Transparent and breakable

More dreams. They only get more twisted. Taking my hopes as hostage and rendering them listless. Making sense of everything’s nothing. And -nothing- makes sense. Rising up, more like a limbo., seeking to find what is it of truth I may know. I feel like I am reaching into a melting pot and the ideas are ripe and the fruit is not. How do I get back to the feeling of elevating where the words spoken are the rhythms validating love. Endlessly. Entirely giving more more more. Still wanting to give more more more. But silence, it is misleading. Gaps are filled with meaningless pleading to an empty space. The wetness is recognized by my face and the facing of history in retrace mode. Please, I beg myself. Do not implode. Not again. Not this time. Rise up and receive the divine. Maybe In Time I will see and we will see. Maybe in time it will all make sense to me. But while time dares to not pass, I stretch my heart thin and it shatters like the glass. The same glass that I built my hearts house with, transparent and breakable in the name of love. Transparent and and breakable in the name of love. Transparent and breakable in the name of love.

This mourning

My heart pounding, bags at the chair, I’m ready to leave… for the minute?, hour?, day?? I don’t know, but I feel my heart ready to explode. I say I’m leaving, just ok. We embrace, my heart is pounding, surely you’ll feel it and say something. Nothing is said. My hearts beats faster. Time to pull away, you still embrace, say nothing. I grab my bags, unlock the door, silence is walking out with me. I say I love you, you say I love you back, nothing more.

You walk by me and your phone is in your hand, head down. You walk by me and head away. I am left to sit or follow. You walk by and smile. Head down, phone out, up to closing of door. I am left to sit or follow. You walk by me and your hand reaches out to graze me, your gaze head down phone out.

I had a dream this morning. I shared and cried about it this morning. I had a dream where I was crying and mourning and I shared about that this morning. I am in mourning this morning.

Christmas I say is sad, I found an ornament. I say it is sad that I haven’t bought new ornaments in a long long time, the newest one I found yesterday. It was sad to find the ornament, the newest ornament, it’s wreath of Heaven Baby, ornament. This is why I don’t like to decorate, find new ornaments, it’s just sad.

It’s a sad ornament filled, I’m in mourning and your head is more often lately in your phone, I am having anxiety, you’re probably going to give me grief over this act of grief and lack of acknowledgment, and the day is going to be your family decorating with ornaments, will I might get accused of abandoning you all while I’m expected to sit extremely uncomfortably, and I got a lot going on and things I should be doing other than being made to feel like a what’s your problem and probably won’t check in on me, kind of morning.

I’ll go grocery shopping instead.

Women Rise

Women rise,

it’s time to realize

there is no more time to improvise,

No more time to censor what we choose to televise,

No need to hide behind their lies

Or what fools imperialize,

As an object to monopolize.

It’s concise to the size

And all the egos oblige

To radicalize

The rest as less, yet refuse to sympathize

While watching as the yearning soul dies.

…..

Fuck that, please regard, we are Phoenix,

WE SHALL RISE

For now is the time to actualize

The research and the representation of empowerment that we, women, epitomize

No longer allow yourselves to be minimized

Begin birthing strength as we naturalize and normalize

Intelligence in areas meant to divise

We no longer need comply with patriarchal or bigoted ties

Stop standing on their shit pile claiming Queen of the Flies

Fly

Through your timelines to the beginnings ancestral elements to idolize

Dig into the roots of your buried third eyes

Conceptualize the message for the young sister youth to idealize

A foundation, a place, a soul, to stabilize

Watching generations of a tear stained cheek as it dries.

WOMAN, YOU RISE

Time to stake claim in their righteousness of Equality Enterprise

BMD . a story about how the body remembers even when the brain doesn’t

Through my grasp it slips, the grip’s loosening over the gap of gasps as it becomes a familiar feeling, the reeling in of what’s real, what’s really happening, the fastening of the winds whipping the sounds of silence violently through my soul, now on the cusp of cold, screaming silently into a sound chamber where only I remember your name forever and when to honor… except for, I dismayed, could say nothing, except for the engrained tear exchange for the DNA’s reframe of the refrain through my brains terrain of dry docks and torrential rain.

