How deep your roots. How pleasant your fruit. Tell me your secrets. What is god like? Does he smile, does she dance? Is it fair? Tell me how the beginning was nothing more than the end. How beautiful was the first step of man? The first birth of women. How she elegantly combed her hair. How deep does the soul really go? I wonder if the pain of love is truly etched on our hearts. Can you draw a dream from the scars? I imagine heaven is like soup, tomato soup. Warm, dedicated, and made with love.
To feel imperfection is to be alive. I am faulted. Each day I see a new wrinkle. I trace the receding nature of my hair. I experience the click clack of my knees. I am no longer a child. I see the elderly and do not laugh, I wonder…Who were they then? At what age did sickness and health meet?
I watched (which felt like forever) an elderly man and woman walk
hand-in-hand down the sidewalk. Their pace was painstakingly slow yet unbearable beautiful. Imagine just imagine, once upon a time they ran, ran down sidewalks and skipped across streets – a speed as a child I envied to reach. Long legs. Reassured direction. Knowledge of symbols on poles. No parents.
I envied the older. Now I envy the old. Every tinge I feel, I think to myself this is it. Every night from work before I place my head, I stretch my back. The labor of the day has stiffened its length. In between shifts I stop at the mirror and stare, one day it will not be toothpaste but Poligrip.
This may sound like Hell. I call it beautiful madness. Some wish for cars and mansions, I yearn to grow old. I hope to wake and sit at the edge of the bed to catch my breath. I got up too fast. My heart is racing. I’m sweating like hell! I wish to walk up flights of stairs and stop on the third step as I hold up the line. I’ll smirk at their impatience. I wish to sit in parks all day, barely moving, as the kids ask if I’m alive. I am, just admiring the landscape. I want to go to Church with sunglasses as I nod in and out of sleep – an hour is just too damn long!
I wish for life in my staggered breath. I wish for patience in my “hard a hearing” ears. I wish for wisdom in my speech. I wish for grandchildren that take delight in me telling the same story over and over.
I think today I’ll walk a little slower. Maybe I’ll name my wrinkles. And instead of calling myself faulted and aged, I’ll say congratulations you made it another day.
I am getting that itch, you know the one. The one when I have to leave. The one when I feel that all my work is done and there is nothing I can teach you. I have given you all the tools you need to survive. But most importantly, I am being called somewhere else. Where? I do not know, but I am being called. I can feel them or him or her calling me. Help is needed, my guidance is wanted. A new adventure awaits. It is a life style I am becoming accustomed to; one I am beginning to understand. I would love to stay in one place but I cannot, this is not quite my reality yet.
I learn and teach. I make and give. I teach and learn. I give and make. I am a traveler of sorts. An inventor of many. An explorer of times. I am alive. I have to share what I have learned to give what is needed. I have to learn what is experienced and then spread what needs to be known. This is my calling, this is my being…this is my life.
This next place feels hot. It feels quiet and unsaid. I feel energy kept, waiting to be released. I see sex, I hear drugs, and my eyes burn from the lights. I do not know this place but I have heard of this town. I have seen these people but I have not met them. They know of me but have never dreamed of me. I am their hope, they are my aspiration. This place feels right. There is a lesson waiting.
I tire of the repeated stories in my head. I grow bored of the constant replay and edits. Is their no sanity in this mind? I am not my past. I am the present. These words ring wonders but the practicing of it, not so much. Why is it so easy to replay pain but hard to imagine glory? My day is filled with fighting my mind from wandering into the pits. Why are we all so plagued with the belief that we must suffer? We are obsessed with the idea of struggle. Man vs Man. Man vs Nature. Man vs Himself. Elementary, my dear Watson. It makes a good story. Cinema. Lights, Camera, Action!
I want to see without thinking for once. I want to feel without feeling. I want to exist without the rotating, “Why Do I Exist?” Can I sip tea and be merry in the motion of sipping?
Do you want to talk about it?
Do you want to talk about it?
