In Memoriam: I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings by Dr. Maya Angelou

Today, the world has lost one of its greatest poets, Dr. Maya Angelou. Her words have touched and inspired so many people, including myself. In honor of her, I would like to post one of her well-known pieces and a favorite of mine:

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill 
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

RIP Dr. Maya Angelou

In 26 Metaphors

We were once infinite--
penguins who always found their way back
a poetic melody
nightingales in the spring evenings
the writings on a thousand paper cranes
a rose out of concrete
the quiet in a room full of thunder
angels who saw
each other's scars as beauty
the fine line between never and eternity
songbirds in the grand oak tree
lost sobriety in tasting love
Simply poetry.

But now we are broken heartstrings
deaf ears
fallen tears
empty promises on broken china
and half notes with cacophonic tunes
a drug
two ships just passing in the night
silence
best kept secrets
shame
poisonous butterflies
dreams I want to forget
Death.

Chronicles of an Internal Lunatic

"I have faced them. I'm living, ain't I? I'm here, right?" I suck my teeth and reach for my pockets.

"You can't smoke in here. I won't allow it." She stares at me with such intensity. Is she trying to intimidate me?

I smile deviously and lean in towards her, whispering, "You don't scare me."

She smiles back and leans in towards me, whispering, "Yes, yes I do."

We sit there for awhile, glaring at each other before I finally sit back against my chair. But she remains. "Jo, why don't you tell me about those pills?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't need to."

"Then we can sit here all day." She finally leans back into her chair and crosses her legs. "I have nowhere else to be. I got food right over there. I can sleep here. But you're not leaving this office. They are going to make you go into a mental institution, but I said I would help. Because I know you're not crazy. So help me help you."

I bite the inside of my cheek and stare out of the window, watching the rain come down. I look back at her and sigh. "I wasn't trying to kill myself."

"Then what were you trying to do?"

I could feel the tears coming again. I clear my throat and look down at my hands. They're starting to shake again. "I just...didn't want to be here for a little while."

I hear her picking up her pad again and writing. "I don't understand what you mean."

I stick my hands underneath my legs and look back at the window. "Usually I avoid thinking and experiencing these feelings by sleeping. There is but so much sleep can do. You wake up eventually. Not to mention the dreams. So, I figured, how about I sleep for a couple of days? Maybe when I wake up I won't remember a thing."

"I don't understand the logic behind that."

"Look, Doctor," I say, turning back to her. "Where's the logic in hurting someone? Why do I deserve to feel like this?" No answer. "I don't. No one ever should. Unless, of course, you're the spawn of Satan. But I'm a good person. All I wanted to do was sleep, not think about a thing, and wake up and act as if nothing happened."

More writing. "Jo, I get it, but--"

"There's no but."

"But--"

I scream this time. "There's no but!"

She waits a moment, staring at me. I wish she wouldn't do that. "That doesn't mean you go and try to hurt yourself. The only way you can heal from something is if you deal with it. Time will only tell."

I squint my eyes at her. "Have you seen Forrest Gump?"

"Yes."

"You know Lt. Dan, right? Got both his legs blown off. He was so miserable, he threw his whole life away. Hated being crippled. Resented Forrest for not letting him die in honor."

"But he got new legs."

"But he will never walk the same again."

"So what's your point?"

I fold my arms across my chest and look back at the window. "I can't get a new heart, a new brain, can't erase the memories. And worst of all, my whole outlook on life has been interrupted." I lean in again towards her. "So tell me, Doc, where's the healing in that?"

Chronicles of an Internal Lunatic

I see us in the park 

Strolling the summer days of imaginings in my head 

And words from our hearts 

Told only to the wind felt even without being said...

"Hello?"

I refocus my eyes to the woman sitting in front of me, her hair pulled back into a bun, wearing a brown suit, her glasses at the tip of her nose, eyebrows raised, staring at me. Just staring at me.

"Sorry," I say, shifting my feet from underneath me.

"Another one of your trips?" I nod. She scribbles something on her pad. "How often does that happen?"

I shrug. "Enough to the point where it's just normal to me." She grunts. More scribbling. "I almost cannot function without them."

