invisible emotions

its been ages since i truly expressed how i felt about things......its been ages since i put pen to paper or fingers to a keyboard for that matter. I've been so tired, the one emotion i don't feel the need to hide from the world. everything that's not positive gets corked in the bottle of emotions because I'm afraid of loosing control, spiraling over the edge and not caring how or why i got there. I'm holding myself together through wires, thin wires which are slowly unraveling. kinda like cello strings almost. i just miss certain things in my life which i used to enjoy. i miss my cello, my dance classes, my art classes. i miss the things that used to give me some joy, yet at the same time i ruined them for myself because i was afraid i wasn't any good.
ah....what is long lost always seems out of reach.

what my mother doesn't know

my mother doesn't know that when tear ducts are overfilled
its because i'm fighting not to cry. i'm holding back, retaining more water than a pregnant woman, only because i'm afraid of getting those looks that pretty much say
"why can't you be tough like me?
why do you cry all the time?
why haven't you grown some crocodile skin like i have?
i didn't cry this much when i was a kid and i had BIGGER problems than you did."
yes mom, i'm aware that you had bigger problems than i did. i know that body image and self esteem don't even compare to dealing with racism of the 1950s.
but that doesn't mean belittle me, make me feel smaller than i already do. reduce me to a state of incoherent babble and stupidity, i'll be okay.
don't tell me not to cry, i dont tell you not to be cold to me, not to be incapable of showing emotions. i don't bark at you "SMILE! cause i'm sick of seeing your tar stained frown!"
is it so hard to hug me when i'm feeling sad? is it so hard to take five minutes to try to understand me, and bare with me when i'm not making any sense.
if you don't want to be let it to my world, say it now, so that in my adult years i'll know not to depend on you.
why not just say you never wanted to emotionally connect to me? it'd would have been an easier fall then trying to climb the mountain of getting you to understand only to plumit thousands of feet into a bank of cold snow.
i've never been able to say what i feel, but i'm saying it now:
you've never been able to show emotion, you've never been able to look me in the eyes and tell me you love me, i'm sick of wanting you to show affection your not capable of.
is it so hard to hold me when i cry, wipe my tears from my face, hold my hand?
do you really wanna know the reason why i want to move out so damn badly, its to be around people who wont make me feel small for showing emotion. people who understand that crying, screaming, shaking with anger and fear is NOT A WEAKNESS!!
you can watch people in the movies show emotion and its beautiful, but you can't even look me in the eye and say "I LOVE YOU!!!"
from this point on, i won't obstain physically from others who need affection, and if i wind up being unable to show affection to my own children, i'll put you in the worst home in creation, as the powers of the heavens as my witness!

the art of my body

my body
the canvas
composed of modernism
subtle touches of post impressionism,
ladened with thick black lines to define
where the mold begins
and brown skin flows freely to its end.
above lay breasts, ripe as grapefruits,
leading to a waist line
eager to taste
fine antidotes of rhythm
colliding with flamenco beats
swirling to the melody
are hips of a sinuousness nature
these hips embody the erotic being within
a genie who breaks free from the bondage
of a bottle and lets her amorphous
form billow in the breeze. these are
child rearing, bike steering, sometimes even god fearing
kind of hips.
these are earth shaking
love making
back breaking
do you feel your head board quaking
kind of hips!
mine are
soul shocking
bed rocking
goes beyond boots knocking
kind of hips.

and past my hips
deep within
the cavern of my thighs
lies
the mysteries of the universe.

lemons dont make lemonade alone

when life hands you lemons...you're suppose to make lemonade....but what happens when life fails to hand you the sugar and rain down a little water just so that you aren't squeezing lemon juice into your mouth and flinching at the bitter taste.

well great creator in the sky...I've got my lemons...in fact..i've got a barrel of them wedged in between my bookshelves...i'm really in need of some sugar....something sweet to happen in my life...cause right now with all the drama surrounding my friends i keep getting sent more lemons...maybe its not just me...maybe everyone is getting lots of lemons like i am...so the really gay and happy thing to do would be to make one big ole jar of lemonade....it would kinda be like a walgreens commercial..where life hands you everything you need..but life isn't like that!

i understand that to an extent...this is just one of those moments where i wish life was a walgreens commercial...except with more racial and sexual orientation diversity!

