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.

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?

Graphed Out

Graphed out. Exposure of pointed frames. Framed by the idea of what is translated as the same. The axis of x is different than the axis of y and why Is what I ask.

Graphed out. Exposures of the brain. Powered by the motivation of what is played as a game. The dice rolled as the movement some times the move comes too fast.

Graphed out. Saturation of emotion. Hues of intention pixelate in their space. The rise and fall of painted expectation is a selfish race.

Graphed out. Representing the vision. Giving a shutter to shudder from the incision. Pushing the speed of rejected or accepted implication.

Graphed out. Transparent with force. Presenting an expression of stifled composure. Giving the inside a chance for its external exposure.

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.

Grow or Go

I KNOW YOU’RE NOT READING THIS. I KNOW YOU DON’T CARE. BUT IF YOU COULD DO THE WORLD A FAVOR AND TRY TO BE FAIR. DELETE ME ENTIRELY OR FACE UP TO OUR TRUTH. BE A BETTER EXAMPLE OF LOVE FOR OUR YOUTH. LET THEM SEE MATURITY. LET THEM SEE GROWTH. LET THEM SEE THAT IN YOU, THERE IS A FUTURE OF HOPE. SHOW THE COMPASSION THAT COMES AS NATURAL AS THE ACT. HAVE COMMUNICATION THAT SHOWS YOU DO IN FACT HAVE TACT. WELCOME GROWTH FOR YOUR SOUL, THE KIND THAT MOVES MOUNTAINS INSIDE. SHOW SOME LOVE AND LET DOWN THE HIGH PRIDE. BE WHO YOUR SOUL CLAIMS AND LET LOVE LEAD THE WAY. SILENT DISREGARD IS A FOOLISH GAME TO PLAY. IT PRESENTS OPPONENTS RATHER THAN TEAMMATES OF THIS EARTH. IT SETS LOVE ASIDE AND LEADS ONLY WITH HURT. YOU GIVE TO THE WORLD BUT REFUSE TO TAKE PART, IN OWNERSHIP OF LOVE OR IN THE HEALING OF WOUNDED HEARTS.

WHEN IT COMES TO ACCOUNTABILITY, ILL TAKE IT OVER AND AGAIN. BECAUSE GROWTH IS THE ONLY GAME WHERE WE SHOULD TRY TO WIN. I HAVE SO MUCH CONCERN FOR THE EXAMPLE YOU ARE GIVING AND MY HEART BREAKS FOR THE CONFUSION IN WHICH WE’VE BEEN LIVING. PERHAPS ONLY I AM THE ONE WHO FEELS THE SADNESS AND LONGING, OR PERHAPS IT IS ONLY LOVE THAT I WISH IN BELONGING.

SUCCESS COMES AFTER MASSIVE FAILURE REARS UP. BUT ONLY IF REFLECTION HAS BEEN OBSERVED THROUGH THE EYES OF AWAKENING LOVE

This is the face.

This is the face of love. Each time my heart is touched by love it is etched in my soul. It creates a path of proof through the smile’s lines of love’s joy and laughter. Then wanders through the brow’s furrow of love’s wonder. It penetrates the pores pouring from love’s pain. Love looks like this.

This is the face of desperation. Pleading for the pain to process and bring peace. Begging for release from the bindings and shackles of shame from continually feeling this way. Bargaining no more, but blinded by defeat. Desperation looks like this.

This is the face of hope. Recognizing that this is a moment of an awareness of raw experience and reality. Lit up briefly by the reflections of the tears sweet brilliance of beaded reckoning. Relinquishing the idea that I have to keep it festered and vested in the cavity my soul reveals as wounded. Hope looks like this.

This is the face of disgust. Putting too much sacred deliverance into a space already self filled. Giving with relentless effort to offer more just to prove worth to the takers who’ve passed on praise. Inflicting a self imposition and acknowledgement of misalignment. Self, not self. Disgust looks like this.

This is the face of bewilderment. Standing in a cleansed body state of muddled mind. Perceptions shifting and breathing brings only moments of mild mannered transitions. In disbelief with feeling of washed over and sharing poses more as imposition, overlooked and taken for granted. Bewilderment looks like this.

This is the face of strength. Grimace and regrouping, bawling and growing. Perseverance begins to permeate after repeated experience. Going in as a dove, coming out scorched dark, now a raven, yet continually still it flies. Rising to the challenge baffling the deliverer of discourse. Strength looks like this.

This is the face of grief. The sudden onset of not understanding that operations continue. Disbelief of lack of attentive heart compassing language and cognition. Wayside, left in wonder. Sad overcame by weight weighed by a judge of less caliber. Cast aside and left alone in the debris of dismantling. Grief looks like this.

Running joke

It’s not safe here anymore. Maybe it is safer. I feel stuck between loving myself and being a self hater. Traitorous to what is reality mostly because I am confused by the indiscrepancies of what I see or think is me. But who am I kidding? It’s me, I’m the joke running. Only fooling the messenger who is delivering the ammunition gunning my own self down, I’ve stitched a target in the threading of each gown that I wear, each item I put on, it’s just a matter of time, I’m not sure just how long it will take for me to be blamed for another mistake. Another settling down from the the shit I create. The things I make up in my mind. It comes cued in, right in time and in line with any hope that “I’m better” … in short that’s the descriptive head letter. Short hand expresses the energies lessened and the dread of resent is moreover presented.