Poverty

Poverty love is the most romantic.

He had nothing and because of that he gave his love.

For him this saying holds no truth,

“You are rich, yet you want to be loved as if you are poor.”

For him, he was poor but loved as if he knew no hunger;

as if he knew no poverty.

Countless hours, for days we were never granted,

were spent chatting.

Caressing the thought of time stopping and staying

for a day or two in each others arms.

Kissing away our doubts as the day came too quickly to an end;

As darkness quickly surrounded us.

I was reminded that he was poor.

That his love, molded by poverty came at a price.

Because for him to maintain the little he has he must work;

He must earn in order to sustain.

But did I need his money?

No.

His money met nothing to me for his love was the sweetest I ever tasted.

The love of a poor man was indeed my greatest riches.

(inspired by the film “Queen of Hearts”)

To Reign

I reign as his queen yet

he fails to recollect the sound of my voice.

Our distance is truly great yet

when he calls for me a smile appears.

This isn’t love.

Just the beginning stages of infatuation.

Will it lead to lust?

Only time will tell of our tale.

I reign as his queen yet

we’ve only touched once.

The sun slept as the stars danced

and the ideas of possibilities lingered in the night sky.

This isn’t love.

Just the beginning stages of infatuation.

Will it lead to lust?

Only time will tell of our tale.

I reign as his queen yet

he knows nothing about me.

He knows not my history.

He knows not my aspirations.

He knows not my fears.

He knows not my concerns.

He knows not my moods.

He knows not my family.

He knows not me.

And yet.

And yet.

I continue to reign as his queen.

But does he reign as my king?

Well, this isn’t love.

Just the beginning stages of infatuation.

But could it lead to something more?

Only time will tell of our tale.

#55years

Green and white runs through my veins and
yet when I open my eyes all I see is
red, white, and blue.

I am Nigeria.
I am America.
I am a Nigerian-American.

Akwa Ibom hear me,
I scream for you.

Nigeria see me,
I cry for you.

Georgia feel me,
there are days that I long for you.

America taste me,
do you taste that sweat?

I have given you my blood and sweat but
my tears, both happiness and despair,
are for Naija land.

55 years,
55 years,
#55years.

Stay strong,
stay beautiful,
stay Nigeria.

Continue to
be one.

In 55 years war has ensued,
#Biafra.

In 55 years disappearances have ensued,
#BringBackOurGirls.

In 55 years peaceful elections
have occurred,
#KeepNigeriaOne.

Nigeria Ohh!
Across the Atlantic I stand for you,
across the Atlantic I pray for you.

Decades have passed since I have
felt your landscape underneath
my feet.
The time will come when I will
stand on you once more.

Naija stay ONE.
We are all one
under God.

Nigeria continue to be,
continue to be
the white & the green.

                                             Photo credit: Naija Connect

Dear Old Black Joe

Dear Old Black Joe,

Did you know the root to your demise is money?

It's bondage have left you tied to lies that reveal an on-going truth:
running from slavery will always be your relay.

I know the white man may seem like the problem
and sometimes they were.
But when we look past him and see the desire for power
we also see the love of money.

"King Cotton!
King Cotton!
King Cotton!"

Here the ringing of
our slave bell Old Black Joe.

Though the song is different, the bell still resonates at full capacity.

And now, even to this day, we are
proud of our chains.
Not because the white man said we should be but
because we see money in these chains.

Money in chains,
Chains in money.

Money in chains,
Chains in money.

Money in chains,
Chains in money.

Money in chains,
Chains in money.

Money in chains,
Chains in money.

I suppose we have something
in common with our colonial brethren.

You see Old Black Joe,
that's the melody of our slave bell.
Now I see that it sounds like yours
but only slightly different.

I know I'm fooling myself by saying it's different
because we own the chains, but I don't think I can handle
the scariest reality: That I am choosing to be a slave...

A century has gone and still
time has managed to change into nothing at all.

DEAR MR. JUDGE

IF I HAD TO CHOOSE BETWEEN MY DAD AND PRISON, I WOULD CHOOSE MY DAD EVERYTIME.