The State of the Black Union

(this is something i wrote, a performance piece so to speak,being a queer womyn of color, analyzing her race's current situation. WARNING : It criticizes black people, points out our flaws, and makes subtle references to our current politicians such as Jesse Jackson. Not obama though...i love him!)

This is a report coming to you live, not from the white house, not from Camp David, or any other place in America that has been pre-decorated to perfection. This report is coming to you from the suburbs, reported merely by an outsider looking in. Now usually how these things have gone down is, I, being the speaker will try to appeal to your need to feel like justice hasn’t been served to you; the man has been putting you down for years and doesn’t have your best interest at heart. My sentences that rhyme are suppose to dance inside of your eardrum until your dizzy with the glee that knowing that someone has finally heard your plea, answered your prayer, a disciple of God has finally decided to pick up the other end of the phone. The following statement would be true if I were conventional, a politician hungry for the food that is a voting ballot to fill my proverbial plate. Yet I’m not a politician, I’m merely an educated black woman who’s fed up with the progress of her race.

I walk through the hallways of my school and I wonder how we have fallen when our predecessors spent their lives trying to bring us up from the oppression of which our race was born into. It still feels like the shackles of slavery are weighing me down when I read books about the academic state of our children. We are, as of 2007, officially left behind. Our children cannot read the required high school material, compose the majority of the regular or below level English courses, cannot do the math, nor score decently on state or national examinations. Our solution for bridging the gap; give them books meant for 6^th graders and below relating to their similar socio-economic situations, and hope to god that when the time rolls around for them to read Dickens or Chaucer they are equipped to handle the work. When that falls through the cracks we implement African American literature, which doesn’t seem like a bad idea at first, it’s only until later we realize most curriculums are euro-centric and trying to appease the need of a student not to read the literature of a “dead white guy” is enforcing a fallacy of reality. I no longer want to be one of four black people in an English honors class, one of three in an advanced placement humanities class, and one of ten black people in an astronomy class that actually pays attention. The denominator for the following fractions needs to be increased so that we can finally begin to fit into the equation that represents American education as a whole.

This is a report coming to you live, not from the white house, not from Camp David, or any other place in America that has been pre-decorated to appease the aesthetic eye. This report is coming to you from the center of a free aids clinic, where the majority of the people waiting idly in chairs for their test results are black people, our sisters; our heterosexual woman who are getting infected at a larger rate than any other minority population in the United States of America. And while our women are getting infected, our clergymen sit back and continue to tell us that AIDS is a gay white man’s persuasion, and to get it would mean not only have you engaged contact with our racial enemy, but began a tango with the devil of homosexuality only repentance and prayer can cure. Regardless of the information out there, our women, our men, and our children are still dying from this pandemic, because we as a people turn a blind eye. Our only cable channel, meant for the sole purpose of “black entertainment” even cuts off the wrap it up commercials, because obviously advertising Baby Phat will erase all the red ribbons that are pinned to our chests. The length of your artificial appendages called nails, the labels you have tattooed somewhere below the waistline of your pants, the way you “rock your hips” to a song; anything advertised to get the minority to be a consumer will not be your 99.9% guaranteed protection that a condom would. The Juicy Couture, the Rocawear, the Phat Farm, the Jordan’s, and the many other brands aimed at minorities will only be a mere token of your ignorance if and when you do catch this disease, because somewhere along the line, fashion became more important than safe sex.

