Tuesday, August 2, 2011

"they"

i am told

to write more than twenty lines

and speak the names

of ‘they’ for which i speak of



over and over again

i am told

to shave off the mystery

and let the kinks

fall to the floor

in black thick heaps

so they can understand



i am told to stop

writing ‘they’

and speak the name

of the white folk

or the friend

or the lover

or the ‘they’ who

i know is me

cause no one believes me

until i speak a name



my words

are not paint

and they cant see the face

but i am a painter

with a pencil as a brush


my abstract nature

is just a sign that i don’t know myself

is what they say

she says

(the woman

who always asks me to write more than twenty lines)

'stop making lines

so short

use the whole page

to say

what it is you have to stay

and stop using ‘they’

cause no one understands that

you are not a painter

and they want to see the face'

she says

'go deeper in to yourself

and use bigger words

and why are colors

abundantly used

there is much more in this life

you know, than colors

much more to put in your poems

and the sun is a tired

fixture

in your twenty lines

and it's dying out

and you are getting dry

write a full line

use better description

and stop writing about

not being a poet

when you know

that that is all you have ever been

and stop trying to slam

when you are soft

and sincere

and dont like people

interrupting you

with ooooh and ahhhhs

cause then you forget your spot

and feel lost

you never needed that

but at some point someone told you

you did

and you could never perform

those pieces

cause you are a baby blue

bird who chills in the nest

and loves to write short lines

about color

with small words

but you cant keeping using ‘they’

cause people want to recognize

faces

when they read your shit

they are lost

inside the shit

you write

they shake the head

and say with flat eyes

i like it

thats good

but they need you to write a little more

than twenty lines

and make your sentences longer

and admit that you are a poet

and you got a purpose

and you have more than twenty lines

inside of you.'

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Womanchild, .know.love.be. Thyself.

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a womanchild in a land where nothing is promised. my belly births a bundle of sounds. words live inside my head. sometimes they stay there for years. aching to marinate. i await for spices to calm them. saturate them. give them life.taste.rhythm. i share it through sound.words. i write lovepoems & politicalprose. i stay singing. i'm often laughing. and always loving.