I LOVE MY DAD. HE'S NOT A BAD PERSON, JUST A BLACK MAN WHO FOUND HIMSELF IN A BAD SITUATION. SOMETIMES HIS BAD SITUATION WAS LIFE, SOMETIMES SOCIETY, OR SOMETIMES BOTH.

YES HE HAS KILLED AND HE HAS ROBBED BUT NOT FOR HIS SAKE BUT FOR MINE. I AM HIS CHILD, IS THERE A CUT OFF PERIOD OF HIS LOVE?

HE ACTS OUT BECAUSE THAT'S THE TYPE OF LOVE HE HAS BEEN TAUGHT.

I WOULD HERE STORIES ABOUT HIM FROM ABUELA AND SEE PICTURES OF INNOCENCE.
BUT THEN IT ALL CHANGED WHEN HE SAW HIS FATHER BEHIND BARS. FROM THAT POINT ON HIS MANHOOD WAS DEFINED BY AN ENVIRONMENT WHERE HATRED AND HARM BREEDS.

HIS FATHER LOVED HIM AND WHEN HE SAW HIM IMPRISONED, TO HIM BEING A BLACK MAN EQUATED BEING A CRIMINAL. HE COULDN'T ESCAPE HIS FATE SO HE EMBRACED IT. 

MR. JUDGE IT'S NOT ALL HIS FAULT AS YOU YOU CAN SEE; WE CHOOSE TO BE WHAT WE SEE AND SOME OF US ARE WEAK AND OUR SITUATIONS TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THAT. 

BUT YOU'VE PLAYED A ROLE AS WELL. YOU SAW A CRIMINAL BECAUSE OF THE COLOR OF HIS SKIN, ALL BECAUSE IT WAS DIFFERENT THAN YOURS. WE BOTH SEE AN OPPORTUNITY ALTHOUGH THESE OPPORTUNITIES RESIDE ON OPPOSITE SPECTRUMS; I SEE AN OPPORTUNITY OF HAVING A FATHER WHEREAS YOU SEE AN OPPORTUNITY OF SILENCING YOUR ENEMIES.

AND NOW WHAT ME AND MY FELLOW FATHERLESS CHILDREN HAVE IN OUR NEIGHBORHOODS ARE GOOD MAN CAUGHT IN BAD SITUATIONS WHO ARE VIEWED AS DEGENERATES TO OTHERS. BUT TO US WE JUST SEE OUR DAD.

SO IF I HAD TO CHOOSE BETWEEN MY DAD AND PRISON, I WOULD CHOOSE MY DAD EVERYTIME.



SINCERELY, 
A ROBBED CHILD

A Sunday Kind of Day

On Sunday God was having a house party. An hour and 30 minutes in, I received a message.  I told Jesus I was heading out but would be back soon. He seemed sad but understood. That was 5 years ago.

I would see Jesus from time to time around the neighborhood and he seemed happy but we never spoke after that Sunday.

One night though we bumped into each other at the convenience store/ gas station. He was buying some water and I was struggling to buy cigarettes with the little change in my pocket. Digging in my purse for a dime, I heard my name and turned around to see Jesus just standing there, waiting, and genuinely happy to see me. The clerk didn't car about our reunion and monitored for me to hand them the dime. I gave him the money and quickly stuffed the cigarettes in my purse.

Jesus walked to the counter and paid for his water. I waited for him to finish paying; I figured that was the least I could do. We walked out of the store and sat on a bench. He looked at me and asked how I've been and I looked at him and began crying.  I could't stop crying and saying sorry for leaving him and his party. I told him about how I would see him around the neighborhood. He asked why I never said 'hi' and I said, "because I was embarrassed."He looked away from me, opened his water and drank as he stared into the night.

Wiping my eyes, I looked at Jesus and asked him if he was mad. He sad he wasn't mad just kind of sad. Sad about what I asked. 'Sad' he responded, 'that when life got in the way that I didn't make you feel as if you could talk to me. I never wanted ti make you feel embarrassed. I always thought you knew that you could talk to me even if we didn't hang out in the same circle like we did before. I will always accept you because I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU.