She looks up. "Why?"

"Because it is the only normal thing in my life." I shiver. "It's cold in here. Can't you fix that?"

"No." Scribbles. "What else isn't normal? Are you sleeping?"

"No." I bite my nail.

"Why not?"

I spit the nail out. "Because I don't want to. And I just can't."

"What's bothering you?"

"The people."

"What people?"

"In my head. The voices I hear. They don't let me sleep. And then when I do they appear in my dreams, taunting me. I'd rather stay awake."

She frowns at me and writes something else, this time longer. "Interesting."

"I'm not crazy."

"I never said you were. But you just told me you hear voices. The people keep you awake. They disrupt your dreams."

"That doesn't mean I'm crazy!" My voice echoes in the small room.

"I didn't say that." She's trying her best to remain calm.

"You didn't have to."

She sighs and removes her glasses, cleaning them with the edge of her skirt. "I'm not here to judge. All I'm saying is..."

If this world were mine

I would place at your feet

All that I own

You've been so good to me...

"Are you listening to me? I am speaking to you." Back to reality. "Why don't you tell me about your trips? What happens?

"They're just images of things. Things that really happened. Things I imagine would happen. Good or bad. Usually has some music with it."

"Are the people talking to you?"

I could've burned a hole right through her. "No," I say through clenched teeth. "Do not use that against me! Don't you dare make fun of me!"

She removes her glasses again and sets her pad aside. "I need you to stop feeling victimized and judged every time I ask you a question. I'm trying to help you. How can I help if I don't understand? You have to..."

I wanna know

If you have forgotten

So I will not remember you

Forgetting me...

"I said what song is it this time?" Her voice is raised this time, obviously annoyed with me. 

I roll my eyes. "There's no need to get snappy. I can't help it. And it's Efya. Remember Me."

"Why that song?"

I shrug, slouching down into my chair. "Because I've been forgotten."

"By who?"

I start thinking about the things I went through this past year. I could feel my throat tightening, the tears slowly coming to the edge of my eyes, my heart racing. She is not getting me to talk about this.

I shake my head and look down at my unsteady hands, trying to force the tears and the pain away. "When I said the people are talking to me, I mean myself. I have conversations with myself and make up scenarios or see things going a certain way--"

"Jo--"

I laugh. "--And I just talk to myself, in my head. And that carries over into my dreams. Then my dreams are telling me things that are in my subconscious--"

"Jo--"

"--Making me think about things I'm trying to forget. I just want to forget! What can't I just forget it?!" I couldn't stop the tears this time.

She sits, with her hands folded in her lap, just looking at me unfolding into my mess. So calm. So calm. "Approach your fears. That's the only way they can disappear."

The Storm

I'm standing in the eye of the storm,
watching everything and everyone
moving around
me.
What was once my quiet in a room full of thunder
now has me bounded
in shackles and chains
to words buried six feet under.
And every once in a while
they are sprinkled with life
but only come back to haunt me.
I can't move--
My heart is but a slave
working from dusk to dawn
making sure Massa don't beat it once more
even though the lashings come at his own discretion.
Even in slumber it does not rest--
It is a wonder that it is still beating.
Once you stood in the eye of the storm
watching everything and everyone
moving
but around us--
And it was quiet.

Songbirds

They sat in the branches
of the grand oak tree
crooning at the sun
as it melted into the earth
And one flew away
leaving the other behind
But his song always drew her back
and she couldn't help but sing along
So they sat and sang
in the branches of the grand oak tree
bathing in the sun's rays
until nighttime came once again
and she flew away
He puffed out his chest
and sang out-loud
as he watched her fly
and the moon cast its dim light
Until next time

Death Poem

Nothing but silence whips through

the lifeless branches in naked trees now,

and the birds are no longer singing but bobbing at and filling their bellies with black tar.

No life exists six feet below,

just an empty frame filled with old memories 

and remnants of a first love.

As I turned to leave without a final glance behind,

blackened clouds shelter the sun,

causing a chill to rip through Earth’s core.

And then finally, my heart cries.

