Poetry
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The people I love are shadows Because they no longer exist. They are trapped in my memory. Mere shadows of what they used to be. Thoughts of what was and what will never be. Fading with time as everything does. But the pain never really goes away.
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I’m not an architect but I keep making plans Hoping one day the world would fit in the palm of my hands Praying that one day I could make you mine But loving you is like watching the sun rise It’s beautiful and brilliant but it’s not only for me But honestly you’re the woman
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Meeting you in a past life would have been a waste. The old versions of me would not be able to handle all of you. The way that you view the world is quite innocent. There’s still good in the world in your eyes. My heart has been worn down by disappointment. Straining to find
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30 looms around the corner but I’m not afraid of it anymore. There’s something about society telling us to be young forever ..that seems like a scam. Youth wasn’t all it was set up to be. The life I was supposed to led was dictated by reality tv. That wasn’t the life meant for me.
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Asking for another new beginning seems redundant at this point. Yet here we are, on the precipice of something great, or so it would seem. My body is too fragile. To suffer another loss would be devastating. So please, let me have this tabula rasa. For the final time.
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In the face of a white man, I’ll always be a black woman. I only get to be myself when I’m by myself. Gender, identity, preferences blur then fall away all together. I don’t have to pretend to be everyone that I’m not. I’m tired of trying on someone else’s persona in order to feel
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Please pick up the phone. You need to know the truth. My heart aches knowing that I’m lying to the person that I love. But there’s this weight I’ve been carrying for far too long. This feeling of discomfort fills my stomach. The thought of a future where my mistakes no longer haunt me. That’s
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I was in a creative slump for the last few months of 2021. I was not able to write anything of merit, except for one poem. I cherish that poem the most because I wrote it for the person that I am in love with. I do not say that lightly. I guess my creative
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The perfect Sunday does exist. It’s me laying in bed listening to my person type away at the computer. The mouse clicks and keyboard clacks sound determined. It’s the perfect background noise coupled with the fan that hits ever so gently. Is this what peace feels like? I never got to experience a restful Sunday
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I guess I should have known that most of you would be unknown. To me, to strangers, but mostly to yourself. I’ve heard the phrase that we contain multitudes several times over the years. But it didn’t make sense until I met you. There are moments when I feel so close to you. So close
Trapped In The Margins 