I started crying; I went from crying in my hands to crying on Jesus' shoulder. He patted my head, told me to wipe my tears, and offered me some water. I drank some water, wiped my tears. and lifted my head from his shoulders, well I tried at least. My heart was still heavy from all that I've seen and all that I did in those past 5 years, that all my body wanted to do was rest on Jesus' shoulder.

We sat there for a while, in silence, looking at the empty street  enclosed by street lights. We drank some more water. Jesus then took a deep breath and put his hand on my head to lift me up. I set up and took a deep breathe.

"It's ok."

I looked at him and he looked at me and repeated,

"It's ok."

We stood up and hugged. Jesus told me that his father was having another house party on Sunday and that I should come. I told him I wasn't sure that would be a good idea. His response, "Just come as you are."

He walked away and headed down the street. Once he was gone, I headed back home in the opposite direction.

I went home and thought about Jesus until I fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning I felt refreshed; I felt like I could breathe again.

It was a Sunday afternoon. I knew Jesus father was having his house party. I took a shower, put on some clothes and headed out the door but not before writing a letter to the guy who texted me who was still asleep in the house.

The note said, "Sorry Life but we no longer work."
I walked out of the house and headed to the house party.

The truth is is that I never woke up the next morning after talking to Jesus. The guy that texted me those years ago, we ended up overdosing on meth and drowning in our bath that night. A sad ending to the tale I call my story but the good news is that even though I lost my body, I gained back my soul.

Our Tango

When he cries, I am only able to capture
his tears through a text.

Distance has always been our third lover.
And the more we learn about one another
the more distant we want distance to be.

Him holding me would be delightful
but me holding him would
feed my soul.

We haven't been able to meet each other
but I know when I see him
he will see me.

The arrival of that time
makes me smile.

So now our tango is with three and if we include
time, the number jumps to four.

We will be two  sooner rather than later.
But until then, time and distance
may we have this dance?

Lost From the Future and the Past

What if I were to fall for him?
Where would that leave me standing?

Would I be caught up in fantasies and constantly demanding his touch?
Or would the light I once held slowly fade to dim?
Honestly, would we even last or crash?

He kills me with every look.
He is able to read me like a book especially when my legs open like pages.

And as I spread my legs and wrap them around his back like a Georgian vine,
I became his crazy Kudzu as I feel his soul.
And when I am lost in him, I react to thoughts of our
future,
present,
and past.

If I knew the man he was, in his hands my hands would not be.
If he knew the woman I was, I would not be holding a key to his heart.
For my heart was black, stained by pain.
And every song I sang reigned with my shame.
I was a crippled songstress.

My lips would not have been something he would kiss for they destroyed
Minds by the whip of my tongue.
Every guy that I had, I broke them down because it was fun.
I was a horrible person and I relished in my destruction.

But then I saw him, the love of my existence, trying to fix his own corruption.
I saw him at the local bar, sitting on the stage.
And even with his head down, hands slightly hitting the drums,
I knew he complimented my struggles and my dreams, my past ad my future.

He was older, yes, and I did not know his story but I knew where he was
Trying to go and his look just floored me.
He was sad and dark.
But as he looked to the audience, the dim from his halfway smile left a mark.

I knew I loved him from the start.

He began singing while slightly hitting the drums.
The audience's ears were pierced by his voice.
But all I heard was a cry for help coupled with the natural instinct to run.

Determined to make our solo a duet, I walked to the stage and stared into his eyes.
I wanted us to see one another and let our old selves die.

I extended my hand and he helped me onto the stage; the
Rhythm of the drums vibrating our touch.
I took the mic and provided a small melody, nothing more nothing less.
Our love, our song was simple.

When our song was over and the claps ensued, he took my hand as we walked off the stage.
When we sat down, it seemed we were both free from our cages by the
Sound of each other's name…

Laying next to him now,
Watching the sun kiss his skin,
I begin to smile at our future beginnings.

