That's Okay Right?

From the time we are born, we are scorned by other women who envy us.

Hating our existence and anything pertaining to such.

Whether the life we are given is bad, good, happy, sad, magnificent, or atrocious, it will be never be the same.

Life is never consistent.

Consistency is a facade created by a false hope.

Not raising your daughter, because you suffered from harsh times is not a justifiable excuse.

If you need help, society is always knocking at your door.

It has no problem with co-parenting, but be mindful that it dictates futures.

See society can help you by reassuring your daughter that there are many occupations well suited for young girls that learn to get undressed to soon.

Designing this canvas of a perfect illusion that no one can defer as long as you follow instructions.

Society will influence your child to its best ability by asking things like, "Why waste time studying for SATs when HIV test are so much easier to take?"

But that's okay right?

As long as you don't have to raise her, with all of your conflicting emotions and discombobulated memories of what a hard time is.

Just because you grew up in a time where dollar stores sell things that cost more than ninety-nine cents and bus stops and liquor stores where nothing, but crime scenes, and eviction notices decorated doors.

But you forget, that nothing changed.

We still live in a time where the line between innocence and guilt are blurred by poverty and religion is nothing more than a sedative, while materialism ain't nothing but a suppressant.

Society has no problem with watching all of these purple files grow from infancy to teens, then change to manila and trade lives for orange jumpsuits or army green.

But she's alive, so that's the most important thing right?

Even if she is pretty much deaf and clings to stereotypes.

She was evicted from the womb with bad credit and a criminal record.

Her fresh outfit hasn't paid the light bill yet, and her hands carefully craft gang signs.

She over-sexualizes all the promiscuous boys.

And to not to mention, she spits words that form a message only Lucifer understands.

But that's okay, cause she's alive and you didn't have to raise her right?

What Do You Do?

What do you do when the only person who can tell you the truth about what happened is dead?

You may not know the facts, the minor details, or have seen the blood pour from their head, but there are always three sides to the story.

His, hers, and the truth.

It's pretty scary how, you can't even get two, sides to the story.

So how do you determine, if you should hate them, when all they left behind was wrong doings or if you should love them because they didn't get a chance to correct it.

What if they didn't plan on it?

What if they never planned on being who you wanted them to be?

What if they were to continue their lives as the people they were.

What if they didn't care about you?

What if they did?

What if you loved them for all the right reasons and they hated you for all the wrong ones?

That's the problem with death.

You are left with too many what ifs.

What if you died before them, would they hate themselves?

What if you got to know them, would you be more hurt?

What if you knew none of what you do, would you love them more?

There is a thin line between love and hate

What do you do when you are standing in between the two.

How do you choose which path to take.

How do you pick what side wins, when both lose regardless, because the person is dead?

You can't say the things you want to say.

You can't ask the questions you wish to ask.

You can't voice your anger so that they will understand.

What do you do?

What do you do, when someone else shares the same story as you?

What do you do when you barely know that person?

What can you do?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

No one is there to answer those questions.

No one is there to listen to them being asked.

No one is there to help you.

No one understands what that means.

No one.

Not even you.

You don't understand it, so how can someone else do it?

They can't.

It's just a mystery that can't be solved.

Because the only person who knows the truth about what really happened is dead.

Trapped in Oblivion

I am frustrated, because I betted on a lifestyle that was overrated and now trying to be rejuvenated for lost time, and compensated for my lost dime, I find myself being manipulated.

Thrown to the wolves where blood is illustrated and praying to be reincarnated, so I can live a life that isn't mine.

I can't find peace, I wear this metal leash, tied to an oblivious tree.  I stare at the tracks of my feet, where I tried to break free, only to be choked back and left sitting there for eternity.

I can't comprehend, the meaning of pretend, when you are left to reprehend, the unrealistic friend, I call best.

I try to understand, your reasoning within, that you project onto my chest, with your solid hands, but for some reason it makes no sense.

That four letter word that you often preach, engraved onto sleeves, lingering in the breeze, and beaten into sheets, concerns me.

The unrealistic reality you unfold, could never uphold, my oh so soon coming fatality, hell will soon burn me.

I reach for angel wings, breech says the security, leech is what I am referred to as, because I can never let go.

I comfort others, under many different covers, hoping to find my way home.

I look into eyes and realize that real eyes, hold real lies.

I am confused, because I broke my bonds tied by tubes and my pride is the crutch for my insecurities to use.

I want to be a different version of me, but me, myself, and I, are the only versions I can seem to be.