Let me look into me

I can’t feel it. I’ve looked perhaps in the wrong places. How can I believe. It’s always changing faces.

Facing my fear. My face is the reflection. Reflecting a yearning of a unified connection.

Connecting the dots dotted by the trail of teardrops dripping down to the path compacted by my travel.

The road is of gravel. Always shifting underneath my step. It’s a wonder I’m here based on the ever changing quest.

I keep questioning. Redefining. Reminding. Minding my mindfulness and losing my cheer.

Chin up. Closer. The clearing is nearer.

The irony is it’s been present all the time. The love that shows up over and over is mine.

From me. Let me be clearer. I’ve been denying the dying for myself. I’ve been shattering my mirror.

The endlessness must come from in here. In my soul and out to top tier.

Can you hear? Can you see the connectivity is me to myself and myself to me?

The only love that is greater than this is still out of reach. Love me maybe.

But it is me I want love to see. Ultimately and passionately, for me, does your soul scream..

unseen be revealed.

Heart be healed.

Let me look into me, let me love me, let me feel love, let love be.

I stand like you

I stand along the flowing waters like you. I stand along the rivers edge and watch the foundations erode away like you. I stand in the rain, I stand in the snow, in the blistering sun, and in the dewy morning relief, like you. I stand stripped of my original casing, i stand exposing my inner self, I stand without the security of limbs laden with leaves for promise of production. None of this is like you, but still I stand. And I continue to stand majestically open and casualty to all infliction. I stand with you still. I can be seen with the gray of my roots telling of my time. But still I stand. And as the eyes gaze upon all of us, casually loving and observing the fullness of us all, I stand alone in the capture. The eyes stop, the heart relates, and for this moment in time, the wear of existence is wondrous, and I stand in that beauty of the chaos and calm. The whole scene is taken in, and walking away, the image retained is that of me, still standing.

Feel

And as I tried to wane this morning, the feeling came over me again. I could feel it in my bones, in my veins, in my muscles, in my brains..

I wept silently while his arms were wrapped around me. He didn’t notice. Just like no one else would know. Not unless i said something. Not unless I spoke, but who would care. I could hope.

My tears dropped off my cheeks like the shuddering of my body. I again, wept silently. I again was held, alone.

And what words do I say? As we’re laying there in the space of death and the space of life. And again, it shudders through my veins. Through my muscles, through my body.

I could feel the moment of the death. Not knowing then how I knew it would feel now. I could feel the memory of our dna coursing through me. I didn’t know then it would be the end , but I know now.

I didn’t want to share the thoughts. Didn’t want to impede my depression on you or any argument of why I feel the way I feel. I didn’t want to have to feel what you don’t feel, you’ll never feel. I didn’t want to be disappointed that you don’t feel.

