Oct 06
poem, nonfiction challenge: Taste

San Diego: A History in Taste

San Diego. My home away from home. Salty spray stinging my toungue. Playing with my hair and flirting with my face. A spicy two-step mirrors my heartbeat. Echoing off Spanish missions and stucco roofs.

My first summer there reminds me of chocolate. A kind lady with deep wrinkles saw my beaming birthday face, guided me to the candy store, and let me fill my arms with sweets. And there was chocolate. Melting in my mouth, gliding down my throat, leaving me with the rich, classic flavor. Already I was begging for more. More chocolate, more days spent, drowning in summer's bliss. 

I was drunk on it. Bright and sharp as champagne. Wearing rose tinted glasses in an already golden world. 

I didn't know reminiscing would become a fickle thing. Sifting through a layer of wistfulness like sprinkled sand. 
Sep 26

At this moment I want to SCREAM


I want to scream until my lungs wither 
and my tounge dries out. 

But,
more than that, 
I want someone to hear me. 

I want someone to listen 

I want someone to hear and listen and know and understand and DO something. 

But right now, 
at this moment, 
I want to SCREAM
 
Sep 11

Whitewashed streets (Say my name)

I wrote this after a trip to Annapolis. I was in awe of the State House and the memorials and statues. Then we got to the harbor and I saw plaques dedicated to the slaves. To the dark skinned ones. To the Africans. I was and am still broken. I couldn't enjoy the trip anymore or think of the historical buildings because the same people who walked the halls of the state house are the same ones who oversaw those terrors. They participated. 

Do not forget about the Africans. About Kinta Kinte. Do not forget. Say Their Name. 
Sep 02

I Used to Be Free (A Letter to Little Red Pills and Rex)

As I stare down at my empty pill botlle I feel a few things, bitterness, confusion, and mortality. How did it get to this? I used to be Free, right? I'm having a hard time remembering but I know I used to be Free. Careless. Unburdened. No regrets. 

How can I Hate the thing that helps me so much? Does a person with a broken leg throw away their crutch? 

My day has already been bad but as I look at his photo it only gets worse. 

It was your 50th state in 50 years. You always had the time for whatever stupid stories we had to tell. Or whatever drama occured on the walk home. 

I didn't really know you that well and you taught old stuff about Ancient Greece and I alwyas found that kinda boring but I have your face on a Christmas card hanging on my fridge so I guess that counts for something. 

But then again, sometimes I forget you died so maybe it counts for nothing. 
 
Sep 01

Anxious

Aug 21

Power of the Pen

Aug 21

An Ode to Baltimore

Aug 21

A Little Self Pity From the Birthday Girl

Aug 06

4th of July

Aug 01
poem challenge: Love Poem

The Ballad of Hyacinth and Apollo

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