Tag Archives: love

Love Letter


Dear you,

I still love you.

In this push and pull,
The conflict that is us,
In me trying to conquer you,
You coming to terms with us,
And me and you against them. I still love you.

It’s not perfect,
By no means is it always that beautiful thing that,
Pulled your headphones off and made me write those words that time,
It’s not new anymore,
It doesn’t sparkle anymore like it did that first time I dared claim your lips.
But I still find me feeling that high every once in a while because I still love you.

Sometimes we forget,
To be that girl and that boy touching nothing but our hands,
Saying nothing but what is passed between two sets of eyes locked.
We forget to be that kind of intimate,
Or maybe we just can’t find the time after the world has made us battle weary.
But I sometimes feel that kind of warm because,
You still remember to lay your head on my breast and just listen to my heart,
Or cradle me without saying words to ignite my tempest.
You still love me.

It can be a dangerous thing,
You and me and all of where we’ve been,
Allies and adversaries, do you remember?
All that anger and hate and passion and longing,
And occasionally old memories hurt more than new cuts,
Baby, I hated to hate you and I still do, because I love you.
And you take it, my angry, hateful, hurtful me,
Sometimes even when undeserving.
You let my demons ravage you and you soothe me back to something kinda human.
You still love me through my shit.

I still love you,
And we are still together,
Despite using words like switchblades,
And forgetting to give each other accolades,
And not knowing when us is me and you and none of them at all,
Despite getting caught up in who we want to be for them,
And losing who we should be for us.
I still love you.

Still, love the way you love me.

Still, love how we love.






A King for the taking


images (14)

Now taking a King,
Needed, one brotha grown into his skin,
and liking it there.

One not prone to calamitous attacks of egotistical self indulgence,
capable even of giving this devil her due…

To be returned in kind and ten fold,
A man who possesses a King’s ransom in truth,
A true master in possession of the knowledge of his own weakness.
And in so is able to appreciate the cracks which form a granite woman.

A capable brotha, able to shoulder proudly the responsibility of a woman’s love.
One who finds pleasure in her mind as well as her body,
Willing to bond in spirit with his Queen.

Now taking a King,
A queen in process of building her nation seeking conversation,
Consultation of unmitigated condor,
Was there ever a light that sparked deeper passion?

Seeking a creature of purposeful determination,
an enduring presence,
Not so fickle as to be seduced by the cheapness of a change in self definition,
as offered by the bosom of another.

Knowing it is so much delusion bought on by an inability to harvest pride from his life doings.

Seeking a King, hoping to find shelter in his arms,
as his heart is her fortress,
and their bodies temples of mutual exhalation, submission to faith,
In his steadfast dedication to meaningful things.

A hard won Crown seeking a Kingly companion.



A Tragic Destitution


She wants to fall into him,
To lose herself in the feel of his lips,
In his scent,
In the way his stubble scrapes across her skin when he tastes her.

She wants to be surrounded by him,
cocooned in his warmth,
On ever plain of their them-ness.

She wants to be taken by him,
made to feel more essential that air,
To know that she alone inspires the wanton that stoked the fire in his eyes.
the muse of his moans, his Persephone.

She wants to know him,
To be that kind of intimate it is so easy to be in the absence of love.

She wants to be wanted,
To encompass and enfold him within herself,
Want to metamorphose into this new being,
By being herself within him, while he occupies her.

She want to be owned.
Unmistakably, uninhibitedly claimed,
In word and action in a way that is…

It’s a tragic destitution to want so much.

To be so without center, insufficient, alone.

But oh what poetry to find that merging,
To have faith so richly rewarded,
To be so treasured.

She simply wants all of him.

red on floral


She watches him sleep,

his chest,

rises and falls,

rises and falls,

rises and falls,

so peaceful.

Could have been an apparition,

those raised hands and voices,

the impact of palm and face,

palm and face,

palm and face,

’til her lip split.

Wouldn’t it be easy,

warm blood soaking her cotton sheets,

red on floral,

smeared because he would come awake.

Red hand clutching for her,

Would he take her with?

To his hell?

he would try,

and try,

and again try,

Would he win?

would it matter?

She was dead,



Watching him now,

while he sleeps.

Death by Expectations: Selfish

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I wonder,

If I had not gotten my self too caught up in her,

If I had deluded myself right out of thinking,

I was worthy of my own experience.

Was I star struck,

By this iridescent creature,

My newly found sister friend?

I wonder,

If I had gotten myself too lost in him,

If I had become so entranced in his eyes and his scent,

That I had hallucinated the better sides of him,

And was left with something simply…less.

I wonder,

If for a time my sight was trained too firmly inward,

That I forgot to look out my window,

and take stock of my surrounding,

For I had written the map that I follow,

not so?

I wonder,

If I had become too distracted by this thing I was supposed to be,

except that I didn’t want to,

but had to in order to meet all the expectations laid out for me to die by.

I wonder all these things into the silence,

as I lay awake at night to the sound of his breathing,

wondering if when he moans and shifts,

if when he closes his eyes in coital bliss,

If I am painted behind those lids.

I wonder it,

wetly into my pillow in the witching hour.

Covering my shame in the day light,

masking it behind my ambition,

which may well  be as without talent as it is without resource.

Everyone knows my lies,

I am not her.

Even as I want desperately to be.

I am only the child they raised by accident.