Pouring

The love I give has continued to pour … fill full and pour more. The source of this love has been questionable for an unknown amount of time now. I can’t say when it refills or how. I can’t say why it keeps giving or what it’s motive has become. For it has been a wounded well since our time has begun. Before my bucket was used to fill your cup, before I knew you had needed more than me to fill it up, I had to re-mortar the bricks that contains the courage, just enough. The job was done in haste and maybe some despair, but I knew would hold with gentle care. If gentle hands pulled my rope, centered it with purpose and I’d bring up the liquid hope. My plan was to pour into you with all I could hold and refill so quickly that the exchange of warmth from my source to your vessel would never go cold. To keep releasing all into your hands for you to drink me, take in my delivery. To just empty over and over again… and then… I realized I was over pouring. Your hands were always open, to receive from any duct that gave attention. They always stayed ajar and your mind took note to the sources that weren’t too far. And in the brief moments when my pouring slowed down to a drip, so I could take a moment to evaluate the dripping in which I’ve been slipping, created by the spill over from the tipping over of other pitchers into your serving cup, you keep putting at my table to serve you up, and in those brief moments of when I drip, you sip from another drip line filling you up and clog up mine. Then you hold up your hands and all the love pours out. Every drop and drip from my heart spout and it stutters at its source, and I have to realign my lines, my strings, my handle, my encasing. I have to retrace the rebuilding of my walls and all my compartments, are they intact, where do I lack? What’s wrong with my pouring? How is my all not enough? Then I see that a segment of my wall has been sloughed. Etched with drills of a version of love that made my exterior soft, while my love just kept pouring right past this love blinding blind spot. Picked at quietly as I kept flowing on by, wondering about the little streams that kept seeping awry. Thought the loss was from the tears that I cried. But it was lack of care that degraded my interior. Pulling and releasing my rope at commanding positions creating tensions unexpectedly and force back of slack, slapping into my mortar. Close by are your hands prying down my border. Close are your hands being filled by others, allowed to slip in to where my everflow never stops it’s flow. And leaves me to wonder where my love is to go. Leaves me to wonder will your hands ever close? Will you ever be able to wrap them around my well, only open for pour, from my lovings course, only embrace and drink from my love source?

Can you look in the mirror?

Can you look in the mirror honestly? Does it tell you the truth of who you are? Does it show you in bold all the little secrets you hold?

Can you look in the mirror with pleasure? Are you able to observe the crease of time on your brow? Do you see the lines you’ve said displayed on your head?

Can you look in the mirror with trust? Has your reflection morphed too? Do your eyes look at you with pride or is it behind the lids you still hide?

Can you look in the mirror with dignity? Did the ego wash away in the shower? Are you seeing yourself as well and taking that nakedness into the words you tell?

Can you look into the mirror for long? Is it a gentle and confident exchange of sight? Do you see a human with intentions pure or a facade to procure?

Can you look into the mirror and see truth? Do your eyes relay back to you reality? Do your lips form the way they appear as you speak or are they cracked and breaking speech?

Can you look into the mirror and rely on it to be accurate? Does it show you who you really are? Will your reflection last to be who they see you as or will you be a reflection of your past?

Can you look into the mirror and smile? Are you the same in both dimensions? Are you honorable in the eyes of those that seek you to be reliable?

Can you look in the mirror? Can you stare at yourself long enough to see your soul? Can you keep seeing yourself the same or will the mirror shatter under your shame?

Can you look in the mirror? Can you be present enough to see who you really are? Will you be able to be whole and clear and good away from the mirror?

Whats in my mirror?

Where do I stand when I look in the mirror? My feet lost in the abyss and my mind in space. What part of me should I be looking at? I’m not sure what part to observe.

Do I start with my hair? The mane of a lioness that flows into the ethereal and sheds its warnings to poachers that I, have been here, this Space I claim, and I will return. The nest of knots that have interlocked and woven together with little outside assistance and certainly less time in process of realignment of strands to be side by side. The firey and wirey reachings of keratin and pigment that swirl and stretch, break snap , and grab onto the fury of expressions through the crown. Tendrils swaying lower and peering over my back and softly teasing my bosom.

Do I then follow the lingering locks? Loaded and unloaded, lifted and left empty breasts of past time beauty that will never have the lust again. Mounds of nutrient and nourishment now perused over like leftovers and cold storage. The swaying between sensual and supplementation has ceased yet the sloping has increased. Drippings of sustenance silenced and the yearning for connection screams. Etchings of years of experiences fall off the front lines and lean into a flattening scape of exiting excitement, lowering the gaze to the maze of the puddling of passions passed.

