the library, good thing silencers come in all sizes.
I’m having too much fun to stop, I’m usually bored and pent up, *** was staring to bore me. Work was wearing me down and school was full of drama and **** kids;
I found myself a hobby, something to let off steam.
It doesn’t take much to have this kind of fun, just aim and laugh as you gun em down.

Drive-in movie turns out to be a drive by spray of fun.
Parking lot like fish in a barrel, doing donuts before driving away into the night.
Night club is my next stop and its pack to the brim, dance floor center and work outwards.

Now some will say I’m violent and others will call me a monster but when we speak of expression, which of us is repressed?
I pull a trigger to get rid of stress while you do drugs, cheat on your lover and talk bad about everyone behind their backs, you stress over stress and can’t ever seem to get it to clear;

On the flip I got a smile on my face as I skip through downtown just shooting off at the hip;
Rich, Poor, Black, White, Elderly, Children- no difference to me.
I take aim and just let the bullet travel true and fast.
A shot to the heart really gets me going, I laugh and sprint down the street gotta hide from police now, hide and seek and while I hide in plain sight I take this time to mark some new marks.

I sleep easy at night having blown my stress away, I know you say you don’t like people but let me tell you, you’re being antisocial.
People make life fun and the couple who go out together die hand in hand by the hand holding my gun.

This is my rifle, this is my gun, this isn’t a social experiment and this is for fun.

With heavy breath, I bring
pen to page and finger to string
and hold left hand over right, to steady
my shaking wrist as I tremble,
the echo of your voice resonating
permeating
bouncing off every sinewy fiber,
ankles and hips and lungs and heart
beating for you.

I try to write of other things—
of clouds and car crashes and
mysterious men in dark suits with trombone cases and silencers,
or big whaling ships off the coast of Japan,
cold lights singing through marine mist—
but the trains of thought all lead to your
"I love you,"
to your
"I want you,"
to your
"I'm all yours."

The lyrical cadence is tired,
reminiscent of the classics and
traversing paths well-traveled.
The major keys with clean sound—
no reverb, no filter, no distortion—
are boring and basic,
and the vocal sickly sweet
and the floor toms empty
and the ride cymbal whispering
shhhhhhhh
over a cavalcade of harmonics
in a complete circle of fifths.

You are the fairy tale,
the "once upon a time"
and the "happily ever after"
that feel fabricated passing through the lips of others,
but more lucid than taste and smell when
falling through yours
mine
ours
pressed
pushed
touch
close.

It all devolves
into tangled limbs
bright colors
and whispered, made up words.
The ones that exist simply won't do.

I write every song
every single ******* song
for you.

You cut kisses down my arm
that I wrapped with bandages as tight as I could, so I couldn't feel the pain
but they kept bleeding.
Bleeding phrases that felt
the cold sharpness of your back
as it walked away from me,
the Words you chose to hide away
the silencers on silent guns,
And I see your face reflect red in my blood.
Hear you tapping in my heartbeat

I take up space because I am valuable.
I say that as I eat and rejoice in my outward growth
Delighted in food as it hits my mouth, and how it hugs my body.
I say that as I stretch out on the bus
Tacking no less room then the man spread that is so recklessly unaware of itself.
I say that as I raise my voice refusing silencers
His voice will not penetrate an overwhelming truth, no matter how loud he speaks over me
I say that as I stand tall, combating the overlooker
I sway surly and head held high as I am worthy
As I celebrate my *******
Praise the blood that shows my strengths
I cast away the thought that a bleeding thing is weak
Is it not true that he has been known to bleed too?
I take up space because I am valuable
Treasured for my thoughts and wholeness
I say that as I work out, muscles showing
My strength oblivious to the male ego, without fear of being any less of a woman
I say that as I challenge myself and others
Because meekness was something I was taught, not something that I am.
I say that as I refuse to be consumed
I am not a product for pleasure I am a human, a consciousness with feeling.
I say that as I really am, as a goddess, a queen, an equal
An individual with agency and determination
As I celebrate my character
Praise the misguided for building me up
Refuting the idea that blood is shameful
Because my womanhood is in part my pride
I say that I am valuable very simply,
because I am

The ideas percolate,
in minutes, or hours,
maybe Days, Weeks, Even
                                                years.
But in the moment,
                                  they pour,
       in the moment,
                                   they are,
            the moment,
                                   voiced.
Choices like razor wire,
concentration becomes concertina,
frustrated silencers take the sound
from the words that explode, that explode
like a flocking group of birds,
                                                     and take flight,
in the air around,
the turbulence surround you,
their number dumfound you and the head
                                                                ­          above the watery tears,
                                                                ­ go ahead give into your fears,
go speak in rhymes,
write with a right legged limp while
your head pivots and swivels without focus,
pop the pills and mainline, you bought the hocus pocus,
the revelation describes things in numbers swarming locusts,
you been seeing that trip
across the desert for hours,
how does it feel to be in charge of the powerless?

Instead of plugging into power lines with power cords, looking for out-
lets,
use **** up white lines,
you pretend to be an energized bunny
this isn't funny.

In the moment straight and sane
in the moment sobered by pain,
In the moment stinking thinking
takes
          a
back
          seat,
you have a friend you ignore,
you keep the lifestyle and hit
repeat,
you are after all, in control, right up until your last breath.
you are after all............................................your last breath.

Sit and be silent to be heard no more,
Perhaps you heard those words somewhere
Sometimes in one's life growing up,
Why people think it their duty to silence
another person not to speak openly and freely,

A spoken word or sound is meant to be heard
Like the loud ring tone of a cell phone  
And indication, someone is calling,
Somebody need to be heard:

My grandparents, and parent believe  
In silencing this poetess when I was a child
At a point where my voice stays inside,
Then step two where, everybody that knew me  
Kept asking why I was so shy:
Why was I afraid to speak to my elders?
Me being shy became social anxiety for some
As for my friends I spoke with confident, like a true trooper,
Grown folks intimidate the hell out of me,
Why? Because of commanding words
Sit and be silent to be heard no more.

As an adult, I have a hard time taking orders
From others, or being talk down too,
Maybe that's why I enjoy writing so much
Only I can hear my voice when I compose
Until I allowed my reading to take a peep
At my work, my Island tongue,
My American frustration on worldly views
I sat for too long, I frown for too long,
I bite down on my tongue for too long,
But I concocted a plan, on how to
Get back my silencers, and revenge them
With my spoken words of silence, without being seen

"Great is language, it is the mightiest of sciences
It is the fulness and color and form and diversity of the earth and of men and women and of all qualities and processes.
It is greater than wealth, it is greater than buildings, or ships or religious or painting or music. -----Walt Whitman.. "

****** masks
As we look around,
All we see is humans wearing ****** masks
A world of silencers, a world of social distancing:
Before we use to sit silently and watch the world
Around us:  misbehaved: the unruly bunch

Silence is holy it draws attention
To our inner peace:  today is the silence of the mask
Draws attention to fear, a fear of us being side track
By this disease, so we wear the mask of silence,
Do you remember, the measles, chickens pox’s
Scarlett fevers and the list when on:
But it’s nothing in comparisons to corona corvid 19

Lockdown: Now it’s staying at home means getting creative
Evaluating our lives, our behavior, our life style..
Was it out of control?  
Were we ever essentials?

  I hate wearing the mask
It make me feel like a captive, but i know better
Not to wear it: I need protection from you
And you need protection from me.

Because of what Mr. Trump said “the Chinese disease.”
Wearing the mask to do the tasks
Letting go of the hatred enable us to move forward

A world without humans is not a world
Is a silence world:
with one small flower emerging from a rock on a side walk