Tuesday, February 26, 2013

The Houston Streets

These streets are hard and cold
Littered with bullet shells
Which filled a body full of holes
Stained with the blood of someone who may forever be unknown.

On the corner stands Missy.
Business has been slow lately
So she's hiding from a man she calls "daddy"
But secretly running from the emotion of the Missy that once was.

On the corner across from her stands Dre
Selling dope to his brothers friend Chris
Who only wants to escape the presence
In hopes for a better future.
Mother always drunk and pissed
Blaming him for his father's absence.

Dogs barking
Kids yelling
Mrs. Jones screaming
Because Mr. Jones is going upside of her head.... Again.
For something she probably didn't do.
As always.

Baby crying.
Tasha cries along with her.
She can't raise a baby alone.
She's just a baby herself.
Ricky doesn't care about her or his child.
He only cares about his mama and himself.

Sister Patterson going around Houston spreading God's word.
As if everybody did't know that her and Deacon Jackson have been sleeping together for six months now.
Well... Everybody except Mrs. Jackson that is.

Ms. Katherine is working three jobs to raise her grandchildren
Because her selfish ass daughter disappeared to Miami
In hopes of becoming  a Basketball Wife.
To get rich like Shaunie, Evelyn, and Tami.

The streets of Houston is a cold, dangerous place
Because a bullet has no name
And a knife doesn't recognize race.
The scars of pain are permanent.
They cannot be erased.

Some people will never know even a portion of what I'm talking about.
Because every hood is separate from the rest of the world.
So how could they?
They're only on the outside looking in.

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Imprisoned


Why do you this?
Why do you trap me...
No...
Why do you IMPRISON me
Behind the steel bars of lies and fraud?
You knew.


You kissed me
Because you knew that my soul would fall victim to the burning passion of your lips.
Even if i tried
I couldn't resist
And you knew.


Wrapping your arms around my waist
Making the room spin
The scar on my heart your trying to erase.
That ugly scar that only you could create
You knew.


Whispering "I love you" in my ear
When you knew it wasn't true.
Killing me softly in a room full of people.
But nobody noticed except me and you.
You knew. 

All this time I spent trying to forget you. 
But your name was carved in my memory.
All this time i spent attempting to hate you..
But my love for you lingered.
All of the time i spent away from you,
I thought i was strong enough to finally face you.
But i wasn't.
And you knew.


You wanted to imprison me in your world.
To lock me behind the steel bars of lies and fraud. 

All it takes is a touch, three words, and a single kiss to lure me in.
And you knew. ❤



Friday, February 15, 2013

R.I.P


R.I.P to the son of Ms. Jones
The bullet had no name
But still claimed Tyrone as its own.

R.I.P to the son of Ms. Jones
The straight 'A' student
Who was also captain of the basketball team
And who was graduating in the fall.

R.I.P to the son of Ms. Jones
Who stepped foot on the hard streets of Harlem one night
Just to get milk for his mother.
Instead,
The mother of Tyrone Jones ended up identifying her son's body in the gutter.

Ms. Jones,
The woman who once gave a testimony every Sunday
Now sits quietly on the last pew of the church.
Having nothing at all to say.
Because her son recently met his maker.
Tyrone abruptly approached his judgement day.

Trying to find the silver lining in all of this,
Ms. Jones can't find not a single blessing in the painful mist.
Her soul has been beaten by grieve's painful fist.

Ms. Jones tries so hard to see the forest
But there's this one tree, you see.
Trying to see the light,
But the shadow of darkness always blocks her view it seems.

Tyrone's death didn't make the news.
Because to them
He was just another dead nigga in Harlem.
Another mess to clean up in the gutter.
Never did they think
That he left behind a pain-stricken mother.
As long as their check's came in,
They didn't give a damn one way or another.

The hurt became unbearable
Day after day,
"Bad" effectively morphed into "terrible"
Her soul was wounded.
She felt alone.
Only knowing one way to end it all,
She placed the barrel to her head
And pulled the trigger without a second thought.
Leaving yet another, "mess"
Only this time in her own home.

R.I.P Ms. Jones.
The beloved mother of a son who's name was Tyrone.

        

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Mulatto Girl

My name is Yaya
and I am Mulatto
Because my mother was trapped in a world of pain.
Becoming Master ____'s bed wench
Birthing his children again and again.
I watch  her work in the fields
Only because of the difference of our skin.
Picking bundles upon bundles of cotton, tobacco and sugar cane.

My name is Yaya
And I am Mulatto.
The other children don't like me
Because their Mamie's told them I was Master _____'s daughter.
And everyday
They remind me that no matter how long and wavy my hair is
No matter how green my eyes are.
And no matter how yellow my skin may be,
I am still nigga.

But I know who I am.
I know what I am.
I know what the entirety of me consists of.
My daddy is white.
And my mama is a nigga.
Both of her parent's were niggas
Coming from a long line of niggas
Starting from the warriors of the Mandingo tribe of Africa.

But I....
I am not like any of them.
I am not white.
Nor am I nigga.
My name is Yaya.
And I am Mulatto.

The Meaning of Love

To be honest,
I don't know how to love.
Never,
In all of my years have I ever loved.

I don't know how to love.
I don't even know what love looks like
Because all I remember seeing was my father stumbling in the house late at night.
With a bottle of Whiskey in his hand.
His eyes were red with both intoxication and hate.
And my mother always felt his wrath.
Even though she tried to hide it from me
I saw how her white shirt was speckled red.
I also noticed how every morning,
their "love" left a new hole in the wall.

