The End of a Drought on the 5th of December 

How can I explain my certainty that the rain falls for you.

That the tears you cry not only free the rivers inside of you

but, bring life.

How can I explain that a God so big can command gentle waters

Forcing everyone to pause to meet you where you are.

The same puddles that are absolutely annoying come from the need to replenish after a drought.

The same God that left you barren

Gives life one tear at a time.


When Earth Met Water

I love your waves

Your salty waters call for dehydration yet I am refreshed when you call to my shore.

You fill the holes of my soul and speak to the roots of my soul.

We become one.

The brown muddle and cold result of earth and water.

Your waves jump to my shore over and over.

You compare me to the moon though I can’t bash your metaphors, they extend to my stubborn ground.

Reaching to your moon, but I feel closer than that.

That heartbeat.

The push and pull I can feel when you retreat.

Still your waters crash against my crystallized shore.

You leave prints and droplets of yourself as your engulfing spirit heads back to the ocean.

Together we create beautiful seashells.

The collectors delight; pearls and rare commodities.

We combine our weight.

Because we know heaviness.

And though you are less easily constrained and I know my earth can be too stubborn to take form. We see the outside of our comfort zone in comfort of each other’s arms.

We give balance to the looters hands.

Your waves continue to embrace the creation of something against the norm.

Humanities that spring from me have you rushing through their veins.

I call it nation building.

I call it sustaining.

I call it healing.

The earthquake to the hurricane.

We no longer need permission to exist because we have already been created.

I’ll watch as you majestically give the roots planted in me the power too bloom.

We will be blooming.

We will be building.

We will embrace faith in you and I .

We will be.

From Disney to Deforestation: Red Palms part 2

Never been a fairytale but things happened once upon a time

Because once there was a time where my tears only spoke for me.

There were no words, though I was not mute.

I gasped for a language you did not speak.

When I realized no was not within my grasp and there was too much air before and after the word stop.

I knew.

I longed for a home

The attack in your room I couldn’t escape the attack in a place called home

Familiar surroundings with strangers everywhere.

I filled my cup until it ran over.

It ran down my face turning into a babbling brook I needed to create.

Every time he entered my threshold.

Who was I sacrificing for?

Pleasure seeking left me barren

I watered my wasteland from one stream of tears that flowed into another.

The only fluid that drenched the landscape of the bedroom.

My self harm; represented with no visible scars.

Sacrificial intimacy on an altar that granted nothing in return.

The myre that walked into the dragon’s flames and I saw the fire in your eyes.

I saw your spirit rising

-readily rushing to conquer my barren land.

I saw my Phoenix dying

-when you said I was going to rise from the ashes of my desert wasteland.

Every time your body engulfed my lands in search of produce and pearls.

Every time I knew I had been there before.

On my stomach I stared at the floor.

How familiar the moment and the off -white carpet.

Beads of sweat landed on my back

You entered my lands

It felt like an attack.

Deep inside I cried.

Bombs went off as a genocide ran through my insides

But I heard That’s So Raven playing in the background

Or was it Lizzie McGuire

Why are theses the things I choose to inquire?

I never ask why I stared at the glow of the tv

As those sweat filled pores poured drops of you onto me.

I was too young to know the penetration of a man.

On that night it became familiar.

But they say pain is temporary and pride is forever, so I turned my pain into pleasure.

I still mistake sweat for tears used to water my lands.

I still think you want me to flourish.

I still look at your palm tree and see red stained hands.

The Sound of 2002

The Sound of 2002

sensitive content for survivors of sexual assault

You felt the kicks in your stomach.

Your gut responded to the shame that would ultimately be the result

How you lose a child at the age of 8

There is no right or left wing to tell me where I belong

There was no choice to abort me

Like being surgically removed from your own skin

There were no signs on milk cartons, but I knew you were no longer there

The abortion occurs and you call it life

Like death with no funeral

Like people who did not pay their respects

like death etching his name in your skin

Losing futures and the present

Innocent’s presence

Like knowing the before and after

Living in the after and t being normalized

Like my exposition means nothing

Writing in braille to talk to those who couldn’t hear the screams and still cant

Like the breath for relief that will never come

I am constantly needing to be rescued

Like being the practice doll for CPR

Exhales wasted.

I want to ask daddy why he never answered my screams that night, but he did when I had nightmares. The real monsters needed to be attacked and you needed to run into the room prepared to rescue me, but you didn’t. When the monsters were imaginary you were there ready to beat the ass of the thing that didn’t really exist. No form and no fear. We put a face to the monster ad you allowed him to live under our roof.

I want to ask mama why she cared for me at a distance that night and has been ever since.

I want to know why my only hero. The only one who spoke out on my behalf was the one nearest to me. You were there in the room and don’t know if you so easily believed me because I made it easy to believe or because you heard me scream the moment death etched itself in my skin.

I want to ask mama why she reinforces my fragility, never exchanging the power she used to get through this world

I want to ask everyone if maybe a conversation could change reality. If more words and less stares could remove the shame collected over all these years. Could a conversion of oxygen to carbon dioxide through the syntax filled air give me permission to breathe. If it can why do you watch your women die?

Conversations with My Subconscious 

I try to find you amongst words

Like the bumblebee hovering through a garden words float off the page

then vanish.

You’re not there.

I can’t create the words to make you exist.

You’re fantom like

You come and go from my mind

I can’t differentiate it from my heart

It deceives me time and time again

Then I think.

I think too deep.
You’re not thinking deep enough.
This divided highway we let our conversations travel down until we’ve reached somewhere that looks familiar

A feeling that feels clearer

I’ve been here before
The de’javu

I’m reaching out to grab something that slips in between the cracks of my fingers

You are more like sand.

You were supposed to be the ocean.

Stop Giving Me Writer’s Block

I’ve never written an angry poem before

Maybe sad or frustrated, but nothing more

I worry that I write for other people.

That when my words come out it’ll be just another feeble.


Or fable.

Well, I guess this mean I’m not able.


But, I do hate the fact that I have no freedom here,

And my audience can’t get past the paint I smear.


It looks like this blob or uncontrolled mess

Accept the fact that you can’t see past my sketch


In the end, it creates a masterpiece

I just want them to see me for me


…Why the hell are my neighbors so loud?


Anyway, as I was saying

I used to not perform and people thought I was playing


No I don’t memorize my pieces

And no I don’t rap on the beat for features


I take a pen and paper, then write down my thoughts

Though they may get darks sometimes, I never get lost


I find myself and I hate that you spectate

I find it hard to find someone who will actually appreciate


I been writing for years because it’s the only freedom I ever knew

So fuck you if you think I am writing for you.


Because I’m not, and you’re giving me mad writer’s block.

So, stop.