So what if I were to fall for him.
How often does happiness occur?

If my dim fire were to fade to darkness,
I know I will be reignited by the love of this man.

Colors

I am known as black,

But in actuality my skin tone is a shade of brown.

The way I form my words causes my peers

to mock me as white.

So you see, I often find myself in a

spectrum of confusion.

My world, for the most part is always a sky blue,

filled with possibilities and opportunities; the world is not a

burden, it’s an oyster.  

And once you get to know me, oh how

I shine bright, mirroring a yellow hue!

But sometimes green comes over me and

I am envious.

I am envious when I see money,

When I see people in magazines,

When I see portraits of similar physiques that

Will never be my physique.

So to the bathroom I run.

And in the toilet I see

different colors, I see me.

I see a sickness.

I see an obsession.

I see self-hate.

I see loss.

I see society.

I see a destructive perception.

And in the mist of all those colors,

I see the color pink.

Pink, pink, pink.

“Pink is sexy; pink equals pretty; pink makes the guys wink.”

Thinking about my youth, I realized that my spirit was once

A vibrant red.

But then over the years, it began to be washed away.

The first coat of white wash: The Social Construct of What a Female Should Be;

“You are a girl. Be a girl and look pretty.”

The second coat: How to Be Loved;

“If you want a guy, if you want to be loved, COOK A MEAL AND DUMB IT DOWN!”

And the third coat: The Idea of Success;

“Success for you is not measured in your accolades or ingenuity. No, your success, my sweet,

Pretty girl is measured in marriage and children.”

So now here I stand,

Stained in the color pink. Yuck!

When people look past my brown skin,

Or no longer see me as a black female or no longer

her my white speech patterns, they see pink.

It has come to the point, that it is imperative for them

To see pink.

They want to see something worth looking at

And not worth hearing; my red is unacceptable.

My blue is unfathomable; it is just

Simply unheard of to be ambitious. According to them, my world should revolve around

Children and men, not possibilities, not opportunities.

My color green is befriended with the color pink.

Pink loves green and green loves pink; unworthiness meet hatred.

They feed each other through their favorite spoon: insecurity.

The color pink,

A diluted red that perpetuates female servitude.

“Be a girl, wear pink! Be a lady, love pink! You with the ovaries, forever think pink!”

No one wants to see my courageous purple heart

Or see my blue sky of possibilities.

All they want to see is me being pretty in pink.

Yes I Poop, Yes I Cry. Sometimes At The Same Time [A Child's Poem]

[Girl]

Yes I poop, Yes I Cry.

Sometimes at the same time.

I am a female, with female parts.

With these parts my humanity starts.

My chest are tools for reproduction.

My privates are as well.

My hands carve the world I live in;

magic runs through my phalanges.

So don’t be surprised by my capabilities

or when I excel.

My tummy holds my food.

My feet helps me stand.

My toes keep me balance,

so I can dance, dance, dance.

I like to move;

it keeps my body healthy.

Eating is important because

it gives me energy.

Since what goes in must come out,

pooping is what cleanses me.

I poop because I’m human and

my body is working right.

So when the smell comes,

don’t be so uptight.

Relax, relax, relax and

embrace your humanity.

Enjoy the beauty of you

or risk your sanity.

[Boy]

Yes I poop, Yes I Cry.

Sometimes at the same time.

I am male; the female is my counter-partner.

Like the female, with my parts,

my humanity starts.

I have one tool for reproduction;

it’s located in my private part.

I also have a very important muscle

in my chest, called the heart.

It pumps my blood, which keeps my body working.

It also helps me breath; that’s because of oxygen.

So when I eat and when I play, I keep my heart

on my mind and never do the extreme.

My arms help me hold things.

My legs allow me to walk.

When I’m really excited, my brain

helps me talk.

My mouth helps me taste.

My nose is for smell.

My back holds me up.

My butt is my tail.

I poop too, but I

can also cry.

Tears express my feelings; they

come from my eyes.

Feelings are not just hers.

I feel because I’m working right.

