Feb 24

I Am Treasure

I am treasure,
metals drip from the shoulders,
a waterfall of gold spills from my scalp.
Shapeless sapphires glitter
inset in my skull.
I hear jewels slip inside my stomach
whenever I speak.
A tickling laugh,
priceless.
My kneecaps are made of Thor's hammer
holding up my body,
making me electric.
My mouth,
pearls laden
upon gums of silver.
I wonder if I am the definition of
"pearly whites" and "a heart of gold"
but instead of a beat...
my chest sounds like a million coins
tumbling to accommodate
my ribcage of chain.
Feb 22

Sister, Begin Loving a Body

From beneath my waking toes
sprouts
(earth's hair)
whisper,
chilling the
eloquence of my
tongue
into a luminous silence.

The epiphany
of light,
gaining
momentum,
spiraling throughout
my curls and curves,
widening deeply
into my thighs and
breathing
my lungs for me.

Dragonflies
spread their
iridescent arms
and take on the wind.
Daring great breezes
to slip
upon their bodies.

Watch as dawn
awes you
once again,
why would she come back?
She is as
ineffable
as
rain.

We are
the
bread
without salt.
The wine
spilt from the
goblet.
The body
with
no
dirt
smudged
underneath
the
skin.

Sister Earth,
your flowers are beautiful.
So are your falls of water
and volcanic breasts
that feed your children
Feb 21

Between The Land

She does not drink cream in her coffee.
She does not sleep nor eat her way into dreams.
She does not look in the broken mirror
for she cannot bear the sight of her body without her baby.

She does not sleep because the rhythmic beat
of her baby's chest rising and falling is the only thing
keeping her hopeful enough to dream.

She does not drink cream in her coffee for
she would be taking a cow's milk meant for her calf
and it reminds her all too much of
her own milk clotting in her breast meant for her child.

Her chest is empty without her baby,
so are her hands, eyes and heart.
If her baby is not there to laugh with her,
she will not laugh.
The only thing keeping her baby from her is the wall of whiteness
looming over her dwarfed body.
She can hear her baby crying,
strung up in someone else's arms.
Her baby is between the land.
Feb 20

Bullet Rebellion

(I wrote this piece under the mentorship of Rajnii Eddins, thank you)

One day bullets will resign from guns,
rise up and say no to being spit out and
breaking and entering a body,
we're done with being used.

One day bombs will cut their lines
and blow out their fires, saying
we will not sacrifice ourselves to murder.
We will no longer slave against our own chains.

There will be a day when guns are brought to jail
and bullets to therapy, than sent home again
with a newfound knowledge of love.
When bombs decide they'd rather be
lawn decoration than artillery.
When spears accept their identity crisis
and pursue being arches married couples walk under.
When arrows are broken and made into a fire
where everyone is welcome to toast their cold toes
and cook their shared dinner.

There will be a day when soldiers lay down
Feb 20

Rap #1

So I wrote a rap, unfortunately I cannot access the audio for a live reading but I can post the lyrics, (just read it really fast hahaha)
I hope you enjoy :) p.s. I think I'm also going to make it longer

We are the millions,
from mouths
words for civilians,
pollution, dilution,
all 'round confusion.

They say listen to authority
it'll make y'all smarter,
but how can we hear
with our homes underwater?

Now them in the Whitehouse
they just don't understand,
they just don't get how to treat the land.
We are choking on ash,
knee deep in your trash,
our minds being poisoned by your dirty cash.

They go 'round prancing,
proud of their financing.
Saying "call us majesty now call us sire",
but we're drowning in flames,
our world is on fire!

 
Feb 20

Knock On Wood

Knock on wood.
Do not shatter mirrors,
broken glass looks like
pieces of water,
scattered on the floor
of your sold home.

No, you did not sell your house...
why did you ask?

Push away the guilt tugging
at the corners of your eyes.
Crinkling smiles like rent due notices
into the
wastebasket.

If you owned any mirrors,
you would rather look like
pieces of water
than your reflection.


 
Feb 11

Piano Aches

Every time my family goes to your house for a dinner party,
we are greeted with a jumble of piano notes.
composed on a dark night when you felt alone and unloved.
I go to you, finger's aching to play something that will steer you
away from the darkness emanating from the keys.
I slide onto the bench next to you and lay my hands across yours.
Darkness retreats but promises for another visit, that's ok, just not today...
Today is our day, and I don't plan on any darkness spoiling it.
I turn to you, look into your eyes and see more than my own reflection.

Worlds away there is a boy with eyes that the ocean envies,
that the sky always shines for because there is nothing it adores more.
Right next to me as a boy with eyes that are hungry,
but not for darkness... for light.
Feb 11

Gloves

The taste of an empire is in the mouth or our people.
An empire controlled by white men
but that was built on the backs of slaves.
The white men offer it up on a golden platter to the rich,
their gloved finger's crossed behind their backs
as they propose it to the poor.
They glove their hands so the people will not see
the blood dried sockets of their old withered hands.
permanently stained on their collars because they
had to use their napkins to wrap up the bodies.
They carry a country on on their shoulders
but feel no weight of it.
It is a country that they stole.
These lands were once beautiful,
the Native American nursed this country
before it was ripped from their breast by the white men,
just like the children at the border from the arms of their parents.
How many hearts will break
before there are none more left to fracture.
Jan 31

Peace Song For The 21st Century

Peace
/pēs/
noun: peace; noun: the peace.
freedom from disturbance; tranquility.
a state or period in which there is no war or a war has ended.

Peace is a song played upon an evening guitar for everyone,
peace is a song splaid across a keyboard,
peace is a song trickled on morning toast by a flute,
peace is a song bristled on the quills of adventure,
peace is a song tapped upon he floor by dancing shoes,
peace is a song mapped across the spread sheet of this world.

Peace is a song nobody seems to know the words to anymore,
a song America hasn't bothered to learn.
A song I've taught myself, every night, listening to notes and tunes.
A song welling up on the edges of my brain,
expanding on the forethought of tomorrow.
A song that has never been played on a radio or earbuds,
a song that has been stuck in my head ever since I felt an act of hate,

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