This is a report coming to you live, not from the white house, not from Camp David, or any other place in America that has been pre-decorated to cover up the poverty that is afflicting us, the welfare that is constricting us, and the consumer mentality that fuels our desire to be apart of the American dream. We’re still living in the ghettos designated for us during the creation of “white suburbia”, and while some of us have managed to climb to the mountaintop and infiltrate the land of white picket fences and apple pies at windowsills, we are still calling government allotted properties not fit for roaches to live in our “home sweet home.” The violence in these areas increases more than the number of schools or parks for our children to play in. Businesses trying toe establish themselves to have an ethnic clientèle pack up and leave as soon as the shot of a gun rings louder than a house doorbell. Instead of being recruited to be girl and boy scouts, our children are being recruited to sell drugs, be gangsters, and hustle their lives away. Now something deep down in my gut is telling me that Martin Luther King didn’t have a dream for his people to still be living in squalor, not be able to afford school supplies for their children, be grossly unemployed compared to other minority groups, and have drug affiliations larger than the number of African Americans attending college. I know that racism still runs deep, but you would think with anti discrimination laws in place, a black person could work somewhere other than Mc Donalds or a check cashing joint, actually go to college, or be in a position to support themselves and not be on welfare. Even those who have a job aren’t better off because we’re still tempted to have the latest item on the market, it is a thing that afflicts all Americans, but rarely do I see a white person trying to use a link card to pay a cell phone bill. And if we can afford cell phones, why do our kids come to school with not even the granite to make a pencil to their name? Its time we had another great migration, not geographically, but in our priorities regarding what’s truly essential and what’s a materialistic desire.

This is a report coming to you live, not from the white house, not from Camp David, or any other place in America that has been pre-decorated to look like the American dream, but the black reality.

gender fucking

the art of gender fucking, is not just fucking gender. its sticking a butt plus in the rigid anus of the gender binary system. its femmes with strap ons rear ending their butches. its students, managers, and vice presidents by day while masquerading as lady spankers by night. its alternate personalities and egos unleashed in hairy men wearing skirts, big breasted women women wearing wife beaters. it artificial silicone pumping medically engineered vaginas, bringing life to a dick with manufactured veins. its pleasure in knowing your partner is just there with you, holding you closely, forgetting all the labels we categorize ourselves in for the simplicity of others. two people, one world.

i miss her

i wish she would come home to me. cause even while the distance has made us realize how much we truly love each other, i miss her none the less. i miss her warmth against my freezing body. i miss the way our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. breast to breast, thigh to thigh, arms and ankles entwined. i love the way she kisses me. kisses my cheeks with such tenderness, kisses my lips as if she were kissing an angel. i love the way her voice dances in my ear like a smooth jazz melody. i love the way she holds me in the twilight hours, her hands run themselves all over my body and seem to make all my impurities go away.
i love the way she loves me.....and i miss her. this feeling is foreign to me because i've never been able to miss a lover like i miss her. maybe its because in my eyes she'll never be just a lover, she's become my partner, my friend, my confidante. my everything......................

emotional hangups

I'm 17 going on adulthood, and yet the problems of my past still linger over my head, clouds to an already full sky. i was bred to be strong, independent, never to show my pain or problems. its not that my mother wasn't there...its not like she was at the bottom of a bottle or the tail end of a line of coke. its the complete opposite, she spoiled me rotten. she gave me damn near anything i desired. materially anyhow. yet at the same time i could never catch a spare moment of her work time at home to tell her things. i rarely told her my fears, my moments of weakness where i felt helpless and had no clue what to do. not having any siblings, i confided in stuffed animals. but it felt like my words and feelings would just bounce off their plushier outer shells and back into my mind. so eventually i learned to keep quiet...which didn't always work when i had a mental breakdown. yet my mother just said i was either seeking attention. like she did when i got out the hospital, i was seeking attention and did it in a way that cost her money. i told that undereducated social worker that i knew over ten ways to kill myself, yet i felt like they were all flawed. call me an american sucker but i like that whole 100% guarantee kinda thing. so i lied my way out of that hell hole, just so her reputation and money wouldn't go straight down the drain. when in reality, it hurt more that i've spent more time protecting my mother than i feel she has protecting me.
i didn't want much from her just a few basic things

