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To Disown Her Space

she was afraid of
making the space 
hers,

because it never 
felt like there was 
room for her to 
be who she wanted.

maybe it was the 
stares & laughs who 
chased her mind over 
the years,  

the ones who taunted
her identity,

or the silent tears
after giving her all 
to the space just to 
be rejected of her 
place.

it all felt too
familial & others
never understood 
the difficulty

in just standing & 
being in front of others,

even in under a minute,
a meeting of eyes
 Continue reading To Disown Her Space
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Born To It

 

Born To It

__________________________________

a poem is conceived in private
much like a child
the wild, Holy consummation, all consuming
born of love
but bearing so much pain and suffering,
muffled cries, truths and lies,
sometimes the difference is hard to find.

I was born with bated breath,
fresh and clean,
once they wiped off the blood and amniotic fluid
and cut the cord
scissors like a sword
severing the most sacred connection
that I will ever know.

I was born to it
and there is no place quite like home.

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What is Poetry? – part 3

What is Poetry? – part 3

Poetry doesn’t necessarily rhyme,

it just climbs out of the mind,

out of a recess in time,

obsessed with success

and blind to the cold shoulder it usually finds.

It’s a mess, it’s sublime,

it’s a knife as a prize,

it is life in the eyes,

it is death, of a kind,

it’s leaving something behind,

it’s caressing the past

and the future that lies,

dormant though brooding

ahead.

Who says poetry is dead?

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What is Poetry? Part 2

 

What is Poetry? – Part 2

Poetry is the forsaken cry, the loneliest voices with the loudest minds,
captured in ink, blighted by drink, or bolstered,
emboldened with the bravado to think big,
to sing on a page,
to rage against the silence of days
spent drifting through the passive malaise,
the love of something and not for how it pays.

Poetry is the air up there, despair in the mind of a scribe
at not being able to fly, so it is
the flight of birds described by those who live in unknowns
to those who dream of being free.
Poetry is anything between a sucker punch or a long lunch,
a coupe de grace or a warm embrace.
It’s the lines of life in a face,
the wrinkled space between
never and eternity.

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Breaking While Pushing Forward

  I never wanted you to take one of those      Flowers sitting on one of those boxes
or to pack up your love,
And get ready to send them off to face
God.

I never wanted you to say goodbye,
To think that this was it
Even though most of your reality
With him was toxic.

I never wanted to see you
Sitting in any pew,
Mourning throughout
the morning of a
Homecoming,

Not for him especially,

 not for anyone.

Continue reading Breaking While Pushing Forward