And now, recognizing this,

that my very existence a chance occurrence,

not planned or in any way ordered by me,

That I should relinquish at least a ton of my weight.

Oh God, but my shoulders feel relieved at that.

My feet all the lighter for no longer needing his appraising eye,

to come away satisfied with me.

I remember that I owe him nothing but what I promised.

That which he has though he chooses to ignore it,

For the company of more flamboyant characters.

And her who I wish I was is just another kindred soul,

Sharing more comfortably each day the label of “Broken Thing”.

Repaired in each crack with gold,

and inlaid web of sparkling experience,

and I love her.


I am, in this moment in time and space,

an entity free of all that bullshit,

and I have a right to this,

feeling, clutched desperately to my bosom,

even against the onslaught of the absence of all my yearning.

This inward attitude of righteous aloneness,

determined and directed,

My path dammit.

my journey,

my repentance, and reformation of self.

Time to build me,

time for me to be selfish.


Noun : too tired to give a shit.

Moonlight Flyby

She walks the sand at night.

The heavy darkness her cloak,

Eyes down cast,

She sees only the way the retreating surf swirls around her bare feet,

Hand in her pockets,

She doesn’t feel the cold,

She just walks.

And her head swims with all the things we will never know,

But we all know in some context or another,

She is troubled.

But she is still walking.

Cocooned in the bosom of the witching hour,

Straddling the plains of land and sea and air whipping around her face,

Whipping sand against the tend flesh,

Getting caught in the occasional tear,

She keeps walking.

Ever onward on the glowing sand,

Illuminated by the moon,

She is a metaphor for her own spirit,


Ever moving headlong into the dark uncertain spaces of life,

She is worthy of my admiration.

She walks.

While we strive to ascribe our own adjectives to her travels, her travails,

How could we ever?

We can’t even trace the path of footsteps faded by the gentle sea,

As if the Triton himself would protect her solitude,

That none may follow and interrupt the conclave of her thoughts,

As she walks.

A steadfast march into eventuality,

Into the event horizon of her this time life.

She walks alone in the moonlight,

On the axis of sea and earth,

Cradled by wind trying to nurse the embers of her fire.

Too tired to be wary,

Too tired for any shit but her own.

For my Children


Here lies the body of the Woman I was,

I lay her to rest on the bones of the Girl I was,

On the dust of the child I was,

On the memory of the babe my mother bore,

So painfully.

That her pain should be repaid with suffering of a different kind,

Leaving freedom in her wake for the blessed burden of another life,

Willingly she did this, for someone,

Totally dependent on her,

Here lie my rose colored glasses for a babe knows nothing of pain,

A babe knows everything of need and helplessness,

In a way we are all in someway ever babes.

Are we not?

Here lies a child’s laughter,

Unapologetically loud and resigned of all things labeled,

Innocent is what I was then,

Too young to know the ugliness of life,

Of a cousin beating on a wife,

To see the patterns of rape in his daughter,

To feel outrage at such things.

I was young and innocent,

I will not apologize for it.

I was protected lucky me, as I was humble, and sheltered,

A right that should be reserved for all children,

A right that should be reserved for mine,

I bid you please not to take that away.

But as all great eras must, my innocence ended.

Not as abruptly as my peace,

Ripped away slowly as time and age and circumstance came to call,

That with my first crimson tide, should come an awareness of myself.

A truth both profound and terrifying.

I am Precious, Precious, PRECIOUS,

and no one least of all I, should take that for granted.

It is a weight most heavy on a young woman’s shoulders.

Easily misinterpreted or mis-allocated with all the voices screaming,

BE FREE like this,

BE YOU like us,

BE HAPPY but not too much so,

BE UNTOUCHABLE in the heart,

BE TOUCHED by anyone who draws near,

for all this fit into the new mold that crushed the last,

as I tried and failed to grasp the woman I was becoming,

and thus I became…

I became a woman of value despite myself.

Despite all the deeds done in rebellion of whom I can’t remember,

For reasons I cannot relate lest a damn burst,

And I vomit hell in verse into your lap.

I became a woman,

With responsibility hefted on my shoulder by my own choice,

I took on that constriction around my chest and in my soul,

the one that does not let me draw breath but to move ever forward for them.

I was lucky, to have someone with me then,

To grow as I did, and learn as I did, to fall with me and let me fall

and himself fall away at times,

Creating those fractures in my being that let wisdom seep through,

To build the memory examined in hindsight,

that laid the pillars of my values, my dedication,

Leaving room for the fluidity of change within myself.

Even though I didn’t know it then,

Did not value the furrows I left in the fertile soil of his spirit,

Now and then, maybe even before time had meaning, joined to mine.

So that he recognized me as home and I labelled him my safe harbor.

He will always come back, I will always go back, Bound like that,

is impossible to dismiss easily.

Tumultuous I died,

Taken by the cancer of self doubt, self righteousness,

self importance, self respect and then neglect,

trying to become a celebrated martyr,

but there is no honor in this, no honor,

And so she too was laid to rest over the refuse of her predecessors.

Her eulogy written not in tears but in deeds yet to come,

As the Lady who grew from the rich earth of her background,

Rises meteorically,

Metamorphosed now into someone worthy of the

unconditional love of bright shining eyes,

Sending their own unapologetic utterances of joy into the ether,

Before the ugly steals their laughter,

A safe haven for their purity,

A blueprint to their probity.

Here I lay to rest the woman I was,

for my children.


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