The sea calls me back home
Like an early morning call to prayer
A spiritual ablution for the soul- if you must
what an oceanic feeling it is
Every time I submerge myself in the sea
I release all my worries
as the water gently moves through me
I feel like a starfish
Rotating like a sun dial
Until I’m cleansed from within
And I’m without sin
the pools of my eyes
swell with nothing but blood these days
they run like the faucet of emotions
left unattended
until the sink overflows
my body swelters from the blistering heat
of anger that pulses through my chest
rage emanates manifesting
as if they are droplets of sweat
running down the back the nape of my neck
until I’m swimming in a river of secreting glands
baptized by my
anger alchemized
the pools of my eyes
swell with nothing but blood these days
they run like the faucet of emotions
left unattended
until the sink overflows
my body swelters from the blistering heat
of anger that pulses through my chest
rage emanates manifesting
as if they are droplets of sweat
running down the back the nape of my neck
until I’m swimming in a river of secreting glands
baptized by my
anger alchemized
God is in the bird on my balcony. I sit alone in my empty apartment on a wet February evening. He send me company- a little birdie all alone looking for warm company. A place to call home, just like me. I allow birdie to cozy in the corner and nestle on the floor of my balcony. Flying by and visiting me- feels as if God is saying hi. Having faith as the heart of birdie, light as a feather and trusting like wings in flight.
she was born in slick oil
fragile wings covered in grease
smothered barley can breathe
yet survived
and they all gawk at her
with green eyes
wondering how she survived
and is able to soar that high
my mother was a desert flower
gums the shade of expresso
a deep shade of cherry lipstick
always, kissed her lips
and when i watched her in the mirror
it always seemed as if
she had the sun in her eyes- slightly squinted
every time she filled them with kohl
she always stood tall, head held high
with a stern look plastered on her face
two feet planted firm into earth
while her roots ran almost, as deep as her pride
catus rose, covered in thorns
she was protective of woody ribs
and spongy fleshy interior
only bearing her soul to a select few
during the depths of night she would bloom
gently humming lullabies around the house
tidying up as a young mother of 6
songs reminiscent of the youth she left in Ethiopia
at the tender age of 15 treading through dirt roads barefoot
surviving the flat desert like terrain
walking for more than seven days
only to reach somalia
to soon be dancing around bullets ricocheted
jumping off moving vehicles
civil war snatching her innocence away
having to witness her dear friends pass
only a select few were able to make it out
alive, whilst the smell of gunpowder
still fresh on their minds
for her to then board a plane
gripping the hand of the little girl she once was
as the other gently rests
on top of her full belly of her unborn daughter
moving to a foreign land thousands of miles away
sometimes, for a split second
if I look close enough
i can still see that wide eyed and rebellious teen
who left everything and dared to dream -
live, survive, and defies all odds
my mother is a desert flower
despite it all she still blooms in the dark.
my mother was a desert flower
gums the shade of expresso
a deep shade of cherry lipstick
always, kissed her lips
and when i watched her in the mirror
it always seemed as if
she had the sun in her eyes- slightly squinted
every time she filled them with kohl
she always stood tall, head held high
with a stern look plastered on her face
two feet planted firm into earth
while her roots ran almost, as deep as her pride
catus rose, covered in thorns
she was protective of woody ribs
and spongy fleshy interior
only bearing her soul to a select few
during the depths of night she would bloom
gently humming lullabies around the house
tidying up as a young mother of 6
songs reminiscent of the youth she left in Ethiopia
at the tender age of 15 treading through dirt roads barefoot
surviving the flat desert like terrain
walking for more than seven days
only to reach somalia
to soon be dancing around bullets ricocheted
jumping off moving vehicles
civil war snatching her innocence away
having to witness her dear friends pass
only a select few were able to make it out
alive, whilst the smell of gunpowder
still fresh on their minds
gripping the hand of the little girl she once was
as the other gently rests
on top of her full belly of her unborn daughter
to board a plane
moving to a foreign land thousands of miles away
sometimes, for a split second
if I look close enough
i can still see that wide eyed and rebellious teen
who left everything and dared to dream -
live, survive, and defies all odds
my mother is a desert flower
despite it all she still blooms in the dark.
