Not A Man

Part I:
"I am a man," he said.
I scoffed. Really?
I didn't know a man played games, trying to get all that he can get
so that in the end he wins
I didn't know one of the languages he did not speak was honesty
I didn't know he hid his emotions because his boys say he's a bitch if he shows them
That he's too young
He just wants to play because he'll have enough time for all the grown folk stuff later
He just wants to have fun
Why settle on one ice cream flavor when there are so many more you haven't even tried yet?


Part II:
You thought you were a man.

You run from breast to breast, feining for a taste
I thought your mother weened you off of that shit
You slither through a bed of weeds with your smooth talk 
telling them the same sweet things in three different languages
making them all fall in love with you
And what happens when you finally come across a rose?
She's too much to handle
because she requires too much grown folk stuff
so you find your way out
Oh but make sure to tell the next one to take good care of her
because she's beautiful and she deserves it.
Bullshit.
That, my dear, is not a man.
That, sir, is a little ass boy.

You wanna be called a man?
Then stand in your truth
and admit when you've done wrong
And simply just do what's right.

And then maybe,
just maybe,
you can be a man.

Flashback Friday: Self-Portrait as 16-Year-Old Phoenix

This poem is about three years old. At that time I was going through major changes, so the image of a phoenix was simply perfect to describe that. Enjoy!

She scorns her reflection,

frowning at the girl locked in the

glass. Angry at the creature she has

become, with a swift movement of

her small hands ignites her skin, the

bright red flames climbing up her fingertips.

Her arms, legs, and feet immediately

crumble from the slight bite of the flames,

falling to ashes all around her. They engulf her

dark shirt, instantly turning it to embers. The

incandescent blaze crawls up her neck, encompassing

her face, leaving nothing behind. They lick

through her long hair, marring its beauty and

transforming it into black soot. All that is

left are the ashes where she stood. Then, the

ashes soften and become moist, forming

a pair of feet. Slowly, the dampened ashes

knit and fasten the new flesh of the rest

of her body. They converge and form

two almond-shaped eyes, a slim pair of lips,

a small rounded nose, and small hairs

falling over each other, creating thin dark

eyebrows. The wet ashes rise up to the top

of her head and braid fiery red strands

of hair down past her shoulders. A smile

crawls upon her face, for she has finally

eradicated the beast she had become.

Remembering Love

I am remembering darkness
Having to only rely on touch in order to see you
Seeing silence dance around us
The world had stopped moving
And we thrived--
Without any source of light
But that which burst from within
I am remembering the taste of forbidden fruit
How its scent lingered way past the October dawn
Baptizing in what remained
And rising feeling anew
Now I could see you.


Inspired by "I Am Looking At Music" from Love Jones.

West Side Story

They were star-crossed lovers in the Ghetto
The Universe never meant for them to become one
For the stars were not in alignment
But they did it anyway
And despite whatever threat met them
Their love flourished
Like a rose pushing through two pieces of concrete
But eventually they cracked under the pressure
And he fell from his grace right into her arms
As she held his body close to her heart
She looked into the eyes of what had killed him
And realized they were the same ones she had fallen in love with.

Poet Spotlight: I Fell in Love with English by Tierra Daniels

I fell in love with English 

When he read my soul.
He took me on a whirlwind,
He was cacophony, he was euphony.

A paradox in his own right,
I was intrigued and I was befuddled.
His touch made me weep and giggle 
and shiver and smile.

He had poetic lips
And he gave me melodic kisses
that made my feminine rhyme tingle,
I had to have him. 

His love was a beautiful ballad on 
a Sunday morning
And I was hooked


Thank you, Tierra!

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.