Do I pass through the ridges, over my roughened experiences of readiness? Rafting beyond the wild and untamed rivers that flowed out of the canal of my womanhood, where woman meets child and child becomes woman. The carvings in the rites of passage as the pathway was stumbled upon and often into. Paddling with fervor and full force embracing the waves and then, knocked out of the steady ship. Sinking deep into the plundering of what treasures would later surface to prove the journey is a darker blue than previously mapped. Out of the womb and wondering, now with proof of the seekers and the seers which now navigate the tides of life.

Should I lead with the lead that is in my step? Prying up the anchor of taking a stance and stabilizing with air underfoot I could focus on the pose of disposition. Repositioning the weight of wavering from flying and being pinned down my peddlers wane. Wanting to dance on the light of the angels flight but find the fight bringing the soul back to earth with the soles planted. En route, I am rooted and often rootbound, washing the soil off the arches where it still aches to curve in deeper from all the eggshells found in the gardeners path of composted dreams.

Ah, the dreamer of the dreams. The constant streaming of the “whats and what ifs.” Housed in a hard casing of in cases and protective barriers and screams in the middle of space. Pacing back and forth in the grey matter walking back and forth to the “what matters,” the equilibrium tipping the scale of reality and imaginary. The creasings, within ceasing to end the firing of thoughts full of delusion and fulfilling the illusion that the reflection of which the synapses connect recreate a connection. Direction of the waves dependent upon what is decides to replay. The brain, the sane, the same, the endless game of what is next and how to recollect what was witnessed as life.

Don’t let me forget, there is the life giver. The holder of golden slivers that are made with the dreams and stored as hope in the beating heart. Pulsing with the vibrations from the messages of purpose, proposing a rhythm to play to, sing to, dance with. Its warmth reaching through the entirety and simultaneously halting the course. Coursing with crumbles of ice cubing the cells intended to carry liquid thicker than water and bursting through barriers of self inflicted boundaries. It could be bound by the constrictions or confines of the coldness’ shiver. Yet, still it shimmers the prayers lining of reflections and silver.

And here I stand, in the reflection. The beginning and the end of what end to discover first. Which part interlaced within is the best and which is fraying at the ends as the worst? Through only the gaze of my view can I be observed. The iris interpreting what is pure and intentional or what is purely absurd. Refocusing and closing the lids of reality leads the creation of what could be seen upon the opening of the scope, my self microscope. Wipe the lense from the condensing vision of pleasing all other visions and watching as the singular is perceived as divisions. Left and right and pleading to combine the idea that the ideas are one. The view is changing, and as it is rising the veil too lifts to reveal the gaze back is mine. This is where from all time it ends and begins in self reflection.

Not an Angel

Reality depends a great deal upon one believing what he sees—or seeing what he believes. Either way.

Richelle E. Goodrich

This is Casino, a pup that belongs to a man I met in the park today. Halfway from my work to my car this man sat at a bench. He looked up from his occupying moment and said “hello beautiful.” As I approached his direction he had at this point told me I was beautiful and pretty about 5 times. I smiled and made slight conversation with him and offered him a piece of chocolate. He told me his wife had died. My heart sank and I instantly thought of my loss. He again told me I was beautiful. I asked him the name of his pup and said to him he has his own little piece of luck. He agreed and giggled. He was playing ufc on his phone and I chatted with him about kicking ass in the game. As I thanked him for his kindness and was about to leave to continue to my vehicle, he asked me if I was an angel. I smiled and said no, but he told me again that I was beautiful. He had at this point also said several things about his life and invited me to visit, coffee, breakfast, etc. I now know where this man lives. I realized this man had a different brain than I, and it functions in a different aspect than my own. Developmentally delayed is how we’d modernize it. But somethings struck me as more like, life had happened to this man. And perhaps stunted him in a way that deferred him from fear, given him a more innocent and childlike approach and expression of his thought. Unhindered. Unfiltered. And then I realized that maybe he was an angel. Maybe he was sent to me to help me feel like I actually was seen, and actually maybe I am beautiful. And maybe my worth was seen through the eyes of this man who couldn’t help but share his luck of insight with me.