Let’s talk about how much it hurts. Let’s talk about how I am still feeling it. Let’s talk about how I am addicted to the pain. Let’s talk about how something so lovely could feel so horrific. Let’s talk about how something warm and round turned into shards of glass slipping down my throat. Let’s talk about heartache. Let’s talk about betrayal. Let’s talk about friendship. Let’s talk about sleepless nights. Let’s talk about you. Let’s talk about me. Let’s talk about sacrifice. God, the Universe, the Law of Attraction. Let’s talk about science. Let’s talk about new world orders. Sub atomic particles, Quantum Physics, emotional stability. Mental analysis. Twin flames-soul mates. Segregation, discrimination, memories that won’t leave. Memories that won’t come. Dreams that are in the past. Future events never to come. I am talking pure religion, physical attraction, romantic explosion, lost wisdom. I’m gonna cover sex and blisters, and long nights with whispers. Caress my body and cuddle my mishaps. We gonna walk down the streets with death on our hips; pestilence on the left and mortification on the right while looking hope and creativity straight forward. I’m talking about love – you know what I mean?
So, do you still wanna talk???
This is the second poem I wrote after watching Tyler Perry’s “For Colored Girls.” My hand rushed against the paper to bring a message of internal surge. As I read it now I feel power, pain, courage, fear, and love. This poem is a mesh of all my experiences – triumphants and failures. I did not like the poem at first, but after watching my friend’s expression after she read it I became intrigued. Between you and I…I think the poem is so personal that I am afraid to share it.
~My Love is Too Wild to Be Caged~
My love is too wild to be caged
Too pure to be thrown in my face
My love is too raw to be cooked, boiled, and seasoned
My love is too Godly to be served, to be written, and spoken.
For a gay boy my love is just as real
I am unashamed of my body and its wants
For a gay boy my love is too real to be sexualized
For a gay boy my body is too manly to be demeaned
My heart is too red to be diluted, too fierce to be tamed.
As a man my heart is too real
As a man my heart is here, hard, and soft
Melting and stone. Hard. Soft. Crazy. Painful and full.
As a man my heart is me
As a gay boy my heart is me
As a child my heart is me
As me my heart is here.
I wrote this a couple of months back when I was bedridden. I rather experience 10,000 heartbreaks than lie in bed wondering if I will ever see Christmas as I once did.
During this time I learned what true friendship and family meant. As I layed there in thought, misery, and shame they ensured I never felt lonely. True friendship and family are relentless and unwavering in their pursuit to adore and love you. They smother you with love, they do not care if you want it or not. They do not leave you alone even if you want to be left alone. Sometimes in your lowest points you want to be miserable, but they stop you right there and interject themselves. And you know what – it works!
Without them I would be nothing. Without them…without them…without them…I could not breath.
*A New Lease On Life*
~Gahhh! It was a month from Hell. A month I never want to relive or re-visit. My energy was stolen. My hope was diminished. My body was slain. And my faith began to fade. Only through one eye was I able to see the world, which at this point slowly began distancing itself from me. Life began to seem whimsical and faity-tailish. But I knew it was upon me. Before I fell into darkness I patiently waited for its arrival. I met the mornings by peering through the blinds to ensure the porch was free of shadows. The evenings were a blaze of screeching tires and horns to escape cold fingers. And the nights consisted of locked doors and bodily shivers under covers at the tinge of any sound.
Finally, fatigue introduced itself first. Headache swiftly came next. And Irritation was the last to sit down…or so I thought. Unbeknown to me, my guests invited guests. They arrived later, opened the fridge without asking and ate strength, dignity, and my future. I cannot tell a lie and say they did not bring gifts because they did. After stripping my table of its beauty they laid another kind of setting, a Brothers Grimm inspired setting. Forks of shame, napkins of tears, cups of solitude, gravy of regret, a turkey filled with isolation, and of course my favorite a freshly baked bread of annihilated dreams.
The end was closing in on me and inadvertently my family. All I could think of was shame. In my mind I was battling the lesser of two evils. If given the option I would have chosen pain over shame. And if you knew my options neither of them would be anything you would want to pull out of a hat.
How could I have let the madness inside me drive me to this point? I was reckless in my actions, heartless in my endeavors, and ruthless in my delusional conquest. I wanted to prove a point to a person who was not even listening. I wanted to show myself a good time knowing damn well it could never amount to happiness and true revenge. My face bubbled in fury. The sin that lived within surfaced and showed its face. It itself wanted to be free, wanted air to breath. It became tired of being overlooked and fed scraps. ~
It is time the Broken Hearted Reclaim Their Lives.
