a path worth taking
its 12:41 and my heart is racing but it isn't because of the cold coffee i've gulped to suppress the calls of slumber. my fingers are shaking but it isn't because i've been bent over an essay, scrawling chicken scratch words onto a paper that's blotted with ink and tears and misspellings. its because of you. you and your bright eyes like the light reflecting off the moon and your smell, sharp and sweet like the taste of mint. its 12:42 now, and as my clock blinks all i can think of is your hands, your hands and your arms and the curve between your collarbone and your neck that my head fits perfectly in when you held me at night. its 12:42 and i miss you so powerfully, so deeply that my entire being aches. 12:43, and nothing will ever be the same.
follow the path that drives you to follow yourself-
that seems to blossom from your light
and make your life one
not only reflects your mentality
but one that also
The Art Of Being Homeless
with a tent.
A small, yellow dot
towering, barkless, skinny, pale trees.
Soon he was evicted with his tent;
his neighbors had complained about his presence.
But the tent
Stubbornly he built a fence,
wires ankle height
strangers to invade
His empire grew.
A water collector
placed on its side,
formed a spacious apartment with a view.
The tent was used for storage.
Throughout his construction
he always wore a hard hat -
a top priority.
But safety wasn’t enough.
he acquired a baton.
His neighborhood was
But the neighborhood felt they weren’t safe from
A crazy man who wore a hard hat
and carried a baton.
Who built a hovel
in a park.
My skin always both limited and defined me in almost indescribable ways. Its pale yet puzzlingly jaundice-like hue so indecisive, the way It turned pink when I laughed or purple in the cold, the way It splotched on my palms, unsure of whether to be red or white. Skin is always so strongly emphasized through color. This color ceased to be constant, yet so many knew exactly what to call themselves: black, white, yellow, red, brown, you name it, but me? I never knew.
My mom always told me I was cream colored. Half yellow, half white, a sort of off-white tone perhaps. She never meant it maliciously of course, but the term off-white made it seem like I was, well, off. Abnormal, strange, unique, all true in a sense, yet all so alienating in everything else that converges into who I am.
Why does this skin that we all possess confine us so? These miniscule cells all lined up to form this prison of a body we each inhabit ground us in this reality that we’ll never truly be free from this bouncing of light that dictates shallow assumptions and strict societal expectations that are so difficult to fulfill.
I know the privilege that comes with my innate melanin deficiency, of course. However, my struggles experienced apart from this colorism are still valid. My flesh binds me to this earth and binds me to a unified human quality, but It isn’t all that I am. Just to spite it all, I wipe It away, this cream colored, off-white hue that so strictly imprisons me and reveal what lies beneath: a human. A human that laughs. A human that cries. A human that feels. A human that breathes. A human that lives.
I Don't Want to Be A Doctor
(Or so she says)
Gold plated, stand tall.
Wear silver in pounds
So they don’t see you’re so small.
Be noble, have some standing
In a lucrative setting
Idealism’s worth is relative
To its practicality
Don’t fall prey to dreams and their
These notions are just
Pull in, work,
If you wish to revel harder
(but I must protest--
I don’t want to be a doctor)
(Or is it really?)
Leather wallets, bronze keys.
For formulaic success you need
Futures only shine when
Latched to stability.
Only when coins fill rooms
Will you be happy.
Occupy an edifice with
A gilded canopy.
Push in, work,
wish to laugh harder
(but to tell you the truth,
I don’t want to be a doctor)
We are an encumbrance to earth.
And it’s fruitless to think
We each have a purpose.
Humans only act selfishly
So it’s a futile idea that
We can improve others’ lives.
This world is full of corruption
There are many moralistic people
Our life doesn’t have much potential.
And no one says that
Life is what we make of it.
This is a dreadful place to live in
And we need to know that it’s erroneous to say
We have the ability to better the world
Attempt to make things better.
We have no control over our destiny.
And nobody could possibly imagine that
Our soul is one.
Now read this poem from bottom to top.
Flat, hard rock softens into a chair,
my body -- not accepted -- tolerated
in nature’s embrace. Silently above,
wasps float hauntingly in the winter air.
The sun pours rich hues over the looming hills:
oranges, reds, yellows, painted over black.
Darkness suffocates the strength from my will;
echoing through the cold, baboon barks crack
at my safety. But, light leaks through thick clouds.
Catching my sight, a buck pauses and stares
at me, so unnatural, without sound --
the buck, proof nature is not unaware.
The challenge: fasting, solitude, silence.
The reward: nature and its acceptance.