+

I’m slowly forgetting the sound of your voice, the curve of your lips. I’m slowly forgetting the feeling of your arm hair brushing just slightly against mine. And with it, all these small inconsequential memories. I’m slowly losing interest in everything. I don’t listen really, I don’t listen to anything or anyone. Nothing excites me anymore, no small sparks of passion to keep me on my feet throughout the day. I don’t even really enjoy music either, not like I once did. The sound of it leaves me feeling, a tad bit numb. All I can do is write words, words that when formed together aren’t even good enough to be typed onto a blank page. But that’s all that’s left, a vacant space, a hole. I often wonder why it has come to this. It’s no one’s fault, but my own really..Why did I allow myself to fall in? Why must all beautiful things end in tragedy? Why must they end at all? For what is a writer without beauty? For what is a poet without tragedy?

For a poet without a muse, no longer has a reason to write.

But write they must.

And I will,

even if it means, no longer writing for you.

The creator

+

There’s nothing I want more than to be closer to my creator. For you have shaped my skin and bone. Made every beauty mark and scar. You stretched out the subtle space between my two front teeth. You made my hair so wild, it even defies gravity, and my skin the very shade of the earth, that we walk upon.

All this, so that I would remember to love myself, never settling for less than I deserve. You made sure to send people into my life who would help teach me, patience. Molded me with kindness and fire, so that I could push through adversity. You made a rough draft of my life, crumbled it up into a ball and said, I’ll let her decide. Whether she will or will not follow all my signs.

Love me either way, but constantly remind me that really, truth and raw beauty lies inside.

Dear Strangers

+

I have had so many love affairs with my eyes.

Direct & enticing

Deliberate & sweet.

In this moment, you have somehow become mine.

Remove every layer of cloth, while I trace my fingers along your scars, down your spine.

Allow me to create art.

Paint your body with soft strokes of emotion.

Water your mind.

I’m sorry, you like many have become victim to my art.

My body is at standstill, air passes through the lungs.

No sound escapes, but be sure that if I have ever loved you in any type of way. 

Whether forever or just a day.

You may never hear it from my mouth, but only know it from the words I write.

These words are mine and in this moment, so are you.

Too many lovers & somehow, still too few.

Le but de l’âme

+

I could easily be that woman.

The agreeable one, the one who smiles and laughs…even when I find remarks less than humorous.

I could get married and have children

Cook and clean.

Look nice and delicate.

Be nice and delicate.

Capture my beauty through photographs,

I take of myself.

Be in the moment, live for now.

Love in seasons.

I could be that woman and many would love her.

You see, there is nothing wrong with a woman like this.

If anything, I would prefer to be her.

But she is not me, no matter how earnest the attempt.

I am a thought, always evolving.

Never satisfied…

How could someone love a woman like this?

One who rarely smiles,

One who rarely understands herself, but is in constant search for more,

More of what she, herself does not know.

Strange, how there are so many books, testimonies and scriptures explaining what it is that wise men seek…

Even the Bible states that a man of wisdom seeks knowledge.

But what of my longing, what of my questions?

The abundance of my happiness must stem from what?

Marriage, love, fertility, material belongings? All beautiful things. All fleeting, fleeting as am I in this moment. Fleeting like the short span that is a lifetime, but never like my words.

The soul’s purpose.

Barefoot Angel

+

Barefoot angel

No one told you, that you were meant for more

The world feeds you propaganda, tells you your destiny cannot extend beyond these four walls

No one showed you how to use your wings, how to soar

They ridiculed you for not having lavish material cover the soles of your feet.

But you know what they don’t and you see because they won’t

You, birthed on this earth among them

You don’t have to prove your worth

And you know they wouldn’t have to cover their feet, if they didn’t pollute the earth. You are fully aware that they’ve given you tools to make you numb. But you were born benevolent and you will teach them all to love

Heritage

Mocha complexioned girl, with intuition beyond her years.

Struggles rooted in the ancestry of her blood.

The rhythm of song and dance living in the marrow of her bones.

Far before she knew how to walk.

Words formed in her mind, before she could talk.

She was alive in more ways than one.

Chakra, the earth’s spirit flowing like water lilies down the curve of her sultry body, line.

Intertwined like vines on aged structures. Demolished. Broken. Bind.

The fight that Mother Nature won.

Recreated and reborn every morning slightly after dawn. A miracle and a blessing it is.

That she dwells in her and her light is now mine and we are one, one divine human being.

Burning Paper

The room is dark.

Lit only by the faint shimmer of a candle, burning.

I had wrote something melancholy, but full of life and passion for you.

I planned on leaving it somewhere I knew only you would find, but then suddenly I changed my mind.

Anxiety creeped up over my shoulders and and found its way inside. Underneath my skin.

Will he appreciate your words?

No.

Will he think of all the time that it took you to write such a profound letter?

No.

Would he…no he couldn’t possibly understand or care about the thoughts that dwell in your mind late at night that provoked such a letter.

The embodiment of romance, I thought or maybe it’s a representation of fear.

Fear.

That’s why it’s burning.

That’s why the faint shimmer has dimmed and the light that once lived has receded.

All that lives here now is fear and girl trapped in her mind, in a dark room