I live for the thrill. I live for the times I cannot believe what I have done. I am 24 and raging. I am 24 and evolving. I am 24 and changing. Time moves so slowly while life moves so fast. One minute I am here and the next I am worlds away. A new adventure every minute. A new heart every second. Sometimes I wonder if I will be alive in the morning, sometimes I wish I would be dead in the morning. I cannot endure a pain greater than the one today, but I know I can experience greater joy than I did two days ago. I guess that is what keeps me going. The potential for happiness, the hope of faith. The look of better more fulfilling days.
A smile reached my bedside today, from who I do not know but it warmed my toes and wiggled in my stomach. I awoke with a rush and sent a smile and a hug to a bedside in a far off land.
If you watched this trailer and did not shake, if you watched this trailer and did not tremble, if you watched this trailer and did not feel confliction, admiration or love, then I suggest you watch it again. I am not sure if my mind has even finished digesting the power that was in this short clip. Black people talking about black people. No, black people talking about black gays. Wait, an all black cast in the south making a movie about a black gay boy learning about his sexuality.
Blackbird is a remarkable story about at a 17-year-old (Randy) black high school student living in a religiously small knit community in Mississippi learning about his sexuality and dealing with peculiar visions. Not only is Randy struggling to understand his new found urges, but he is the star of his church’s choir and son of both Isaiah Washington (Lance) and Mo’Nique (Claire). Washington plays as Randy’s estranged father who learns of his sons “indecency” and returns to help him transition into the role of a black man. While Mo’Nique falls upon Randy’s secret and blames him for the disappearance of his little sister.
If this has not convinced you that this is a must-see movie then let’s try adding them all up; the plight of emotions and drama of teenagers in high school (something we all can agree upon), a single mother who lost her daughter, an estranged father returning, the religious south, and a boy who lost his sister, has the gift of premonitions, and the difficulties of navigating the terms of his sexuality in a society where he cannot speak of such thoughts and emotions.
I cannot wait for this movie to come out. It is about time we see a movie in mainstream cinema where esteemed black actors take on the story of black sexuality. Blackbird is more than gay, Blackbird is more than black, Blackbird is more than sexuality, Blackbird is a universal story.
I was told I was free to choose. I was raised to believe that dreaming was infinite, but somewhere down the line the story changed. Instead, I was forced to conform. Instead, I was told not to speak of my dreams. Instead, I was clothed with half-truths or no truths. Perhaps, I do not understand. Perhaps, I heard wrong. Now, I am fed up. Now, I am shamelessly confused. Now, I do not know if reality is a dream and if my dreams are anything at all. I would love to say that I am chasing my dreams, but sometimes I do not even know if am capable of dreaming.
The dream that we have, is it even our dream? Or is it a dream we were told to dream, a supposed happiness that we should seek. Happiness, what is this happiness? Can anyone define it? Can anyone honestly tell me they are happy and if you can, where do you find it? Are you able to buy it? Are there different types? Do the poor have less of a chance at being happy? Does the middle class have less money to afford happiness than the rich? Where is your happy place?
Somedays I am sure of what I want from life. Somedays I am not even sure I am alive. Somedays I cannot find myself, not even in mirrors – I cast no reflection. I alter between certainty and vagueness. I alter between form and shapelessness. I envision a great tomorrow then I envision mass destruction. Love lays her head next to mine only moments later as I flip the pillow I find a coldness that reaches bone.
I imagine that which is cold was once warm. I imagine it only takes a kind word to change the world. I imagine if I change one cold heart then I have changed the world. I do not fight the coldness, I embrace it. I do not argue with the coldness, I listen. I do not spit at the coldness, I offer it homage and food.
With each spoonful of concern the cold blushes. With each smell of warm smile the cold begins to release its rigid movement. With each sip of hot love the cold glimmers of sparkling memories heart-filled.
And there I find it. And there I feel complete. And there I see myself. And there I exist. I find my Happiness In Blushes.