Feeling—
Feelings are fleeting
In the moment
You’re feening
For a feeling
Like an addict
To an amphetamine
mentally—rearranging my senses
And I sense this
Senseless—pull
Towards you
What a fool
I am full—Of excuses
Excusing my transgressions
Miscommunication turn into
Passive aggression
And in all this—I’ve failed to mention
That No time or space
Can erase the definition
Of the words
I express in excess
Are accessible—Believable
Believe the bull — shit
I’m a mess and my fear is
You’ll read me
Like an open book—Memorize my lines
And realize that these eyes tell truths
My lips are too slow to —speak
But my pride and ego
Butter me with honey and milk
Because showing emotion
To no one
Is easier, and I push you away
So you rue the day
The hour, the minute, the second, you met me
Until all you’re left with are
Text messages and a fading memory.
- Hello My name is . . . ‘Feelings’
Falling is easy.
like a child, I am lulled under
the depths of your words
a ledge, is too frail to stop me from
Tipping over, and falling—
into things that are bound to happen.
Someone is going to get hurt
because hurt people—hurt people
are never on the receiving end.
He’ll be consistent and then he won’t
So as I await the other shoe to drop
I plan my final hurrah—
It begins with saying, no.
He’ll Get it, he’ll understand.
I’ll lie about the sparks that
Emit between us like naked cords
He’ll get it, he’ll understand.
I’ll say I hate the way it feels to—run
my fingers through his hair
while he lies between my legs
feeling the warmth of his breath hit my skin
He’ll get it, he’ll understand.
I’ll deny the comfort we share in each other’s company
He’ll get it, he’ll understand.
I’ll bring up the certainty he had when he put
a shot clock over our heads
He’ll get it, he’ll understand.
And lastly when he, attempts to leave
Silently warning me that this is the last time
Because he ‘can’t do this anymore’
I won’t get it, I won’t understand.
I’ll sit still, playing tug of war with my head and heart
Making no move, daring him to walk out like the broken men before him
He’ll get it, he’ll understand.
Though in truth, I compared his love to the explosions from past lovers
because I couldn't handle the subtle burn he gave me.
-Hello My Name Is . . . ‘The Escapist’
My first time was at a park bench
Late august.
the sun had retired for the day
giving full reign to the moon.
we’d spent minutes walking in circles
like I’d often do when I was deflecting—
talking about nothing and everything.
The obvious realization I lied
about something that was never asked
but always inferred finally set in.
It was simple, uncomplicated
my lips against yours, light—
as the feathers, I awaited but never felt.
I was unadulterated
unbeknownst to you, my teacher.
As moons faded, and suns rose
light feathered kisses turned into
frantic minded pulses, the kind that made you curl—
your toes, but clothes always remained
a reminder never to get too close.
a lesson we both had to learn.
With winter, came the bitter biting
cold taste I left on your tongue
after hours of letting you in
I pulled the rug from under—you
were under me, lost in the throes of
carnal desire, something each wanted
but tethered tongues were too scared to inquire.
- Hello My Name is . . . ‘The First Time’
How to (Guns 101)
A gun in his hand, fingers ready to pull the trigger. Instead, he pulls at a bundle of nerves, and you release a scream.
Hoping the sound from
Your throat will feed his ego
And he’ll set you free.
And though you’re anti-guns
You’re glad it’s his weapon of choice.
So he lets go of the gun.
You wear a smile, say thank you,
And hope to never see
him again. Because that
Night you learned never
To trust a man who can’t
Find the trigger with a
Gun in his hand.
But hey, I’m not judging
As an African, I naturally felt the need to school you about the history of Africa.
It’s more than just
Poverty.
Violence.
The beginning of a thing called slavery.
Oh, and for 99 cents a day, you can feed an imaginary person because 99 cents ain’t feeding
Nobody.
I would school you, but you have google for that,
And I'm going to stop you before you say some ignant shit like—
“You can’t believe everything you see on the internet”
True, you can’t believe everything you see on the internet
But that doesn't stop you from jacking off to ole’ girl from Pornhub whose waist-ass-hip ratio is a whole lot suspect.
But hey, I'm not judging.
You ever wonder why the only time they start talking about Africa is at the beginning of slavery?
Yeah—me neither.
It’s as if it didn't exist before that, and it just stopped existing after the Europeans left.
History teachers don't teach you what you need to know, guess that’s why kids were always like
“For an immigrant, you speak really good English!”
I'm sorry you thought I could only communicate in *clicks tongue*
We were colonized by the British, which you would know if there was enough space in the curriculum.
Seriously, I would like to tell you more about Africa but you can visit yourself.
And I'm going to stop you before you say some other ignant shit like—
“Tickets to Africa are too expensive”
True, tickets to Africa are expensive but so are Jordan’s, and yet you still find a way to get them.
But hey, I'm not judging.
Calm Down, It’s Just a Poem
Angry. Black. Woman.
That is, what they call you when you have an opinion different from theirs.
Or when you have a voice and won’t be silenced.
They throw those words around so much you begin to ask yourself
“Am I an angry black woman?”
“Are you an angry black woman?”
“Are we all just angry. Black. Women?”
I don’t know—
But when it comes from your less melanated counterparts who surmise that just because you're black, you subscribe to every black stereotype…
News flash…I’m not my grand-parents.
Bitter. Black. Woman.
That’s what they call you when you have an issue with brothers marrying women who think interracial babies are an aesthetic, an accessory, a photo-op.
That’s what they call you, when you work twice as hard to get half of what they have…because Napoleon Bonaparte is a bitch.
Why. Cant. We. Say It.?
Because you hear it in a song doesn't mean you can say it.
Because you have that one token black friend, doesn't mean you can say it.
And yes Jan, we all know you we started sucking dick in the eighth grade and Tyrone liked it when you called him “Nigga” but that does not mean you can say it, that brother had other issues.
Trust me.
It’s not “lynch-mob racism,” but nonetheless, if you're not black, you just can’t say it.
Its. Just. An. Accessory.
You didn't say that, when you called those Harlem girls “ghetto-ratchet” for wearing hoop earrings too big for their ears.
You didn't say that when they were suspended for having locs, which somehow equates them to being pot heads.
You're never there when they start the trend, but you're always there to benefit off of it.
So no, it’s not just an accessory you uncultured swine.
It. Does. Not Exist.
Reverse racism, that is—
It would mean we are in a position to actually make something happen, ergo “black privilege”
It would mean we have a social, economic, justice system in our favor, which we don’t.
It would mean the James Madison's of the world knew slavery would be abolished… which he didn’t.
So next time you’re feeling butt hurt because you got called cracker, mayonnaise, or someone said something about your mom not seasoning her food, just know it’s not reverse racism.
Call it prejudice, or stereotype, but racism? Lord knows we don't benefit from that shit
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