I don't know how to love
I don't even know what love sounds like.
Because all I ever heard were my mother's screams.
My father's shouts.
The loud "BOOM!" against the walls.
My mother was never beautiful nor valuable to him.
My father only described her as stupid, unwanted, unneeded, and replaceable.

I don't know how to love.
I don't even  know what love feels like.
Because all I remember was the feeling of fear
Jumping from my mother, onto me, and back again.
My father would tell her he loved her,
But soon after he would ball up his fists
And slam his "love" upside her head.
And yet,
she stayed.
So I remember feeling confused.

What is love?
I've never seen it.
I've never heard t.
I've never felt it.

Never in my life have I loved.
Because I don't know what love it.
But one thing is for sure.
I do know what love is not.


Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Your Side of the Bed

I open my window when it rains.
Because the soothing sound of the raindrops hitting my windowpane
Is more pleasing than the loud roar of loneliness.

And honestly,
I dread waking up in the mornings
Because I know that I will roll over to no one at all.
And be forced to wrap my arms around your pillow.
Funny how I have a king-sized bed,
But I don't have a king to share it with.

I'm tired of calling out your name
And not getting an answer.
I don't know how much more I can take of not receiving
The love and affection my heart desires.

Although you swear its not true
I sometimes feel as though my rank is number two.
Your career having all of you.
Almost as if you would rather feel the rush the stage consist of,
Than the red passion of my burning love.
Seems as though your married to your music,
And I am only the mistress.

And every time.
Every single time,
I see your bags pack,
My heart cringes.
And a part of me turns gray.
And I know you notice it
because you kiss me ten seconds longer than you did yesterday
Right before you leave me
To cater to your awaiting fans.

And that's why I make love to you the way that I do.
Because I have to schedule our love sessions.
So that's why I give you all of me
And leave your mouth wide open.
Because God only knows when the next time will be.

I see you trying though.
Because you call me every chance you get.
And text me throughout the day.
You even Skype me at night.
But trying isn't good enough anymore.
It's not the same.
I want to feel you.
I want to hear you.
When I wake up in the morning,
I want to be able to roll over and lay my head on your chest.
Instead of rolling over to no one at all,
Except the cold body of loneliness.

Friday, February 8, 2013

The Voice of a Mistress

I could never be as naïve as you.
You take the award for the worlds biggest fool.
Ever notice that "your man" is never home?
That's because he's lying  in my bed calling ME boo.

You may have his son,
But I have his daughter and his heart.
Looks to me like the other woman is actually you.

You aren't ready for the truth.
Trying to drown me in my flaws.
But quiet as it's keep,
The man you call yours cherishes my flaws and all.
An if i let you know that simple fact,
Under a rock you will crawl.

Going around town bragging on how lucky he is to have a woman like you,
Meanwhile,
Him and I are in the shower finishing up round two.

And yet,
You have the audacity to come at me....
CHILE PLEASE!
I don't owe you anything.
He's the one who promised you a wedding ring.
Not I.
So don't come for me talking all fly.
Be honest with yourself.
You knew I owned the twinkle in his eye.

You are so stupid.
And so foolish
That you try to shade my name.
When every night,
After I'm through,
I'm nice enough to send "your boo"
Back home to you.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Unpretty

The feeling of unpretty.
I can't shake it.
So I shower myself with material things just to fake it.

Some people may say I'm pretty
But the women in the magazines tell me otherwise.
Because my body isn't the same size
And because there is no twinkle in my eyes.
And not to mention my slightly larger thighs.

I'm unpretty because the span of my hips are wide.
They attract unwanted attention.
My breast enter the room before me.
Acting as my guide.

Unpretty am I
Because my stomach goes out further than i would like.

And honestly,
Every stretch mark on my body is like a battle wound to me.
Representing every time the wining  victory went to the feeling of unpretty.

I'm not pretty like Beyonce.
Syleena Johnson.
Syleecia Thompson.
Or even Janet Jackson.
Obviously I'm alone in the category of "ugly".
Accompanied by only the everlasting presence of unpretty.

And even if there was
Even an once of prettiness inside of me,
My flaws attacked it and left it to die in a pool of red defeat.

Everybody always says "It's so hard being me"...
Try not loving yourself.
Try being stabbed by the vicious thorn of unpretty. ❤

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

In the Atmosphere

"She" is out there somewhere.
Swirling in the atmosphere.
I try not to say "our daughter" 
Because that is a bond we never got to share.
I feel like I have failed as a woman, wife, and mother.
I wasn't strong enough to bring a child into this world.
Just the thought makes my heart shutter.

My husband blames me.
I can see it in his eyes.
Although my accusations he denies,
His face says otherwise. 
Perfectly can i hear his silent cries.
And I dont blame him.
It is my fault. 
Myself i don't victimize.

"She" is like the sun that never got the chance to rise.
Now "She" is only the twinkle in the pale blue skies.
I wanted to shower her with hugs and kisses.
To give her a lifetime supply of a mother's love.
But that will never happen. 
And it's hard for me to swallow.
My tears fall like there is no tomorrow.

I'm carrying a ton of weight right now.
So it's hard to move foward.
But hopefully I can find the silver lining.
And then maybe relief can be uncovered.
And then maybe i wont walk around with my head lowered.
And maybe,
Just maybe,
One day i will look up high 
And see her face in the sky.
Because my baby is out there somewhere.
Swirling in the atmosphere.
But yet and still i can't say "our daughter"
Because that is a bond we never got to share. ❤