top of page

3:31 AM

 

Time slowly drowns me in

minutes and hours as my

mind watches the past

dance with the present and future.

 

They twirl around one another

In delicate circles, but

I fear their collision. No longer

will I be who I was,

 

but the past will become who I am,

who I will be. My past

lived on her tiptoes, treading

lightly around those who

 

did not know she was

living in the dark. My past

was lost in a maze of lefts

And rights with no direction.

 

So, I worry -

Indeed, silence kills the worrier

like those who marinate

In their troubles.

 

Me.

I realize that it is not easy

to just throw away my

troubles, my insecurities.

 

So, they just go back

to my thought bubble

and I never

sleep.

My Love for Language

​

People say

That language is not alive,

but how is that possible

when words make up every

part of me? Trust me,

I have tried to submit

to action’s power,

a tangible force. But,

my soul belongs to another.

In my head, letters

merge into words that illustrate

the feelings of my heart.

I crave language more

than human contact. Words

even emerge in the silence

in which I soak my feet.

Don’t you understand?

I am the puppet,

language pulls my strings.

I just hope

these ties never get

severed.

Advice From Mama

 

We have yet to meet,

but I love you.

Even after your arrival,

you will still be precious cargo

I pledge to protect.

 

Please be everything

that I am not. I want

you to be everything

that I am not. Mama

has made mistakes

 

but I hope it helps me

teach you. A part of me

wants you to be oblivious

to the world -

to believe you can fly,

 

believe you can live on

clouds, believe that happiness

can live in your back pocket.

But, letting this happen

would be a disservice to you.

 

Baby, the world is not

your friend. Love

does not live everywhere. And

I need you to know that

because

 

not knowing is dangerous.

Sadly, I’ve learned that

the hard way and

you’ll do the same.

But, just know:

 

you can stray away from home,

but the porch light will always

be on for you.

Sincerely, He Broke Her - A prose poem 

 

My sister cried over a man who knew not of unconditional love. He was a painter with skilled hands and treated her like a blemished canvas that he needed to fix. It was never him. The mirror showed his face, never his soul. But, he knew what was there - the problems he refused to face. So, he made whiting out his problems a specialty and manipulation his life’s purpose. He thought he had an audience, but she was the only one watching the show. She knew “Mr. Perfect” was only a child playing pretend, yet her love kept her glued to his side. Her love served as the foundation of their relationship.  Her love carried his dead weight. Despite all the bad, her love brought them a son. Her love even brought her a desire for a partnership that would rest on her ring finger; but, they weren’t holding two ends of the same rope. My sister became tired of being the sacrificial lamb, so she left as he pleaded for her hand. To him, she was a dog and he dangled a bone he thought she’d take. But, that was his mistake. At that moment, she understood that there was nothing left to give. Truly leaving was an act of strength, but she was broken.

Our Identity

 

Remember, we are all seeds waiting for the rain.

If someone tells you otherwise, they lie.

Identity is something you slowly attain.

 

We come from the womb with underdeveloped brains,

Which restlessly wait for the knowledge to be supplied.

Remember, we are all seeds waiting for the rain.

 

We bathed in our learning, believed in what we gained,

but was the information given falsified?

Identity is something you slowly attain.

 

Our job is to scavenge for ourselves, to obtain

truth. Wisdom comes from experience used as a guide.

Remember, we are all seeds waiting for the rain.

 

In life, we constantly learn from mistakes, we retain

those lessons and our purpose will become amplified;

but, identity is something you slowly attain.

 

Truly, some days will be filled with stress and pain.

So, if you become discouraged, this will apply:

Remember, we are all seeds waiting for the rain.

Identity is something you slowly attain.

The Mask 

​

In the morning, I powder

my face with happiness

and apply positivity

to my lips. True emotions

are locked in a vault, and

I am ready for the day.

No one cares to really

know me. No one

cares to know about

the festering holes in my

heart.

Don’t you dare

say anything

unless someone asks,

I remind myself

every morning. Every evening,

I come home with no inquiries.

Truly, I find peace

in the rustle of trees

and the stars that

pepper the sky at night.

Truth lived in the light,

but found solace in the dark

after the death of authenticity.

Nights bring relief,

emotions without guilt.

I value that time

because for a moment

I’m not wearing a mask.

bottom of page