Quiet peaceful ambiance

Taking it all in, passive smiles directed at me

“What can I get for you out of the case?”

I realize it’s my turn to speak.

Immersed in textual salvation

I fail to recognize the elevation

Of noises as chaos enters to distract me.

Ignoring all the noise and eyes

I continue to dive

Tearing up

Looking up to avoid the inevitable

Taking deep breaths and stretch to keep the flow going

Rageful spirit being summoned through

Each word that my eyes pass through

Thinking about my life and future

Telling my whole life in words—


Broken and incomplete salvation

Both free and bound

By the privileges that bind

Growth and silence most profound.

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Breaking, shrinking, shriveled mess

picking up the remnants of the ‘truly blessed’

Thinking one day I’ll get through it

if I’m open and endure it

But then it just kept feeding

ravishing my nutrients, ripping at my core

suckling from my clitoris and feeding me with lore

Those thoughts making me feel like I could do this

I can toughen up and move right through this

Just had to ignore mirrors


loved ones

and then I was alone

everyday alone with my thoughts living in my own squander

wishing that I could just get away and wander

Into the killing field of the past

where hindsight makes me free at last

starving myself to feed my future

dying under bourbon-fueled nights without food

but I wandered

into those vacant spots in my mind where hope used to be

when all it took was my bootstraps and the drive to succeed

Now sitting at my desk I’m starting to see

the me that I want to be

Though I’m constantly terrified that the me that I see

is not.

-Written by me on 11.2.18

Until next time,


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The Summoning

The Summoning.

She cried out, “BB! BB! My anxiety is KILLING me!”

realizing the only one in that bed was she.

In fact she couldn’t grasp the reality that she was actually alone now

her words echoing against the walls,

between the sheets,

and from now on she would vow

to never forget how it felt in that moment

yearning for comfort and receiving none.




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How much TV in the background does it take

to quiet those beasts that inequity make?

Everyday I try and grind

out as many applications for work

but I find

that with each rejection and every month that goes by

It’s getting tougher to find the strength to still rise.


I rise to the occasion time and time again

Put myself on the line

just to be told to try again.

Best of luck in all your future endeavors

in reality my future is at constant risk

and so I better

get back on that grind again and wish

that one day before I become homeless

that someone is willing to take that risk.



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To My Father,




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don’t I have a resolve?


everytime I try nothing is solved?


everytime I try to make a way

out of no

nothing but grief they make me stray?


I gotta make a way

outta no

presuming I get away

outta no



the life force drain from me


I just wanna BE free?




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Thought Exercise #01980839

This post is going to be a little different from the ones I’ve been posting lately. This is a bit of a thought exercise for me. This is also my chance to clear my mind and connect with you on a deeper level. Ready?


Anxious: I wake up most days in a sweat. Whether it was from a particularly unsettling dream or because of my precarious life, who knows. About once every few hours I worry about money–where I’m getting it, how much my loans are and my impending payments, wondering when my future employer will call me in for an interview, and how to pay for the miscellaneous stuff. When I’m not ruminating on that, I’m worrying about my saint of a partner. If it was not for them, I would most certainly be homeless/couch-surfing. I know all this financial woe is really heavy. My inability to use my undergraduate and graduate degrees to attain full-time employment is only nursing that crushing feeling my partner has to deal with daily. Then I think about my 20 year old car that is hanging by a thread. My phone that is steadily on the brink of  ‘no service’. My everyday shoes that have been worn nearly through the sole. All day my mind fluctuates from one constant worry to the next. However, if you saw me you wouldn’t have any idea.

Depressed: Upon waking I get up, use the bathroom, and then get back in bed. My partner works out of town weekly, so I stay home alone and tend to my cats. My day consists of distracting myself with reality television and tv court shows while avoiding checking my email for employment rejections. I sit with my cats and talk with them since I’m sure they know how depressed I am. I look at my sneakers and think about the me I used to be. How lacing those bad boys up and running somehow helped me thrive. Back to bed. After napping for hours, my stomach wakes me with an alert that I need to eat. I go into the pantry, get my can of soup, heat it, then eat it in bed. I can’t be bothered to shower until my partner is expected to return home. I live behind my phone screen.

Stressed: I live in an apartment where the people below me are so loud they might as well live above me. They just got a new puppy, but don’t seem to be giving it as much attention as a puppy needs. So in the background of my day-to-day is a sad sounding puppy that I just want to love on. Also, I am applying to other graduate school programs since the degrees I have aren’t helping me find work and it’s a dream to ultimately become a PhD. With deadlines approaching it is increasingly stressful to look at my writing sample, work on my CV for those who are writing my recommendations, and not to mention my statement of purpose–because I’m still working on securing employment. On top of everything, no matter how much I study, my standardized test scores really just make it harder for me. I am also isolated in the town I live in because of lack of access to income and creativity. When I see my friends getting work, I begin to feel like it must be me.