Short Story (Part 1)

I'm sitting at a bar counter, drowning the stress of my work day with scotch on the rocks and a sax and piano in the background. Jazz and liquor. Just what I need after today. I pull out a cigarette and light it.

I'm lost in my thoughts when a man, whom I've never seen in here before, rushes through the door, shaking off the rain from his leather coat. Business attire. Must have had a long day, too. He takes a look around the dimly lit room and makes his way over to the counter, stopping just three stools away. I see him eyeing me out of the corner of my eye. I grow stiff, trying to make it clear that tonight I am not in the mood. Just leave me to my drink and my music.

"Bud light, please," he says, settling into one of the stools. He turns his attention back to me. "You know, you too pretty to be smoking." He's grinning.

I cut my eye at him and take a puff. "Thanks." I turn back to my glass and take a sip.

"You're welcome." He's still smiling. "Rough day?"

"Mhmm." Another puff.

"You know, ugh, smoking is really bad--"

I turn towards him. "I don't mean to be rude, but I don't need you lecturing me. So drop it."

He smiles again. "I'm not. I just make it a point to keep one more human being from dying of lung cancer. You see, I lost my wife to it. She was a heavy smoker. Broke my heart. I wouldn't want that happening to anyone else."

I stare at him. The light complimented his deep brown skin. His eyes, big and brown, with long lashes. His smile enhanced by his dimples. Not to mention the small gap in his teeth. Mmmm, I thought. I need to get out of here.

I turn away and before I knew it he is standing next to me, not too close but close enough to hint at me the smell of his cologne. 

"Can I buy you another drink? Looks like that one is almost done."

I look up at him and he's still smiling. I look back at my half-empty glass and shake my head. "I'm good." I swallow what was left of it and stand up, placing my cigarette in the corner of my mouth and grabbing my jacket from the stool. "Hey, Johnny, put this on my tab, would you? I'll pay you tomorrow."

"No poetry tonight?" Johnny asks as he cleans a glass.

"Oh you're a poet?" the man asks me.

"She's amazing! You should hear her one night!"

I scowl at Johnny. "Oh, Johnny." I roll my eyes and toss my hair from under my coat. "See you tomorrow."

As I'm walking out, the man yells, "Hey, what about smoking? You gonna stop?"

I turn and look at him. Still smiling. Damn. "I'm not worried about dying. I'm just trying to live." 

I step out into the rain and shiver, pulling my umbrella up over my head. I look back at the bar door and shake my head. I take one last puff from the cigarette, throw it on the ground, and lightly press my foot against it.

"Damn," I say under my breath and flag down a taxi.

For All The Tiny Ones

When you first look at me you notice how tiny I am
What is she, like 12?
Nope, I'm 19 and only 5 feet (minus 1) tall
Small waist, obviously
Only weigh 90 something pounds
And oh, have been officially inducted into the Itty Bitty Titty Committee
And the media says that being skinny is winning
and you ought to be proud!
This is not so bad until
filling out your shirts and dresses becomes your main concern
and hearing your guy friends gawk at those who are naturally endowed
Oooo, look at her titties!
Oooo, look at that ass! She got the cake, bruh!
Then staring at your naked reflection makes you self-conscious.
About 53% of American girls are unhappy with their bodies by age 13
and by the time they are 17 that number increases to 78%
But why wouldn't we anyway
when men only dream about the Nickis and Kims
because of their (fake) fat asses and breasts
and Sir Mix-A-Lot encourages the idolizing of big butts
He likes them and he cannot lie
So when we look in the mirror we are dissatisfied with what we see
dissecting every inch of our smallness 
imagining what isn't there
so we turn to Google for some advice only to find that 
either we become pregnant 
or go under the knife 
or try to eat everything in sight
so instead we buy extra padded bras and butt busters
and God forbid a guy uncovers the ugly truth
But come on, just like thick girls we're gorgeous too!
So this is for the girls who wish they were bigger
because they've never been told that being small is sexy
But a guy who falls in love with who you are first
Will love every single inch of your petite frame
And let's just be honest:
The best things do come in the smallest packages.