A Brown Girl with a White Man’s Name

“Negative” I wonder outloud to a foreign crowd of my forgotten brethren
They speak some vows and turn my way
Noticing the privilege I proclaim
The twist of my hips
The turn of my lips
The graceless way I speak out of turn
I know that I am not one of them
With my too brown skin and my too black hair
Kinked up readily to face the wind
“Negative” I proclaim with a sneer
For deep down inside
I know that I am not welcomed here
But I hide it with a haughty stance
One hand on my lip and the other on my chest
My blood was never going to be enough
My twisted tongue can’t speak those vows
Spoken outloud by a foreign crowd
But I am going to go on pretending
That my black will matter here

Third day of Nightmares

I think I am infected

Distracted from a reality that I can’t see

Little visions dancing in my head

Forming solid thoughts about her dead

I can see her body

In this reality so terrifying

I can see her crying

Screaming for me to come save her

But I am to far away

Out of reach my soul is mistaken

Its breaking from this infectious disease

That is eating away at me

Everytime I close my eyes I can see her

Dead as the night that surrounds

These little visions are beyond lethal

And I need her, when I am sleeping

I hold her to my chest

I listen to her every breath

Her heartbeat a drug I can’t give up yet

I am infected

By a reality that can not be

A dream so terrifying

That I can not sleep

History Maker

A painter standing

Tips a brush dripped in koi blood

And dashes off the excess

Before applying a swipe of oppression

On a canvas filled with a traitors jest

He rest his hand in a still life rendition

To a crowd of a white washed plague

A painter standing in ovation

Tearing into another bottle of ink

He is not done tainting this history

A paint brush dipped in koi blood

A canvas of a nation that once was

He makes a mark that may just last

To a crowd of reflective glass

Anxiety fills my head

Hate
Can have the strongest meaning
A listless reason with deadened eyes
A hopeless feeling we are sworn to hide
Hate
Can come in shapes undone
A middle finger raised high to the sun
Or an orphaned heart with a well loved gun
Hate
Despite all its misgivings is a powerful tool
Used to spin wishes
Or to make someone a fool

Today’s nightmare

The demons in my head won’t let me say goodbye yet.

As I lay here trying to sleep I can see her vividly. Her poor little broken body. I can see the message and hear the calls of people who never cared to check on her when she was alive. How the weep for her, begging for one last chance to do nothing I guess. I hate them more than I hate the idea of her being gone. My little girl is gone, at least that is what my brain is telling me. I can see her dying so clearly. See her little casket covered in pink roses with pretty purple ribbon. Her body lays so perfectly and yet it is their lies that haunt me.

Maybe it is because I am used to seeing her die. I often dream of the day when my little girl will leave me. How cruel this world can be and how easily it can try to take her away. I see it almost every day. Maybe something is wrong with me but I think I am to used to being insane that it is downright comforting.

My daughter is ok. She is sleeping her bed. Her pretty bow lips forming smiles when I kiss her cheek. Family and friends may not call but she is happy and ok. All will be ok.