So when I express myself

don’t be so uptight.

Relax, relax, relax and

embrace your humanity.

Enjoy the beauty of you

or risk your sanity.

Foreboden Fruit

When I hear his voice,
When I see his face,
my heart drops because
my infatuation makes me
weak.

As I fall to my knees,
his gentle lips caress me
and give me ease.

He is my foreboden fruit.

When he touches my hand,
When he holds my hair,
my mind screams with
fantasies.

As I lay in bed stressed,
his loving body lays next
to me and in his
arms I fall asleep.

No good will come of this.

When he stares into my eyes,
When I see his smile,
I become lost in
him.

I want to be lost in him.

No good will come of this.

As I fall to my knees,
As I lay on the ground,
clutching my heart because of the pain,
his gentle lips caress me,
his loving arms pick me to my
feet.

He looks into my eyes,
wiping the tears as they fall.
And as I kissed his cheek,
his ghost was no longer
in front of me.

He was my foreboden fruit.


*This poem is dedicated to those who have lost a significant other.*

Silly Me

My lullaby
is his favorite song.

Every night it is played and
every night into a deep slumber I fall,
only to be awakened by
the buzzing cicadas,
living but life-less trees, and
a licking dog.

His favorite song fills the room,
moves through my ears, and then
ricochets off my heart into my soul.
All this is done through his voice.

When he sings,
he sings with joy.
His joy brings me joy.
It is only then
we are connected.

I am lost.
I don't know how
or when I will be
in his heart.

When he speaks,
it is a common tongue.
Words passerbyers use.

He doesn't care
the way my
fantasy of him does.

(silence- Cicadas buzzing)

Silly me.
Silly me.
Silly me.
A 'silly us'
we will never be.

Cuïnty (short stories collection)

I knew I was gay the day I become a vegetarian. For some reason meat was no longer appealing to me; in actuality it became gross. I was 11 yrs. old.
I didn't tell anybody, not because of fear of being outcasted, but because I knew they would try to ruin who I am.
I don't know if I was born gay; I always liked what I liked regardless of who it was meant for. So when I started to act on my feelings, I wasn't doing it just because, I was just doing me.

Now let's go back. I realized I was gay at 11 yrs but I didn't act on it until I was 15 yrs old. In high school, it's easier to find where you belong than in middle school. By this time, I was a full blown vegetarian, on the track team with honor roll. I had a beautiful girlfriend and nobody really fucked with me because my family was crazy, like an Addams family crazy.
My life was good for the most part but one day at school, that changed when I smelled the most delicious thing: meat.

The smell hit me on hump day, a Wednesday morning as I was walking late to 2nd period. I was minding my business when I walked past the home economics room. Students usually skipped home ec so I was surprised to see a student who I've never seen before in class, cooking. When I walked inside to see if I could get a cookie from Mr. Hours, the home ec teacher, the smell of delicious, delightful, mouth watering meat infiltrated my nose. Usually the smell of meat made me want to throw up, it even suffocated me at times. But this time it was different. I wanted that thing in my mouth so bad. Without even thinking I reached into the plate. I could imagine the ultimate moment in which me and that meat would touch when I was stopped by a slap to my hand. I didn't even see the student standing there.

"Hey!! Stop!" said the student as he hit my hand.

Looking up, I saw looking at me a beautiful young man. With ginger hair, pale skin, and hazel green eyes. Ginger kids were not my style but he, he was sexy. Like a sexy ghost, like a sexy Casper when Casper was still in ghost form but sexier. I wanted him and I wanted his meat.

"Sorry but your meat smells so good."

"Excuse me?" said sexy Casper

"What's your name?"

"Casper." said sexy Casper

"Wow, that's crazy. In my head I was calling you sexy Casper."

"That's inappropriate" said sexy Casper

"How so, you are freaking hawt!"

"Thank you but I have to get back to cooking." said sexy Casper

He began walking away from me but I couldn't let this opportunity pass.

"Ok, I'm sorry. Let's start over. My name is Cuïnty but people call me  T for short."

