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Severely In Love

Where there should be joy, is pain; my beauty has turned to ashes. Across my mind’s sky flash, the

love that I want to last. My heart waivers with doubt but I am severely in love.

The kind of love that caused heavenly wars to erupt with peace. Love that has no boundaries. A love that laughs at restraints. A kind of love that can melt ice in the midst of a snow storm.

A five-alarm love, setting the heart ablaze—the kind, that leaves you incoherently dazed. It was a reckless love; unstable is my universe,

My smile is rehearsed and empty is the purse of my soul. With fermented fruit I am medicated, because my heart was dedicated to one.

My body could not persuade me to love another. There is no other that I care to touch me, with the soul of his lips. Who else would I allow to serenade

my hips? Who else would I allow to speak into my ear? No other voice I want to hear. Severely I am in love

like a dying flower;
there is no room for me to bloom

for I am consumed

with this adulterous love affair.

Who can restrain a woman when

she no longer cares?

All of myself I freely give;

For your agape I die, for your agape I live.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing

left of me;

seduced and

in love, severely.

Behind The Paper

Behind the paper is an image you have never seen, a voice you have never heard. Words that are expressed from an organized mess. Behind the paper is a rebel they cannot hold, a story being told, a dream being sold.

Behind the paper is a freedom they cannot enslave,

excavations of the graves

and the future my ancestors paved—

it’s all behind the paper.

Brown skin and locs, a product of hip-hop,

the ambition they tried to stop—

It’s all behind the paper.

Memoirs of a child born to preach—learning

disabled called to teach. A mental revolutionist

A mental revolutionist commanded to speak. It’s all behind the paper. The dreams of a starlet, lessons from a harlot. Salvation is due to the Messiah, my High Priest, Immanuel, my Savior, the First and Last, Jesus Christ. What He has ordained, what man can stop it? It's all behind the paper.

Why must I be judged solely by my skin tone?

My darker hue is not in view as beautiful.

I do not measure up to the standards of

Hollywood.

Without the surgeon's cut to look

like the rest or have implants to enlarge

my breasts.

There is no show of cleavage

up to my brow or

tattooed expressions on my face,

I AM NOT A DIVA

No low riders hanging off my waist.

I will not suck the fat out of my thighs or change the color of my eyes.
I do not fit the description of a diva.

My mother taught me to enunciate and carry about in myself respect to

aid me in a. life of no regrets

I will not be controlled by money, or

trade my treasure for trash, nor work a pole for a man's cash.

I’d rather be heard, I don’t need to be seen, content with being his child.

—content with being a queen.

Though some days my socks may not match, and if I itch I will scratch

I am not a DIVA.

QUIET ANGER

These thoughts often vacillate between

what was, what is, and what should be.

I can only ask God to quiet the anger in me.

I can rehearse no longer the events of my existence.

I cannot even explain the circumstance of my present

any more than I can give a solution to my past mistakes.

The wisdom that was ignored and the temptation

with which I toyed have left me angry.

Now that I have returned to my right

mind I find myself stuck in this finite time

of reflection,

In need of protection from myself.

My anger whirls up in me like a hurricane

and my tears flood me like a storm.

Who should be a casualty of this war and

Lord, when will this pain be no more?

I am angry to the depths of my soul,

through the corridors of my heart,

through the recesses of my mind.

This quiet anger has me stuck in this finite time

of reflection,

in need of protection from myself.

I am angry.

RANDOM ACTS OF THINKING

Sleep is the only peace I know; I awaken daily to a busy highway of thoughts with no exit ramp.

The line between my past and present blur together.

It’s terrible to exist and not live. The oppression of expectations increase the demands of life and the pursuit of dreams. How bright is the future when four, five, six decades are gone.

Thoughts are no longer tender and supple, fresh, easy to shape, like the skull of an infant. Existence only makes you rigid and unbending; it makes you exhaust your mind to the fact that even your foundational beliefs you struggle with, unwavering faith.

Conversations become painful—

words that linger and repeat a phrase, or cliché—no original thoughts. Unexplainable issues crowd me, issues I did not ask for.

As hard as we try to attain the optimum of life

we are still empty. We love, we pray, we give, we marry, and we forge temporary relationships with those we think will advance us to the next laugh in life.

It is hard to settle down with persons who do not share the same view as you, even though they think they do.

Surface relationships pretending to be something that they’re not—equally yoked. Organized religion is so out of order; everybody has a different name for God. Everyone thinks everyone else is living a lie. Can you brand God as if He is merchandise, a commodity, or carry Him around like He is a good Luck charm?

That seems to be the nature of His Adam’s and His Eve’s. For once I am ready to die,

die to this life just so I can

live for Christ.

HUNGOVER

And my world was spinning in

in emotional abnormality.

You know the place

of compromise and lies…

this is the nucleus of deceit

self deception makes you cling

to the falsity of an empty reality.

So, I prefer to stay drunk,

intoxicated, inebriated, with the

fantasy of maybe and if.

Concrete are the matters of deferred hope;

blocks and blocks of words, highways

of conversation, only to remain

in the same place.

There is no sun, moon, or stars—

just the epitome of pain in my own

morbid existence.

I cannot feel the love I give.

Emotionlessness ushers in bitterness,

which opens the door for anger increasing in me.

Hate—of whom? Myself,

for creating this place that has been

my reality.

Years of incarceration and isolation

of trying to make this falsity conform

to a pseudo-normality that is unknown

to me, so I’d rather stay

hung over.

IF THE SWEAT DRIPS FROM MY LIPS

To be torn between two, has perplexed a few,

they don’t understand whose

authority I am under.

It’s no wonder with the society I live in,

I am labeled as a hypocrite.

If the sweat drips from my lips.

I am put on a pedestal and ridiculed

as a fool if I use my mind as a tool for

entertaining sanctified thoughts.

I do not want to be caught up in the

world’s delight,

the deception blurs my sight.

Often, I return and stray away from

my former child, trying to forget my old profile;

I cannot dismiss the sin drawing me in

I feel like I am going to lose my grip

as the sweat drips from my lips.

Father, they have me under a microscope,

looking to criticize and find an abundance

of lies with all I represent.

Knowing that wickedness is never far from my grasp and temptation invites me back to my past.

Iniquities continually thrust themselves

to the forefront of my mind.

Subconsciously I dine.

Sometimes it just feels like

I will lose my grip

when the sweat drips from my lips.