It was a Tuesday.
That was the day you didn’t come back and I came after you.
We were the space between wrong and right.
We were the shade of grey in the sunset seen by few eyes.
Being melted into a single entity put you and I on one rhythmic accord.
Of course you used to fight it and scream and complain that you’d call the cops, but I knew all along what your heart was saying.
We were the blade that cut too deep.
We were the deadliest piranhas.
Fear was just a mere unfeasible condition. Yet, in that same microcosm, we were just a small candy.
An efficiently power punching proportion treat that was trimmed too soon and treated with disregard.
That cliff opened its arms for us. Or rather for you; ladies first of course.
This cliff is where we lived to come as kids.
This is where you died.
Do you remember that day we first realized we were meant to be?
I don’t remember it either.
It was before N.Y., before Cairo, before Cape Town.
You said we’d die together.
I remember seeing a tv special about how to roll out of a moving vehicle.
It worked just like they said it would.
The way that car went flying over the cliff’s edge with you in it just took my breath away.
You should have seen yourself.
As the world turns, bridges burn; there’s a collection of ashes in an urn, for a point of reflection, not return. No greener pastures, just judgements & controllers; halfway off the balcony debating on whether or not it should all be over…
I love the family. Their strength energizes, provides me with positivity I’d otherwise be blind to see. So I won’t jump or fall free; there’s more to be done still: My life, this strife – is bigger than me.
Walking on air, way way up there…
Just me and my muse
Walking on air, way way up there…
Attempting to exceed capacity, abusing our afterburners, maxed out thrusters are propelling us through star clusters… Brighter than ever — will we lose steam? We optimistically scream never!
Just me and my muse, feet dangling,
happy as kids in high chairs,
walking on air, way way up there…
too blessed to complain.
many people praying for me; blessings no luck.
everything happens in the appropriate season.
to harbor no hate; The few feelings I express are better spent showing love.
never take a new day for granted.
I = I
Classified by affiliations instead of mental affirmations…
Just another day of being stereotyped.
It could all be so simple…
They are angry because they have no access to my temple, but as I combine this white paper & black pencil, I do not think twice about revealing my true feelings to these oblivious villains.
I don’t know them: no déjà vu, no vice versa…
Coincidentally; our conversations are quite curt on purpose.
Cantankerous cohort of individuals who appear all too similar, historically judgmental…
My only critique is of myself; I care about people because I was raised to be selfless, but I know me, and love me. Yet, to those who do not love themselves, I appear selfish…
So I guess it’s probably best for me to keep all of this locked up.
Omitting the obvious ostracism of a people who are predominantly victims of colorism…
I’m black, just not black enough.
Inspired by Terence Crutcher R.I.P
This color comes with pressure:
to want it is one thing,
to emulate it is another,
to blatantly steal is a third,
to live it, may get you 6 feet under.
I don’t want to come off as confrontational, but this color is coveted.
This color comes with charisma:
it comes with a publicly perceived predisposition to crime and it comes from creating beauty out of nothing.
The unfortunate reality is that outside factors are often detractors who would rather see you dead or indebted for eternity.
Both of those outcomes spurn me internally.
We will rise up.
This color cannot be killed: I say that earnestly.