"Have they ever called you cunt?" said sexy Casper

"Yeah but then I broke their nose. So now they don't do it anymore."

Watching him work on the second piece of meat I was mesmerized.
" So what are you making?"

"I'm just seasoning a steak."

"It smells good."

"Thanks."

He smiled at me with his beautiful lips and teeth. The only thing that kept me from reaching over to kiss him was my desire for his steak.

"Would you like to taste the first one I made." said sexy Casper

To excited to speak, the only thing I could do was nod my head.
He cut off a piece for me. Got another plate and put my piece on the second plate. He got a fork and knife for me and gave me my plate. He was what one would call a gentleman. I wasn't into "gentle" and I definitetly wasn't into "men" but he was different. He was someone I could get used to.
I usually eat with my hands but I couldn't imagine missing the full experience of this steak so I used the knife and fork.
When I put it in my mouth he watched me. Staring into his hazel-green eyes I just wanted him and his food. With our eyes locked, I put his meat into my mouth and I was off. It was so good. It ignited all my senses, some I didn't even know I could still use. I was lost in this meat. Making so many noises and motion of satisfaction. And as I was coming down from my high, something got me started again. Sexy Casper touched my hand.

"Was it really that good?" said sexy Casper

"Oh shit, sexy Casper! You are going to make me cum.
Please let go of me and don't talk."

He let go.
I sat there for a minute or two, trying to recuperate. He began attending to the second meat when I opened my eyes. He looked at me with a smile of approval. I just stared at him.

"Good?" said sexy Casper

I got up and walked over to him. I  did that movie thing that actors do right before they kiss someone, look into their eyes as if they are searching for something. Man! I was caught in the moment and I didn't care. He was so fucking sexy.
When I approached him and touched his chest my body was on fire again. I began kissing him like I was missing something I hadn't had in a long time. The best part about it besides him kissing back was that we were engulfed in the delicious smell of his meat.

"You are intense." said sexy Casper

I started unbuttoning his shirt. I wanted him so bad!

"What in Betty Crocker are you two doing?" said Mr. Hours

Like a hata magnet was pulling us apart we separated immediately when Mr. Hours walked in.

"We weren't doing anything." said sexy Casper

"Just cooking."

"Oh please! Cuïnty go to class."
"And Casper I thought I could trust you in here by yourself." said Mr. Hours.

"Oh shit! Class!"
" I gotta go! Nice to meet you sexy Casper."

I gathered up my stuff and ran to class. I carry extra tardy passes with me just in case something comes up. As I rushed into class and put my pass down, I sat next to my girlfriend.

"What the hell happened?" said  Zeta
"Why are you so late."

"I stopped by the home ec room."

"And did you get any?" said Zeta

"What?! Get what?"

"Any cookies girl!" said Zeta

"Oh, no. Mr. Hours didn't have any today."

She shrugged her shoulders.
I came in just in time for our pop quiz. Our teacher was passing out the test paper.

"T?" said Zeta
"Why do you smell like meat?"

"What? I don't smell like-

I began sniffing my shirt and immediately I was reminded of sexy Casper. The teacher walked by and told us to 'shh'.
I didn't want to say anything more so I just put finger to my lips in a quiet motion to Zeta. She shook her head like 'whatever.' As I was taking the quiz I began gnawing on my shirt...

Poverty

Poverty love is the most romantic.

He had nothing and because of 

that he gave his love.

For him this saying holds no truth,

“You are rich, yet you want to

be loved as if you are poor.”

For him, he was poor but loved as

if he knew no hunger;

as if he knew no poverty.

Countless hours, for days we were never granted,

were spent chatting.

Caressing the thought of time stopping and staying

for a day or two in each others arms.

Kissing away our doubts as the day 

came too quickly to an end;

As darkness quickly surrounded us.

I was reminded that he was poor.

That his love, molded by poverty came at a price.

Because for him to maintain the little

he has he must work;

He must earn in order to sustain.

But did I need his money?

No.

His money met nothing to me for his love 

was the sweetest I ever tasted.