1. i wanted the ability to confide in her, be able to tell her my problems without her being so cruel and making it seem like it was all trivial matters of adolescence.
2. i wanted her to take me seriously when i said things.
3. i just wanted her to show me that she loves me without it seeming like it pained her to do so. would it have killed her to smile around me just once?
4. it would have been nice if she acted like i existed, instead of focusing on just my stepfather and work.
5. a little encouragement about my body image would be nice. i don't think she's ever been able to accept me the way i physically am. i think she liked me when i was young and skinny, like she was when she was younger.
6. she needs to understand that I'm in high school and I'm not a looser like she was. i don't get bullied or pushed down stairs. I'm not a super math nerd with no life. i have friends, i have a gf who loves me, and a future ahead me. i wanna graduate early but she wont let me. i wanna move into my own place and start my life without the reins of my mother!

life is too complicated...and when it gets complicated..i eat eggs!

Loose

Zippers
Forced open
Buttons
Pop off
Shirts scatter
Fabric birds
Interrupted in
the course of flight

Hands gently
stroke
the virginal flower
caressing inner thighs
Transfusions
of ecstasy
coarse between us

Toes curl
Electricity tingles
Down my spine
Pressed against
the rock
Eternal drums
Beat against
My chest
Constricting
Every breath
I take

As we lie
Entertwined
Racing daylight
Until
the moon rises
and we must part

Travels

mouth dry
thirsting for nourishment
i dip my hands
into the cool
ocean
swirls of blue & green
dripping through my
fingers
running down my throat

stomach rumbling
i long for the taste
of sweet chocolate
lingering in my mouth
savoring each small
orgasmic explosion
before i swallow

craving sweetness
i pluck a virgin cinnamon stick
from the jar of innocense
feeling the flakey texture
crunch against my cheek
crumbling in my mouth
completing me
inside and out

Exhausted
from the day's journey
i long to rest my head
on two bouyant
drops of sweet caramel
letting my tongue
feast away at the
outer layers
until they are completely
eroded
and i have reached
my final destination

Earth: Her last Days

The orb commonly known as Earth
might become no more than scattered mass
in galactic entropy, one day.
the smog that billows from factories
of mass production
have only been a means
of mass destruction

the American consumer
whose programmed to want
the newest,latest, biggest
item out there
throws out computers, cell phones, tvs,
only months old
grains of technological salt
no longer to be bothered with
Yet while those grains of salt
fly carelessly
birds composed of metal and wires
there are those
who sit under the remaining trees
and wonder where are we to go
when our earth comes to an end

Scientists give the false hope
of life on Jupiter, Venus, Mars
yet these minds of factual knowledge
have yet to answer the question
what will happen when
we destroy those planets as well?

Nobody wants to say that
when the end of earth occurs
the human race shall be
thrown completely out of
life's bend.
So I shall.........

Inconceivable

baby girl
pretty brown eyes
hair with her daddy's curls
*sighs* where did you go wrong
how did i lead you astray
you were raised to believe
God's light was always shining
on you
so why step out?

I don't understand your choices
your deviant behavior
do you like the names they
call you, baby girl?
do you like being called a
dyke, fag, queer?
do you like being harassed
chased down dark allies
your cries unheard
by the world
as they beat you up
nobody to find you,
when its all over with?

baby girl
sweet child of mine
I cant protect you
from the blows
they deliver to your soft
cocoa skin
God's healing hands cant fix your
broken ribs
because when you were conceived
He had no notion they would be broken
over this

the emotional archer

i stand in the wooded forest
a lush garden of eden.
the sounds of cricket's chirping
squirrels rusteling in trees
does nothing to comfort the sight
that lays ahead
my eyes watch you struggle to get up
arrows sticking out of various appendenges
blood gushing from open wounds
seeping its way into soil
its only now i realize
that i am killing you softly.

i begin to feel overwhelmed
with self hatred, knowing that
once my bow has been loaded
the trajectory of my words
ingrained in arrows of pine wood
have managed to hit the bull's eye
without fail.
i have never meant to intentionally hurt you
my words were never meant to erode
at the fabric of your spirit
but instead, there are only remains
of what used to be a beautiful tapestry.
so i drop my weapons, and walk away
hoping that the distance between us
will give you time to heal.