my mother was a desert flower a striking midnight beauty gums the shade of espresso her face shaped as a full moon star lit it always seemed as if she had seen the sun in her eyes - slightly squinted every time she filled them with kohl
always she stood tall like a fortress with her guard up and feet planted firm while her roots ran as deep as her pride
prickly like a cactus she was protective of woody ribs and spongy fleshy interior only bearing her soul to a select few during the depths of night she blooms
gently humming lullabies the house as she cleans as a young mother of 6 songs reminiscent of the youth she left in ethiopia at the tender of age of 15 treading through dirt roads barefoot to only reach somalia to dance around bullets ricocheted jumping off moving vehicles and see her dear friends pass away my mother is a dessert flower through it all she defies odds to rise above it all
it’s as if my life is oozing out of my hands
the more I try to hold on tighter the quicker time slips through my cracks of my fingers
weeks feel like days months feel like minutes and now as I open my eyes almost a year has passed me by
i barely remember how i spent my days all of them have been mashed up the darkness has left me in a haze I don’t know how much longer I can wait for this to change waiting for better days.
breasts stiff from rivers of golden milk /
flowing from her boobs/
gently lifting her newborn to her nipple /
she drapes her scarf over her child’s face /
protecting her from the cool afternoon breeze
beside her sit the other three children and/
the rest of her community/
sitting under the sycamore tree/
here is where you bring you’re worries/
and woes to our beloved mother/
our portal of life feeding us in the physical realm/
nurturing, shading, and protecting us/
we call upon elders to guide us under her guidance /
here is where life lays in the core of each of her rings
two empty chairs
sit across one another
on the small sliver
of the street side
balcony floor
I left my heart at the butcher shop
well, not actually
but, what’s difference does it make
when opening up my heart
feels like a piece of rotating meat //
cold, slapped up by random men
naked, on display with my dignity on the block
and vulnerable for everybody to see //
the longer i dangle around in this
uncrisp air, unclaimed and unwanted
the less i am able to bear
flies nibbling at my body
as if i were human tartar//
why does love feel
like a humiliation ritual
when they all claim
it’s supposed to heal my heart?
There was a girl that lived in Harlem
I would watch her walk down Adam Clayton
In her baby yellow dress
chunky twists that would tumble down her back
and an egg in her hand
She was a celestial being
with bambi eyes and a candy sweet smile
Every time I saw her she would always
Have a singular large brown egg
nestled in the palm of her hands
She would make her way down the block
Old men on warm concrete stoops
And young men congregated on the corner alike
Would sear her with their eyes
Whistle out sweet nothings
And the bold few approach her
to trip her up
So that delicate thing
Between her…. Hands would be crushed.
That’s what all the men wanted anyways
Her untouched egg
The deep, dark denim skies were lined with twilight stars. Alone I sat on the ferry, peering out the window to see the ever-sparkling Seattle skyline slowly fade further and further away.
I glimpse at my reflection, only to see rows upon rows of maple wooden seats lay behind me.
As I sit here penning this piece in my warm blanket, protecting me from the cool midnight breeze.
The monotonous humming sound of the ferry engine fills the air of empty white space.
one of the few times that my inner thoughts are not clouded with unwanted static noise. A rare, peaceful moment, the sound of solace in the midst of my turbulent and chaotic life.
Happiness has a way of
stretching elastic bodies like balloons
to breathe new life into limp latex limbs
only to watch it slip away
a singular red balloon
gone, bobbing on by to
POP— somewhere off in the distant sky
In an ugly society, what is the role of the beautiful woman? Is she the dignified deity or the deceitful devil?
Alone she sits on her shrine. Beside her lie all her opulent offerings. Fresh flowers, fragrant fruit, and frankincense.
Her full breast hang like low like ripen fruit. Soft belly rimmed with rolls. And hips wide that stretch as far as the ocean. Sitting pretty and pristine. Beauty personified- she is like a Venus figurine.
Have we ever stopped and wondered what were her hopes, thoughts, and dreams? Stripping her of her humanity to feed our desires. She is to us water to societies insatiable thirst for beauty. All to her demise. Merely, a pretty face, a vessel, to be summoned and her soul sacrificed. A dignified deity, for whom her devoted disciples siphoned her likeness for their benefit.