The love of a poor man was 
indeed my greatest riches.

(inspired by the film “Queen of Hearts”)

Naked

They stand in the white room,
with bright lights,
with bright eyes.
His mind exposed and
her clothes off.

They look into each other.
Raw.
Just raw is how they are.

Words are pointless,
so they don't speak.

She walks up to him,
steadily.
Like a dementor, she breathes
his breathe.
Making him weak,
making him fall to his knees
for her.

Inches from her feet
he falls and yet
he still does not touch.

Almost discovered,
she jumps back.
He stands up.

He looks at her.
He truly looks at her.

He sees the marks on her body.
The imprint of the bra strap.
The prickly hair trying to grow back.
Her multicolored flesh.
The contours of her body.
The shape of her lips.
The movement of her hair.
Her desire to be touched,
yet his hands remain to himself.

They stand in front of each
other once more.

Their hands,
inches away from
each other's heart.

Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom!
They feel the pulsation.

Overwhelmed by the sinsation.

Eyes opened.
Hearts opened.
Their hands touch for a moment.

Their backs turned,
they walk away from each other
exposed.

The Greatest Love Story/ Worst Poem Ever

The Greatest Love Story
is a tale few people know,

because it involves a concept
people are reluctant to discuss,
death.

To love is to live but
while living you're also dying
and while dying you
are also living.

So to enjoy love
one must also have a
soft spot for death.

Are not the stories of
Romeo and Juliet, Jack and Rose,
Sam and Ann, Edward and Bella,
narratives that cause us to
wipe our tears and yearn
for someone to love and be loved by.

But are they not narratives
embedded in the tragedy
that is death?
Do these characters
not reflect loss?

They lost themselves
and in doing so gained
a love only a few
people know.

The Greatest Love Story
is a tale but a tale
worth telling.

Because to love is to live
and as one begins
to live they see no
fear in the loss.

Ambiguity

Never truly defined,
I stand in line.

Doubting my presence,
criticizing my essence,
slowly composing my message
as I wait.

Wait for those in my front
and my behind
to tell me I am
just a mime.

I mimic what they are
and never truly know me,
so I am always their
ambiguity.

They say I'm
neither here nor there.
Either this or that
and because of my indefiniteness,
in my box I will be forever
trapped.

But seeing that
there's more to me,
I step out of line and preach.

I preach to my future and my past
that today marks a new day
in which I begin to see
that I am no longer marked
by my uncertainty.

I say to them,
I finally know myself.
I know I am a preaching soul
with clipped wings.
That although content,
my heart still desires
material things.
That while a stranger,
I'm still part of the
in crowd.
And that although quiet,
my voice is still loud.

The line moved.
People staring as
I wait for their reply.

The only sound to be heard
with the shuffle were
deep sighs.

They said,
"Young blood, go back in
that line. Go stand
where you belong
because the words you
preach, is no man's
song.

You can 't change our
interpretation because
it is painted with obscurity,
so you will continue to
remain the chosen
ambiguity.

Now come to this window
with your card out and
let your indefiniteness
be marked.

And begin to understand that
you're in no man's land
and learn to embrace
your part."

Sadden by my failure
with the card in my hand,
I step outside to breathe.

Nothing surrounded  me
except
the swaying trees.
And so I looked up
for I needed to pray.

As I saw the blue sky,
my pain now prevalent
turnt my world an ugly grey.

The rain came hard,
making puddles
all around.
In moments,
I dropped my card
to the ground.

But not knowing
what's right for me,
I reach for my card
and in the puddles
I could see.

I could see my crown
staring back at me,
my doubt as well
as my uncertainty.

And as the rain continued,
now clouding my sight,
I sadly waved to my
ambiguity.

The Light

The fiery light

Dances in the glass.

The movements it

Illustrates is seen as crass.

The fiery light

Emanates from the wick

What it absorbs.

Its movement has

Now become a

Flick, flick, flick.

The fiery light

Has now achieved piece.

No longer it dances.

No longer it moves.

The light has found

Its rhythm in the night,

The light is

Now still.