Some of my poems.
This is for every guy that sold me dreams of our future.
Picture perfect love stories
Made from sweet nothings they uttered just to play the part.
Masterpiece of lies, hidden between perfect pick up lines they’d been telling from the start.
Thanks to them I understand why they say deception is an art.
And still they wonder why i never opened my legs for their closed hearts…
I used to be a person, place and thing, a noun
With a presence so profound,
You would know I was present before I even made a sound.
Me and myself had fallen so deep in love with I,
But now I no longer exists
And all that’s left is this….
Huge abyss of emptiness.
We tend to sit, talk, and reminisce.
Me and myself just haven’t been the same since…
I Died.
Back then I had a smile like sunshine,
It drove away the darkness like the sunrise.
Back then you would only see me cry sometimes,
But now leaky faucets have taken the place of my eyes.
Again, me and myself haven’t been the same without I
We forgot how to live so we eat, sleep, and survive.
You didn’t even give me a chance to say bye,
only rest peacefully,
I,
Never thought I’d ever have to bury myself or write my own eulogy.
“Here lies…
The person that I used to be.”
I was a queen, with power and dignity
I never even needed a king,
Cause I was the one who did the conquering,
So tell me how the hell you managed to conquer me?
To be continued….
This emptiness is deafening.
The sound of nothing echoes through the canals of my ears, as it beats on the drums, and triggers these tears.
This emptiness is deafening,
Cause all I seem to feel is the presence of nothing and the absence of everything.
This emptiness is deafening.
I am hollow, these bones are hollow, these victories are hollow.
THIS EMPTINESS IS DEAFENING!
Am I the only one aware of the lack of substance in the air OR is it just that I’m, the only one who cares?
Are you even listening? Baby, are you there? Can anyone hear me? Am I not being clear?
My emptiness is deafening.
I’m just waiting to disappear.
I found you embedded in the cracks of something broken.
It seems like I’ve woken up on the empty side of the bed today.
That probably explains why I miss you the way I do.
Before you my twin size bed always seemed so small and full of me.
Now it’s 3,120 square inches of mattress, sheets, pillows, and quilts woven with threads that seem to release tiny bursts of loneliness enveloped in the scent of your cologne.
Yes, I must’ve woken up on the lonely side of the bed today.
Because the four pillows I use to substitute your presence have done nothing but mock me and taunt me since the day you stopped sleeping here and normally that wouldn’t bother me but today,
Today makes 2 days since I slept with your arms around me and 2 weeks since i’ve uttered the words i love you and 2 months since I’ve been single or independent as I like to tell myself,
And I’ve been hurting for too damn long to still be hurting this damn bad.
365 days ago I invested 18 years, two months, and 18 days of my savings in your stock when you were still on the market, seeking company from other companies.
My assets depreciated in value the day I opened my legs for business and incurred my first expense trying to earn your revenue.
365 days later I still find myself clinging to the empty promises and believing in the sweet nothing’s you whisper in my ears.
And I still cry every time you find a new way to break another piece of this thing in my chest that pumps blood through my veins up to my brain to remind me that I’m still breathing.
And every tear that falls leaves a new crack in my foundation and a crack in the foundation that I spent 18 years, 2 months and 18 days trying to build and 365 days trying to repair.
365 days ago I spent the night sharing 3,120 square inches with you and tomorrow I’ll probably wake up alone on the empty side of the bed.
My golden skin,
The evidence of the remnants,
Of the 50 shades of brown that run through my veins.
The skin that feels the rain, as it falls like the tears I don’t shed as I face ignorance from bigots,
Glistening, like the sweat on the faces of the indominable people whose womb produced those that produced me,
As they produced millions upon millions of pounds of sugar a year.
My golden skin, A product of ebony and ivory still trying to learn to live in perfect harmony.
My golden skin.
My hair, My lovely, thick, curly, wavy, frizzy head of hair.
The hair that has more waves than those that splashed against the boats that brought mi gente on that Trans-Atlantic Trade so long ago.
My hair, a natural entity of savage strands, to the eyes of the ignorant.
The ignorance that fueled the extinction of a culture I would have loved to call my own.
The savage strands that straighten under heat, only to rebel and return to its natural state if they aren’t held hostage by the infinite amount of scrunchies that never seem to be enough.
My hair, my lovely, thick, curly, wavy, frizzy head of hair.
My heart,
The one that beats the rhythm the drummer plays on the conga, the son of the barrile, made in the likeness of the drums of the Africans.
My heart, that pumps the very blood shed by those who received 5, 6, 7, 29, 30 lashes for stealing a break from the 18 hours they spent on their feet under that hot caribbean sun, people now long to vacation under.
My heart that thump, thump, thumps, like the pounding of the chained feet on the dry earth as they marched in a single file to their prisons known as Plantations.
Mi corazon.
I stand here before you with my golden skin, my wild hair, and my metronomic heart,
A walking portrait painted by Los Africanos, Quisqueyano’s, and even those Europeo’s.
I may not hang in the Louvre, next to Mona Lisa.
I may not attract as many tourists as the Sistine Chapel, or David himself, but I am a walking work of art, drafted by history, and brought to life by my mother,
The daughter, of the daughter, of the daughter, of the daughter who grew in the womb of an indigenous masterpiece.
Admire me.
Forever Thugnacious 