“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
Tag Archives: African-American
Five glorious years
Today my daughter got into trouble. Nothing major but I can tell that it left a stain on the day. She wouldn’t listen so I yelled. After that moment she refused to talk to me. Even after I apologized and asked for her forgiveness she did not speak. Only later did she tell me that I hurt her feeling.
My daughter is five.
I should have more respect for this tiny human and yet. I think I put to much on her shoulders. I think I expect to much and get angry. She isn’t the best listener. She gets overly excited about pretty much everything. But that does not deserve my anger no matter how frustrating it can be at times.
My daughter is five.
I feel like such a monster. I told her so. I told her how I did not wish to hurt her. I apologized and asked for forgivenesd but…I also told her that it was ok. She did not have to accept my sorry. She did not even have to forgive me. What I said, what I did, left a stain on our day. I would do anything to go back and change what I did.
My daughter is only five.
And yet she lives her life with a mother who struggles with mental illness. She knows emotions like other children know candy and shopping sprees. She can tell you safety plans for every occasion and exactly what it means when mommy can’t seem to sleep.
Yet she tells me I am the best mommy ever. That she loves me no matter what. That she is proud of me. She looks forward to my hugs. She smiles so brightly when I tell her how I feel…even on the bad days. I am so proud of her and I tell her. I tell her all the time. I may be a monster but in her eyes I am worth it. In my eyes she is a reason.
Juice From The Berry Tree
I never persumed to know love
Tickled beneath a berry tree
as giggles touched the leaves
I was never one to really believe
In love and all those silly things
But here I sit in stiled laughter
With a daunting dancing daughter
Her smile lightens my darkened heart
Beneath this berry tree
1 by 1, 2 by 2, she calls to me, lovingly
Beneath this berry tree
waiting
i have many regrets.
but there are many acts i can not expand upon. so long have i dreamed with an imagination so queer. that which beckons the regret i fear. pushing them closer. ever closer and gearing towards my heart. with broken parts and bobbled things. a regret is only a shallow thing.
i have many regrets.
yet no respect from the past can save me. behaving i will as i do what i feel is best. but i guess that this part of me that i put to rest. this part i buried so cleanly could have never have stayed away. i digress as i throw on a torn dress and prance around as if my heart is not on the ground about to explode. caught up in something i had forgotten. not turned black and rotten. so dehearted cause my heart has rottened. and yet.
i have many regrets.
left soaking in my views. but i live on just a little bit each day. dragging a blacken heart with bobbled parts through the once clean sound of graves. oh how i have behaved. i can see it now. within this queer dream that the tiger sings so sweetly about. i can see it
Perfected
School is almost over for me. Got one more semester to go before I get my AS and go off to a four year college for a BA. I still have dreams to get a degree in Philosophy but I just can’t seem to make up my mind about what else I want to go for. I am trying to decide between Psychology and Sociology. I know I want to help people in any way that I can but with my issues I am not sure how to go about doing that. Either way, here is to another semester!
As for other updates. My little one is on her way to Kindergarten. I should be excited…but I am not. I am scared because I do not know what to expect in the world. A part of me wants to just wrap her up into a bubble. But I can’t do that to her. I do not know how other parents do it. How they can be so trusting and hopeful. I hate how terrible I feel because I want a normal life for her. She deserves so much good in this world and I am just not it.
Parenting a child as a person with mental illness is hard. I like to think that it is worth it. That she will grow up to be a well adjusted adult. But the risk…I do not know if I am worth it.
A church of Echos
Why is no one listening to me
Screams the child in the church pew
Grandfathers hand down their top
And grandmothers over their mouth
Mom and dad standing at the opposite ends
Trying not to listen to the shouts
But that is not what gave the room pause
Over there sits a little boy with a gun in his lap
And rewards on his jacket
Drawing up a dagger and slicing into a peer
Color coded lettering screaming
Why is no one listening
But move the camera preacher man
Over there you’ll see
A girl squating over pill bottles chocking them down with ease
Shitting out insta likes
As the wolves paw at her feet
The shacking of the pills bottles gives a signal
As hands reach to spread her knees
Why is no one listening to me
Down the asle lies a bible
Covered in well wishes and kisses
Thumbs up with well intentions
It holds the congregations attention
As the preacher man walks by
with gleam in his eye
Giving twisted smile to the lost boys
And waving at the confused girls
Praising the mothers and fathers
Only to step past the blooded child
A letter
Dear Father,
I never really liked my name. As a kid I hated how it meant that I was your child. I felt that the title didn’t explain all that I was in life. Jessica, child of Jesse, a common nobody that not even her father could bring himself to love. As a child I convinced myself that the best thing to do is hate before others had the chance to hate me. I remember the few times of happiness I felt I would instantly try and force it down. I didn’t deserve happiness.
When I was 10 I decided I would give myself 10 more years of life before I killed myself. I decided this after you had yelled at me for one reason or another. I remember holding a mini funeral for myself…my little self.
I killed the part of me that made me Jessica.
Jessica was unloved and unwanted. I thought this would make life easier.
But then came the voices…and the shadows.
I hated being in small spaces. I was fine with animals lurking about but small places like bathroom and closets gave me nightmares. I could feel people staring at me. I could hear people whispering. They wanted to hurt me. They convinced me that you wanted to do the same. I couldn’t trust anyone.