During winter I am scolded, my marked arms stay folded, I beg to be released from the chain that is binding me, but instead I am left with purple marks lining me.

I want to explore the white on the ground and dig until I find the root which is always black and brown.  It's funny how even weather is racist.

I see smiles painted on their faces.  I see tear stained windows, blood dripping because of music notes, that crescendo, off of youth's ears, drained into their peers, more than often spoken again.

I pray for them, not me, truth is, I see, what happens when the people speak, the ones who are tied to trees like me and can't break free.

We are left, we are never right, we put up a fight, only to be left tied at night.

We are cold, our stories untold, and we find ourselves free falling into our hindsight.

You may not see, the purity, that lies within me or the tree branch that cuts me, but this chain will eventually break and I hope for heaven's sake, you too break free.

Mistakes

One mistake.

One mistake is all it takes, to break every bone in my body.

Every bodily function, undone by the eruption of emotions that I project.

If given another chance, to enhance my presence, I would do so with perfection.

After learning my lesson, of breaking bonds that are tied by tubes and having my pride around as a crutch for my insecurities to use, I would love the dove that flies through my memories.

The memorandum of me living.

Living life without strife and holding that knife that always slips through my hands, cutting the man who created me, the one who is now sleeping in the ground below me and begging me to let him out.

The one who cries the tears of the awaken baby in the dark room of eternity.

The baby who without paternity can only depend on maternity, which later turns into the hatred of man.

Not willing to be lesbian, too prideful to be submissive, comprehensive enough to not be foolish, yet oblivious to the chain placed in range of her fate, waiting for her to break.

She sits.

I sit.

Wondering, pondering, hindered by my past and its concerns, that tend to burn my future.

She laughs.

I laugh at the thought of me being brought undeniably by society.

Living so pridefully in a world meant to confuse me.

Choose me.

That's all I want.

I was created with this ruler inside of me, controlling me, pulling me to the dark side, the other side of the rainbow.

Where did my rain go?

The waters that flow through me.

Like the river that got my roots home.

Home.

Is home where you live or where your family stays?

Is it where you pray or in order to live there you have to pay?

Pay the price of your consequences, your flawed sentences, and your raw remembrances of mistakes you made.

Mistake.

One mistake is all it takes to break every bone in my body.

Faulty Conscience

Confused and obliterated, discombobulated, drunk off love tactics, staring at refrigerator magnets, trying to spot a way down from my serial marble cabinet.

Islands too tall, praying not to fall to my feet, heart skipping a beat every time I attempt to get down.

He leaves. He always leaves.

Puts on a Broadway act of what a friend who happens to be a boy plays.

Reiterating to him that my heart, is not something you can start and not finish. It is a play toy, not a play-toy.

He doesn't listen.

How could he, when he's deaf to his own cries, his own lies, his own despise.

He works.

Works everyday, no goals in place.

Just mocking the face of a black man.

A black man who can't breathe, stuck trying to relieve her, me, relieve me.

Relieve me of my sins.

My amens. My weaknesses.

He does his job 76 percent of the way, leaving just enough to desire, once he retires and retreats back to her.

Her, being his lovely wife.

Woman unaware of the strife she is dealt, woman unaware of the pain I've felt, woman unaware of the lies she has been fed, while laying in his bed, where I was the night before.

I pray that she one day sees the friend that happens to be a boy role he plays, every day, for the past 358 days.

He hasn't been able to spin me back into his web of lies, for my black eyes, are not from his weak fists.

I simply do not leave, because unlike most, including her, I can admit, I'm in love with his dick.

The dick of man, he is.

He hugs me with this sense of strength, that just for the moment I can't let go.

He kisses me with these wet lips, that tell me he kind of cares.

He kind of cares about the person he made me.

The girl who is lost and knows where home is, but has been corrupted so much, she can not even bare the touch of her mother's hand.

The girl who can not stand, because she is still on that island, looking for a way down.

Looking for a way down that doesn't involve getting hurt in the process, that doesn't involve me trusting him to catch me.

I want to breathe. I want to leave. I want to be free.

I am still stuck next to this tree, binding me with eternity.

He smiles and I hate myself.

I hate him.

I hate that I love him.

I hate that I can't let that feeling go.

He hurts me, then he leaves. He always leaves.

He always promises to come back and never does.

He controls me. He loves her. He loves his lovely wife.

I'm just a stand by token, repeated one night stand, taken by the hand to help me off this island.

