What is it to weep ?

It is a sad poet who has no words to express the feelings welling in their veins, no way to leak out the madness which gathers in the corners of their mind and chambers of their heart. 

How, when the shadow strikes, does a wordless poet allow themself to feel, to weep? When they know it will still live there, roaming through hallways and edging down corridors; timid, ruthless monster. 

It has many names, this monster which has taken up residence within my senses. I call it grief, or loneliness, or abandon. Although, the years have taught me it’s truest incarnation is my old, timeless friend, rage.  

Mother’s Day (or, Open Adoption)

I used to check the mailbox every day

Looking for something with my name

Written in loose cursive, with a Georgia postage stamp

Telling me you love me

I dream of that mailbox

Barren and sad, creaky door

Erect flag, with nothing inside

I dream of ups drivers and big brown parcels, just for me

Telling me you love me

I read your letters

To the woman who raised me

My mother

I hear the pain in your hand when you ask why she doesn’t write,

When you ask if the kids are alright?

I can read between the lines she couldn’t

I’m sorry she didn’t write

I’m sorry for what was stolen from us

I’m afraid you’re dead

I looked up your name in the obituaries online

So many had died

None were your age

It’s mothers day and my dreams say I have repressed rage

I always thought it was a super power

Being able to stash it away

My dreams tell me I can’t live this way

Dreamscape

I had a dream that you walked away from me

Your eyes slid from my face like a sliding glass door

Clicking into place

On the street in front of you

You were wearing a black baseball jacket 

With a black baseball cap

Cocked to the side in the way that you do

Always leaning, always swayin’

And there was something in your eyes

A finality

Which leaves me wondering if 

Dream has finally merged with reality.

Strength

Blackness is not a thing that is easy

It builds you

Brick by brick

Bricks hurled at windows and cars and sculls and arms

The same arms that will pick up those bricks

Slather them in mortar and add them to the strength that is our being

We all wear it differently

Own it differently

This blackness

But its there

In our blood and our bones

To be black is to know a sorrow so deep it stems from a place that has no end

No true beginning

Just pulls us forward

It’s fire that burns beneath our skin

Lighting us up

Running like lava through our veins

A constant promise

An ever waiting truth

Crafting: 301

I don’t know how to rewrite my narrative

I don’t know if that’s true

I dont know where to start

I dont know if thats true either

What do I know then ?

I know that loving myself is going to be hard

Loving myself is going to take work. It will require me to breakdown a lot of ideas I have about myself. Loving myself will require me to unlearn destructive behavior patterns and learn the cause and affect they have on my life. Loving myself  will require me to have grace and loving tenderness with and for myself, in all my incarnations.

Meandering

I don’t know if what I am is manic

When I spill all over the place

Seem to spatter onto whatever I can find for canvas

Wild, sporadic

Without reason, but with intent

But the calculations run in the background

Hidden from me

Negative space

Writing this i am aware i am mixing metaphors

I am trying to decide if i care

I care too much and what I mean by that is i care too little

Grilling away at the smallest details

I lost where I started.

Sometimes, I step in or outside of myself and  wonder how I got here, look around my room and wonder who chose to put that picture on the wall, or who drank that tea?

Not me.