Now, if she accepts her beauty, divinity, and assume the role as reverend. Then she is a deceitful devil. How dare a beautiful woman reclaim her power, know her beauty, and worth! Why is she only sanctified when her identity is defined by someone other than herself? Her beauty only valid when it is to feed someone else’s hungry eyes. And why is she thrown out from the gates of heaven- cursed by damnation; for wanting more than blind adoration.
Beauty is not a virtue. A beautiful woman doesn’t need to be sanctioned to seize her beauty. Nor, is she sanctified nor sinful. For she is a human, not meant to be isolated alone on an altar. Or succumb to societies treacherous treatment. Rich with a complex inner world and beauty that is more than just skin deep.
This is my second time writing a prose poem. It’s a rough draft unfinished but I would like your thoughts and feedback.
In an ugly society, what is the role of a beautiful? Is she a dignified deity or deceitful devil? Have you ever considered- a human?
Alone she sits on her shrine. Along with all her beautiful offerings. Flowers, fruit, and frankincense perfume the air. Her full breasts hang like fruit. Belly soft rolls over her skin. Hips wide that stretch as far as the ocean. Sitting pretty and pristine. Beauty personified she is. As the ancient venus figurines of a lifetime before. But, is she a human or an object of desire?
Did you ever ask her if she wanted to be worshipped? Strip her away from her own humanity, thoughts, and feelings. Replace them with your projections, limited love, and unadulterated adoration. She is merely a beautiful face- not because she makes herself beautiful, but the beauty is her. Objectified and worshipped, simply for what her presence represents. Her life force is harnessed to the devote disciple siphoning her beauty, youth, energy, her entire likeness for their benefit.
But, if she acts like she is divine, knows her worth, and reclaims her power she is evil. She is only beautiful and sanctified if only she doesn't know her power. her beauty is only valid if it's to satisfy your hungry eyes.
This is my second time writing a prose poem. It’s a rough draft unfinished but I would like your thoughts and feedback.
In an ugly society, what is the role of a beautiful? Is she a dignified deity or deceitful devil? Have you ever considered- a human?
Alone she sits on her shrine. Along with all her beautiful offerings. Flowers, fruit, and frankincense perfume the air. Her full breasts hang like fruit. Belly soft rolls over her skin. Hips wide that stretch as far as the ocean. Sitting pretty and pristine. Beauty personified she is. As the ancient venus figurines of a lifetime before. But, is she a human or an object of desire?
Did you ever ask her if she wanted to be worshipped? Strip her away from her own humanity, thoughts, and feelings. Replace them with your projections, limited love, and unadulterated adoration. She is merely a beautiful face- not because she makes herself beautiful, but the beauty is her. Objectified and worshipped, simply for what her presence represents. Her life force is harnessed to the devote disciple siphoning her beauty, youth, energy, her entire likeness for their benefit.
But, if she acts like she is divine, knows her worth, and reclaims her power she is evil. She is only beautiful and sanctified if only she doesn't know her power. her beauty is only valid if it's to satisfy your hungry eyes.
tethered to the earth by a singular string
falling down from the heavens
her bones soft-gelatinous tissue
with two nubs beneath her clothes
and her blood runs ice cold
how does the angel make earth her home?
So, I was ranting to my friend on how lonely and isolated I have been feeling. I feel paranoid, because people treat me weird due to a mixture of racism/ sexism and a beautiful woman. She didn’t respond and reacted with emojis. Is she jealous of me? I don’t know any other reason why someone is your supposed closet friend confines that in you. You write a message delete it and then send reaction emojis. Another time I was talking about how annoying it is to have a big butt and sexlualizng of it all and she was like oh but people with big boobs deal with it too she has big boobs. It’s not a competition. Yes, but it’s different argue with your mom. The girls that get it get it. Idk what to feel… lmk plz. I’ve had multiple ex girlfriends start to be jealous of me for no reason other the fact that I’m pretty I know it and I’m confident. I would hate for this to be the case and that’s why I am paranoid and expressed this and for no response I am hurt. A jealous person would see this as a brag when truly it’s so fucking isolating and lonely not knowing who to trust cuz they hate on you for just being you