Killing myself did not go as planned but it was to late to go back now.
After while the shadow became that of a little girl. Jessica had came seekimg her revenge. It got to the point where being alone was the only way to keep her at bay. I hating sleeping because she was always there. I had nightmares all the time. I would wake up crying and had to sneak into my sister bed just so I could sleep. She wasnt a huge fan of that so I would often sleep under her bed. People didn’t crawl on me or grab me when I was under her bed. During storms I would sleep under the window. It probably wasn’t the safest places but no one hurt me when it rained but they screamed, oh god did they scream so loud.
When my sister was gone I just didn’t sleep. I begin to fear the dark so stayed up crying or writing or reading. Hurting myself whenever sleep got to close.
I spent my days sleeping or reading because she couldn’t reach me during the day time. She wouldn’t dare… The consequences of my fears made it so people hated me anyways. I couldn’t prove to others that the voices where there. No one else saw the shadows.
After awhile the whispers stopped. They didn’t go away completely but they did stop.
Father, I grew up believing you hated me. This was probably because I hated myself. Even now I do not understand how you can even talk to someome as damaged as me.
I look at my daughter and I pray to whatever god is listening that she doesn’t turn out like me.
As I have aged I no longer fear the dark. Small places comfort me, especially if there is a furbaby to keep me company.
I haven’t told anyone about the voices. No one important anyways. Over the years I have actually denied them being there. But they are here. No longer yelling or whispering but I can feel them judging me. I know what it means to see or hear things.
Dear Father
I really don’t know what to do anymore. I guess I could tell you that I am fucked up but you already know it.
At least, that is what she is telling me.
Impressions
I do not hear voices I hear impressions. Emotions without words. I can feel it all bubbling behind my eyes. I don’t see figures but I get the sense that someone is watching me. I can feel them follow me. I can there eyes and every blink they make is registered in my mind.
But no
I do not see or hear people. I never have but how do I explain what I do go through. How do I tell people about my pain? They will judge me harshly and think I am lying. They will take away my daughter and tell me that I am unfit to be her mother. How do I show them that she is the only person in this world I care for. That even as I am fading she is thriving. I give all my enegery to her. Yes, I am dying. Not in the way others may think but in a way that says my body is deteriorating along with my mind. The illness I suffer from is in my head…not in a way that makes it unreal but in a way that shows that it is unseen. I am dying slowly and she is the only thread keeping me intacted. Without her I will die all the sooner.
But how do I ask for help without the world trying to kill me faster?
The Slaver Ring
See your brown skin amuses me
Brings tears into my eyes
It is cute how you struggle
It is cute how you try
Think the dirt can wash off
Think there is purity in your blood
To bad you will never came away from it
You will never be one of us
There is savage in your bloodline
A disease that can’t be cured
One of those disgusting creatures
That likes to pretend they are misunderstood
See your brown skin amuses me
Brings a smile to my face
It is cute how you think you are human
It is cute how you think you are safe
We will never allow you to wonder
Never allow you to be free
Your just another worthless mongrel
That just so happens to entertain me
A/N I hate the way this ends. I feel like there is more to say but for right now I will leave it be.
Story of make believeĀ
Hello, I am black
It is not who I am but the color of my skin
Not my name but what I am known for
Hello,I am black
This is a statement and fact
Something to which I can not change
No matter how much others may want it
I can not dye it a certain flavor
To make it easier for others to savour
It doesn’t change my insides
Though I know how much you want me to hide
Hi, I am black
This fact holds me back
Makes others decide my fate in life
Not allowed to say my piece before it is pointed out to me
That I am, in fact, black
Judge and hated by those who crave it
A rebellious phase to touch
Punished lust, so hide we must
Locked doors with a passion
My skin worn like Fashion
Hello, I am black
This statement brings a bad taste to your mouth
Apology accepted for your ancestors lies
Yet sit and swallow your own words everytime a
Black person gives you a verse
Judge least not be judged
Your ancestors chose a path that you have since denied
Yet you turn a blind eye to what has not changed
Hi, I am black
I am still suppose to sit towards the back
Accept the fact that you are the golden one
Shut my mouth against the hurt and the pain
That you have since spit anyways
But it is not always your fault
See others who share my trait still hate
Still try and hit me behind the stable
Cause I am different and unable
To love someone with the same traits
The same facts as me.
Call me a slave who loves thy master
Stockholm Syndrome spewed from a friendly pastor.
Whose only saving Grace is their age.
Their wisdom behind what truly happened.
Laying with the same face that beats and rapes
Is this what was suppose to happen?
Have I made my ancestors proud?
Hello, I am black
And this fact has shaped my very being
Made me say an do things I do not mean
Made me afraid of change for change sake
Made me hate those who continue to debate the truth
The truth being that I am just like you.
With all my traits, we are the same
On the inside at least
My skin should not be the factor for my future and my past
Should not be the reason I am set back by the classes
Hated by masses who look like me
Speak like me
Think like me
All because I am black
Hated by those who hurt like me
Who are broken like me
Who live their lives like me
Because I decided to ignore the divide
And love someone I shouldn’t
There is a thin line between us all yet I dared to be the bridge
So watch as others shield the eyes of their kids
Watch as they turn their backs on my fact
Because of whom I love and the color that is me
Hello, I am black
This is statement and fact
But it should not define me