Motivated: So then I write. I come here and make myself write a poem. I write about what has been on my mind, what has happened in my life, or in reaction to this messed up society. It’s been so hard to do so lately, especially with the chaos and corruption within our governing structures and also in the day-to-day. I made myself write today because I needed to. I have a voice and have been told it is important to use it. I mean, you never know, this might resonate with someone reading–which will make all of this typing more worth it. I’m used to being vulnerable in my poetry and academic prose, so it is quite different doing this thought exercise here and now. I mean, I have a journal.



I love the writing of Bukowski. Found this from internet search.

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To My Momma

To my momma,

who has swallowed the amerikan dream

and choked on it.


To my momma,

whose dreams have fought each other–

and died.


Who sees,

but cannot bear to see.

A volcano eating its own lava.


To my momma, who couldn’t turn

hell into paradise

and blamed herself.

Who has always seen

reflected in her mirror

an ugly duckling.


To my momma,

who makes no demands of anyone

cause she don’t think she can afford to.

Who thinks her money talks

louder than her womanhood.


To my butchfem momma,

who has always

taken care of business.

Who has never drifted

hazily to sleep

thinking, “he will take care of it.”

Who has schemed so much

she sometimes schemes against herself.


To my sweet, shy momma.

Who is uneasy with people

cause she don’t know how

to be phony,

and is afraid to be real.


Who has longed for sculptured gardens.

Whose potted plant

dies slowly on the window sill.


We have all been infected

with a sickness

that can be traced back

to the auction block.


You must not feel guilty

for what has been done to us.

Only the strong go crazy.

The weak just go along.


And what I thought was cruelty,

I understand was fear

that hands, stronger than yours,

and whiter than yours,

would strangle my young life

into oblivion.


Momma, i am proud of you.

I look at you

and see the strength of our people.

I have seen you struggle

in the dark;

the world beating on your back,

dragging your catch

back to our den.

Pulling your pots and pans out

to cook it.

A mop in one hand.

A pencil in the other,

marking up my homework

with your love.


The injured have no blame.

Let it fall on those who injure.


Leave the past behind

where it belongs–

and come with me

toward tomorrow.


I love you mommy

cause you are beautiful,

and I am life that springs from you:

part tree, part weed, part flower.


My roots run deep.

I have been nourished well.

-Assata Shakur

I needed this.

Until Next Time,



Assata motivation via internet!

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Black Words in a Dark World.

August is Black.

What do you do when your stance is apocalyptic?

When the things you say aren’t very analytic?

All you see is the destruction of the planet

But your voice is so muted that all you do is plan for it.


When what you want to do is breathe

but with every breath you begin to heave

and all the things you throw up are parts of your life

yet none of it includes any of your tumult and strife.

No matter how hard to try to make it go away

so that you can support your community it refuses to stray.


All of the death, decay, and chaos going on in many forms

nothing you do or think isn’t laced in forlorn.

And you know you’re not alone

and eventhough your breaths have been granted

it is your stance that you bemoan

as the poisonous seeds of decay have already been planted.

Written by me | 8.31.17

There’s so much to say about everything that has been happening around us all over the planet. Try to keep connected to your communities and support in any way you can those devastated by natural disasters and also by man-made disasters. We are the ones who keep us safe.

Until next time,


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When the Butterflies in Your Stomach end up Actually Being Acid Reflux.


I am not

your excuse to harm

while claiming you’re unarmed

I’m not the one

you’re about to place your blame upon

your grimy sinew that connects your con.


I’ll tell you what:

You might have deceived me at the very beginning.

Not wanting to proceed with caution

and now I’m over here ending

a bond that was based in inequity

a bond where only YOU were free.

Severing a connection that was truly one-sided

that because of my brown skin and my Queer ass-

-was one that you prided.


You saw my emptiness and used it as fuel

to help yourself heal,

get free meals,

and used me as your fool.


Your silence is my evidence,

your shadiness built my resolve.

The fact that you had nothing to say to me

spoke loudest of all.


I refuse to shed tears for you

instead I cry for me

and the pain that I endured in order to be freed

from a person who ain’t know how to nurture something healthy

someone who instead fed it their long-standing history

of toxic and viral white feminist fragility

sprinkling in my Queer Black ass in hopes of achieving intersectionality–


That’s why I had to get from underneath your spell

and now that I am out of it

my hindsight had me truly compelled

to write you out of my world today

but were you ever really in it?

Or was I some sort of tool for you to remain complicit?

Written by me | 7.31.17

Finding love seems easy, but having a healthy means of conveyance is the hardest part. I hope you let my experience show that we all are struggling to find our heart’s content, so try not to be deceived by a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Until Next Time,


Polyamorous Productions

To queer forms of love and fellowship! We’ve only just begun to speak our truths.


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