SunGlass

We lived in a glass house with rotting wooden frames.
I saw the sun everywhere
so distracted that I couldnt see that you were trapped within another room, wondering how to reach me.
The rot spread, buckling the wood, and everything started to crash and collapse.
You wanted to warn me but I was too dazzled by the all encompassing light to hear you yell my name.
I had gotten so used to your cajoling, soft footfalls and low voice that lightly vibrated across the glass panes.
You crashed through my glass fortress and pulled me out as it all rained down, shattering the sun into thousands of razors.
I cried at the pain, too distracted by it and my loss to realize you saved me.
You walked away.

Finally I'm Admitting That I Love Him

when i tentatively said to myself, "i think i love him" it felt like that was right. Not right as in right with the world or good, just right as in "correct". i never expected my first "love" to be such a dull ache that spans years rather than a sharp pain that lasts very shortly. (i guess, i kno i havent felt anything as strong and lasting as this and it sure as hell contributes to my depression and misery.)... i had always hoped for it to be with someone that loves me back but nope. and it's been a years long process and it ends the same. im not who he wants. and i will probably cry later. again. shit, after so many rejections and unreturned feelings, you'd think i get better or at least less affected by this. FUCK i dont need this

Heated Chains

Heated Chains: Part 1

I wake up again, panting, wishing for this to be over with already. Shackles of my own loneliness and lust hold me up as I listen for the inevitable footfalls on the stair, which come only when I cease to (hallucinate) again. As I attempt to unlock myself from this self-inflicted pit that I have fallen into, they finally appear. As they walk into the room, my eyes watch with anger at my weakness and embarrassment at the fact that, deep down, I wish be bound like this because I have nowhere else to go. However, each arousal blinds me for longer until the line between what I want and what I have is irrevocably blurred. I stare into the face as it comes closer and closer, kissing me until I fall again into sweet-tasting indulgence and insanity.

These dreams are always the same, my independence and believed inner-strength spat upon as the visions contain my deepest desires. Wishing to be loved for all of me, as my waist and ego are caressed. In this moment, I dont care that this isnt real because this fantasy, this unreality, is the only one that I can claim for myself. There is no guessing, no uncertainty, and no reason to not continue. My life within “reality” has left me little to give up so staying here is too easy.

Again, I fall into a non-sleep that arouses feelings that I always proclaimed that I never had and the heat takes me once more.



Part II: Heated Depths

Within the Dream State
My body is the victim of my thoughts and my thoughts are the night’s prey to my physical cravings. Each intertwine the other in a ongoing circle that keeps me trapped within caresses and chains, wondering if I’ll ever see the light of my self control again



What My Dreams Are Made Of
I dream in emotions where visuals and imagery are secondary. I’m more than just raw, I’m singular and all consuming with the power of what I feel. I wake up with the aftertaste in my mouth and heart and it takes hours to reach any sort of reality again but the heat of my fire stays with me.




Part III: Tentative Cooling

The chains that once burned so fiercely have turned cold on me. After one last effort that blazed into dissipating presence, whatever was holding me here has disappeared. Exhausted and aching I look up at the basement door. I am not sure but I think it's finally unlocked. The only question is if I attempt to escape, will I only be pulled back in. As I walk towards the door though, so far, it seems not

She saw him at the bus stop: a short story

She saw him at the bus stop, probably waiting for the same bus as her. She eyed him, assessing his black spiky hair, coal-black eyes and rounded pink lips. In all honesty, she thought, he is pretty attractive. She guessed from his laptop bag and obvious Chinese descent that he was a student from the college campus that she lived on with her family. The community that she lived in was pretty mixed but there weren’t a lot of Asian men, save for the ones who were going to the college or members of the community who were already married and rarely seen without their wives.
She glanced at him again, a little hesitant to approach. Her experiences (and the experiences of friends like her) told her that most Chinese guys were even less into black women than white guys. White guys had their fantasies of booty shaking girls while Chinese men, it seemed, just ignored the presence of any womanly essence or personal relativity encased in black skin. However, it’s not like she had anything to lose. Her batting average at a continuing acquaintance after a short-lived meeting was so low that she wasn’t too invested in feeling hurt after a more-than-likely rejection.
She moved closer to him, trying to get his slight attention since his headphones would block out anything she said and the words would fall on the ears of the people around her without any reception. Hey, she said, and waited as he took of his headphones, glancing at her.
“I like your laptop bag. Where did you get it?”
He replied with a glimmer of personal connection, “Oh, I actually got it as a gift”
There the conversation started, the easier task for her since starting things were her forte. It was continuing them, preserving them that seemed to be the problem. True to form, the conversation carried as far as the arriving bus. Still attempting to keep the conversation alive, she talked with him about her need for a laptop in her major as they got in line to pay the bus fare. Unfortunately when the fare was paid and she sat down, he nodded in her direction, passed the open seat next to her, and continued to a seat in the back of the bus.
She sighed, put on her headphones, and used the music to drown out the feedback of her latest rejection.



