A caged soul

I think it is ok to feel. Yet there is no way I will allow myself to.

I hold myself to a different standard. Something not shared by those I love. I think it is ok for others to be open but I will never let myself to conform. Emotions are easier when they are locked in a box. No one is hurt when no one is there. I can show you some expressions but I can make it reach my eyes.

I have been told that I am a liar. That it is best to be truthful. But I am not ready to share that side of me. Probably because I lost the key. I bet that it is someone in my childhood. The one that I talk about with a smile on my face. Look closer you may see some cracks. But not yet, right now I am able to speak. Listen when I say that there is a chance that I will never give in.

I hide my emotions because it keeps them safe. I rather suffer in their place. I rather sit by and watch the emotions and in their eyes and know that they are blessed. They are worth it. They are precious.

I am not and I do not think there is anything that can change that.

Honestly, this is terrible

I am not a momma to be held with contempt. I think I am exempt

From such animosity because there is no one, surely no one

Who can hate me as much as me

Such a belittling feeling and yet so deserved

For who else can ignore such a girl

One with a smile so sweetly filled with love

Who else would dare turn away from her hugs

Crying cause their skin is burning

Sleeping well into midmorning

Could you do it and still hold yourself on high

Or would you feel as I do? Despair beside a happy child

Making up excuses to stay a while

Could you really believe yourself worthy of praise

When not a day goes by that doesn’t end in a haze

This is what it is like to parent with depression

To parent in a borderline state of obsession

This desire to leave sticks to the bones

Yet, I know, I truly know, that this small child is home

Honestly_ what a terrible poem

A state of emergency

The bugs are back

With their expectations and condemnations

They proclaim as fact,

how my retreating form is more telling than my words

I ignore them as best I can, spray at hand

To wipe them from existence

But they chatter, as they walk across my kitchen counter

Accusing me of all matters of depravity

I am doing the best I can!

But I remain ignorant of the growing hoard

Paper plates and bile play like friends who can not separate

The bugs are back again

Spending their existence, of which I will end, twisting my lips into

Into futile verses of how I am ok

A blacked out sun

This is a plague,
A harmonious disease that spread. Invaded the deep crusted lungs that once saved.
It is easy, no really, to see how it may have led to this.
How the blacked sun with a burnt out ring lead to people fighting, and dying, and lying,
They did not try, or so we are told, to change the ways that their ancestors taught
But so covered in ash are we
We do not see that we too are diseased
Picking at scraps and scabs that bleed
The ones that turned our lungs to lead and spread
To unknown places that lay us dead
We fight for a time when the moon bleed gold
When the sun fell upon our shoulders on a once forgotten boat
But those times have come to an end. Twisted within the desserts wind
Our ancestors taught us well and well this wound has festered
Growing daily in blackened sun while they sing hymns of battles won.

A movement that stills

I have been accused of being a follower. Why? Because I decided to share my thoughts on a movement that means to so much to me. Yet they did not believe me when I said this. Told me that I had no place to speak out on such a subject.

It took me awhile to realize that this is because they thought I was white.

See,I am one of those people who has a particular skill. I can “pass” as a different race as long as my face isn’t shown. My name, my voice, my way of writing. All passing in the eyes of society. It is not something that I like to think about but I do acknowledge that I get a sense of pleasure when people first stumble upon what I looked like.

My name is Jessica. Such a mundane and boring name. I hated it as a kid and I hate it even more now. There is no history to this name. No culture related stories I can tell to my friends. No one will look at me and ask me the origin of my name. I hated how unoriginal it was growing up. It didn’t help that people teased me over it, but really, that was a given since nothing is sacred with it comes to bullies. So yea, I hated it and I hate it now. Though less so than I used to.

As a brown skinned Jessica I pass. I am assumed to be not like “them” as though that is something to have pride in. Not like “them” but I am not accepted into any other group. So who I am? It doesn’t matter as much as it used to.

Still, I fight for the culture I was born into. I feel pride in my brown skin in the proper way, whatever that means. But because of my ability to pass I am often faced with those who feel like I have no space to speak in.

This girl told me that I should stick to my own kind yet when I do so i am ridiculed. It isn’t my fault that can’t see who I am really am but once I educate her on that fact I get blocked.

Or I get told to shut up

Or I get called a race traitor

One I was even called an Uncle Tom. Though that one was because I have a biracial daughter.

I am brown. My skin, as my daughter says, the color of the earth we play in. The one that sheltered the plants. Life thrives beneath my skin. I am proud of it and my connection to such a beautiful phenomenon.

And I stand by my people, my culture that I love, and fight for the injustice thrust upon us. I may not be without privilege but I still have my sense of justice. And I will fight till my brown matters in the eyes of the law and the society in which I live in.

Even if people do not believe I am real

Distortion

Wanna hear what I think?

We are tired of crawling in the mud

Covered in blood of our brethren

Screaming he was just a friend

Just a man who wanted to live

Wanna hear what I’ve been told

We are tired, this shit is getting old

To many of us have left behind corpse

With grieving mothers looking on

Broken daughters, and forgotten sons

We were never given a chance

Knees got torn when we tried to stand

Do you know how this can end?

Give us freedom from oppression

Listen to our whispered lessons

Lead us not to an early grave

And let us walk at an equal pace

I just want to be

Sinner with the broken wings

How is it that you still sing?

I sing for glory and holy light

I sing with passion to set all right

But when the devil comes to play

I sing with broken wings on display

For I am a sinner through and through

And it is through him that I get to you

Hi! I am queer. I have no safe space. There is no place that welcomes me. Yet, I am supposed to delude myself into thinking that there is. I know that I am not wanted but I have been told that it is better to think that there is.

I used to have someone I could talk to. A person who I felt like would always be there for me. Sure we would fight every once in awhile. I can not tell you the amount of times I told them I hated them. But I was raised in a home where family was supposed to mean everything. When your parents are gone you only have your cousins, your siblings, your aunts and uncle, to stand by your said. So for this person to betray me as they did hurts. It hurts so fucking bad because at one point there were my best friend.

See my coming out story was pretty bland. Which, I should be grateful that it ended up being that way seeing as others can not say the same. My mother was one of the first I told and she was super cool about it. Way to cool if we are being honest because she soon told me about all the girls friends she had while I was younger and would often ask for peoples numbers while we were out and about. Really, nothing screams “please kill me” moments like watching as your mother flirts with people of all genders anytime she walked out the house. So yes, my coming out was pretty bland.

I had some people who made my life hell but they really didn’t matter. My mother was ok with it. As was my siblings. But that soon changed. A few years back my sister discovered christ and what used to be ok was now one of the things that tore us apart. Now, she spends every moment she can sprouting bible verses and telling me I will go to hell. That I am an abusive mother because I surround my kid in such sinful teachings. She talks about race a lot as well. Blaming white people for all of our problems and how they need to eradicated. But I am the monster.

No one seems to care though. My mother, the women who made my coming out story so boring and uneventful is now constantly telling me that I need to forgive her. Because when she is gone my sister is all I will have left. But what my mother doesn’t understand is that I am used to being alone. I don’t need such toxic people in my life to make myself feel something anymore. So why should I forgive her?

If I am going to hell I rather it be because the love I chose to live with over the hate I would have should I hide.

Someone once loved and lost

Black bird resting on my shoulder

Defeated whispers

A cautious tale

Dare I grasp on to darken feathers

Allow my soul to remember

A friend who left me to the sea

Wyvern claws into broken wings

Grasping at these darkened dreams

Dare I take hold to keep safe

A cautious tale

Of retribution and hate

Murder caws into the wind

Twining with the wyvern like an old forgotten friend