Hitting the ground with the force that should never be reckoned with, awaking the animal heads impaled in the backyard, freeing the souls of past women, who knew they were wrong from the beginning.

The beginning. The beginning is where I should've stopped.

The beginning is where I should have called the cops.

I was stupid, confused, lusting to be used. I was abused.

I was taken advantage of, by my own stupid choices.

The first night he left, I should've made sure he never came back.

Unfixable

Sometimes I have to yell at God,  like why you keep putting me through this?

He yell back,  like I gave you a to do list,  I got you a ticket and you chose to come back,  that's on you,  I have nothing to do with it.

You want to leave,  pack your stuff and Ill have you on the next flight, but you're not going to keep asking me why every night.

I know your right.

You did do that and I know I could.

But in addition to asking why,  im always asking if I should.

Like could I really live just fine without you, or will I be stuck looking for someone just like you?

How delightful.

Crossing my fingers that this time you'll get it right, maybe this time,  I wont have to wake you up in the middle of the night.

Cue phone light, Ayo who is this? Why you asking what she doing?  Where you know this bitch?  You fucking her? You trying to chill clearly.

Stop fucking lying,  I don't even want you near me.

Hell hath no fury,  like the way I've been scorned.

Like the way I've been broken,  like the way I've been torn.

I want to kill you sometimes, like fuck everything.

Fuck you, fuck us,  and most of all fuck this ring.

Here you go,  ring ring.  Lori,  don't do this.

Always the same thing.

Acting like you clueless.

And here Lori go,  saying its okay,  I forgive you.

Devil on my shoulder saying look what he did to you.  Can you even think anymore?  Are you dumb or are you deaf?  He lied again to you and just like the rest of the times you said yes,  Ill keep going with the bull shit.  While you lye full of regret.  Like you obsessed, with getting hurt.

Angel over here,  saying not another word Mr. Devil.  Now im here to level. I understand you're hurt,  but placing all the blame on him is a lot of work.  You've done things too,  lets not forget.  You still hit up other men,  even if it was on some friend shit.  Now I know,  what your thinking,  that's nothing like what he did,  he lied to,  hurt you, even after you lost his kid.  But he was hurt too,  a little more savage.  You knew from the beginning that man wasn't average.  Now that is not an excuse for all that he's done,  but even though you lost yourself,  he did lose his son.  Himself, his house,  his daughter,  his job,  and now you.  Baby girl he's picking up the pieces trying to recoup.  Now he's wrong in the way he does it,  that we both know is true.  But rage and violence like what Mr.  Devil is talking about is not cool.  Listen to me,  Ill make sure I save you.  You too good to be bad for someone ungrateful.

But y'all Im unstable.

Feel like I lost a few cables.

Like I hear what y'all saying, but Im just not capable.

I cant keep doing it, but then I guess I could,  been doing it this long,  by now I should be good.

By now I should be numb,  by now I should be straight,  by now I shouldn't even be standing at God's gate.

I guess for now Ill just wait, its already to late.

No other man could fix what he chose to break.

I Don't Want To

I don't want to write this poem, all these bad dreams that litter on my landscape, like all of these broken branches and these scattered leaves, aligned with the corpses of yesterday's intentions.

I don't want to sing this song, my voice is cracked and quite uneven, the notes don't ring that properly, especially with all of this malformed lyrics in my mouth, not to mention the guitar strings are broken.

I don't want to run away, my expectations are ruining my self esteem, I just want to become a hermit in some faraway cave.

I don't want to write this poem, but I can't seem to stop, the words just seem to keep on flowing like that river I don't like to think about, with the broken dam at the end.

I don't want to read this book, all of its colorful canvases and blank endings, waiting for you to turn the page, just to leave you with misinterpreted messages and questions.

I don't want to make this call, talking in tongues to an incomplete stranger on the other end of this world, when the keys are stuck down in my phone.

I don't want to write this poem, but I keep seeing these words in my mental, waiting to be formulated into a promise I know can't keep.

I don't want to open this door, all of these different ways to transform the opening of my future, like contemplating the wrist motion I should use when approaching it.

I don't want to hear this music, all of those rhyming lyrics destroying the instrumental made so delicately in that empty room.

I don't want to write this poem, but I don't know how to come to end, when my whole existence is built on pretending like I never started it.

I don't want to smell this flower, the pollen always trespasses on my face, like disturb adolescence on winter break.

I don't want to touch this pen, even though it drips permanent information from its core unintentionally marking everything in its path.

I don't want to write this poem, but I already did.