(Let me know what you think!!)

Roosting

my heart practically bursts out my chest for nothing. I'm so ready for things to happen and so clueless as to how to start. there is no easel to paint on, no audience to sing for, no one to receive what it is i have to give. and i leave again, and again, always unfufilled. so i just waste away, sadness rising with every loss. i attempt to be grateful but i just want to fly. im glad for having a safe place to roost but i want to start trying to FLY. otherwise, i will never be strong enough to sustain any flight, any journey.
unfortunately it's night and I have no idea when the sun will finally rise. i dont know if it ever will. shit, as far as my life has gone, i HAVE been waiting forever. i know i can go without the sun, live my life in darkness, knowing my way, repetition after repetition, but is it so wrong to want to see sunrise before i go blind? and my eyesight is already terrible. calling out, signing songs of wistful thinking and lonliness, waiting. and waiting.
and waiting with only hallucinations and daydreams to keep me company

Class Assignment

In a place where girls dreamed of their great white knight swooping in to save them from the perils of loserdom, lonliness, and self-confidence, I dream of someone, someone’s, somewhere different. In my battle of being black, being a woman, being someone “real” I am stuck between the worlds or my community’s expectations. I have the wonderful choices of being “some ghetto chick”, expected to flash her booty, juke, and whose self worth is worth less than her Timbs but whose inner strength and individuality is buried and silenced. I could be the uber “successful” BLACK WOMAN lawyer/ doctor whose career was life and life was measured on how you “overcame” stereotypes that weren’t made to fit anyway. And then there was the once-in-a-lifetime offer to be someone “deep”. Someone who took their experiences to mold self into a “beautiful strong young sistah” emphasis on the “tah”. I wanna be down And so with a patriarchal society’s words whispering in my ear, I set off to find “somebody”. Somebody who was the difference, the person that I wished to be.

I dreamed of a lyrical knight, no not a knight, a “brotha’”. The funny thing is he doesn’t even hafta be a brotha. Someone “down”, someone who refuses what is pushed on to him, someone who uses words, style, and sentiment to stand strong, stand proud in the face of the forces that try to detain, mutilate, and destroy. Someone who skateboards, someone who plays street soccer, or uses spoken word to release. No, all he has to be is someone who “gets it”. Who understands to some degree the pits that hold us, the files that dull us down until we forget that what made us, forget how to look beyond what is seen and heard, make us forget how to think for ourselves. At the same time he sees his light, he sees his true worth and knows that it is his expectations that matter the most. Someone who can spit, someone who can speak, whether Chinese, Spanish, Tagalong, or English. I dreamed of someone who could dance the dances. Dances that require some kind of alternate thought, skill, and touch, like the step or the bachata moderna. Hell I would’ve taken the oh-so-cool fists up and rockin back and forward step. The men who get my heart beating arent the ones who say “You had me at hello”. No, it would be “I’m really feelin you.”. bump-BUMP . Like other privileged, middle class, light-skinned, conflicted, “TRAGIC” girl-women, I fell in love with hip-hop and the ideals I created from it.

I wish I was deep

So right now I'm sort of in love with Ill-literacy. It's probably the combination of hip-hop slang and legos that do it. or it could be the style of talk that's so intoxicating. Geez look at me, Im already tryin to spit something as if I am deep.

But really, that's what happens when I try to write poetry. Nowadays songs and people who I think are deep inspire me. My poem Maple Sky? Inspired (and goes a little with the song) White on Rice by Goh Nakamura. and a few poems that I am coming out with right this instant are from feelings that I have for Spoken Words geniuses like Ill-literacy and hip hop in general. So, here the poems are.

Maple Sky
Love’s the high school petty girl
Who uses your heart for a necklace of pearls
And shows off how she has you crippled
Smirking as the smooth surface of my mind ripples

So I'll write a bittersweet poem
about chocolate kisses and ice cold snow in
hopes that you'll never figure out what I mean.
But still it's never as subtle as it seems.

Bigger thoughts float in and out
of my brown head like cirrus clouds
against a large forehead-like backdrop of maple.
Below a forest setting of tight black curls

But it always comes back to me thinking
about how love never rises from the sinking
feeling that’s called melancholy dreaming.


What Am I Hiding?
Tucked away behind my stares and looks of…well I guess I’d call it superiority or maybe even ego. The thing is that yes, my ego is inflated but with what? Ego filled with nothing substantial or real that can combat the miles of insecurities and questions that I battle with while trying to do simple things like ordering a Peppermint Hot Chocolate. I would get a mocha but I really don’t like coffee all that much, I just get it for the chance at having something warm to hold on to, something warm to consume and make me feel content for even just a second. In reality I get a decaf, because I cant really handle the coffee itself. I love the chocolate though because chocolate, even in it’s unadulterated forms, still gives me its richness and flavor without making me deal with any unexpected side effects that I cant handle.
So, what am I hiding?