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.*