Poetic License

When you say “Colored” do you mean black?

poetisa17 — Thu, 13 May 2010 09:02:15 +0000

I wonder sometimes where I would have been placed during the Civil Rights movement; although I’m sure my honey melanin would have cast me to one side. The frazzled curls in my hair would expose my African decent.

Although, my freckles would confuse them. Fair women with their red cheeks and browns spots, might scrub them as imperfections, stains of a colored blood running through them. They might look at me sideways and wonder why I don’t use talc to cover them and lead based blush to shawl over my cheeks hiding the speckles of sun kisses on my face. They might wonder to themselves why I embrace these so-called imperfections, and heckle me for my abundance of course hair or my oversized maternal mammary’s.

They’d see right through my proper English and my never having been to my native country. They’d just see the last twenty minutes I spent showering myself in light. The brown of my forehead; the sienna of my hands.

The Martyr

poetisa17 — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 06:43:29 +0000

When you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, one would think it’d make you stronger.
But in fact, it makes you weak, worn, and frail before the strength in every aching muscle comes alive.
That’s how I imagine her. Always guarded and afraid;
thinking the vultures will eat her liver for her giving heart.
Worried that her child will be taken by darkness forcing her to share them a part of the year
causing Winter to break through the Summer,
drowning the world in the color gray;
a blanket of cold that cannot be warmed,
a chill so frigid it hits the bone.
She’s so afraid to be let down that she doesn’t let go.
She’s so afraid to let go that she holds on too close.
Nothing is right.
Nothing is ever the same.
And change is not her friend.
But I pray for her, that one day she’ll be free.
I pray that she’ll embrace her own beauty.
I hope and I wish that she’ll risk it all for the sake of it all.
No longer be Atlas holding up the world.
No longer be Prometheus giving humans his all.
No longer be Demeter mother of the seasons and Earth.
I hope she’ll learn to make fire on her own.
From the sweat of her brow to the friction of her bones.
Full movement, full throttle, moving forward at lightening speed.
Realizing she can’t feel pain if she moves too quickly for it to catch her.
And when she look back to see where she’s been,
let it be a marvelous tapestry of life lines she’s touched,
and see herself weaved within.

In Loving Memory 10/16/1991

poetisa17 — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 13:17:00 +0000

I remember his voice.
Friendly.
Embracing.
Humorous.
The way words would come out in song.
His accent, Antillean in every way.
My memories are now half decayed; broken.
I recall a woman interrupt our conversation saying we had one minute.
One minute to tell him about my racist first grade teacher.
A name I couldn’t pronounce in Spanish and that he urged me to figure out.
Frustrated, and with a loss of language, I felt I’d disappointed him.
I don’t know how to say it.
No se decirlo.
I think he understood, I had..
One minute to discuss my hopes and dreams.
One minute to tell him how I wanted to be a writer.
One minute to explain how I idolized my new sister.
One minute to tell him how much I love my new mother.
One minute to tell him I love him.
One minute to say goodbye.
The woman’s voice was the last I heard.
In one minute what could you say?
The last conversation. His last words.
“Te quiero Chulita.”

Viejo, Viejito

poetisa17 — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 06:39:21 +0000

To the birthday boy.

Un viejo carga botón y anda de espacio.
Un viejito maneja carro y mujeres jóvenes.

Un viejo se recuerda poco de Los amores y mucho de lo que se arrepienta.
Un viejito solo enamora y no piensa de lo que será.

Pues los viejitos son bien guapos y los viejos se le ve cariño adonde hubo machismo, y caridad adonde hubo fuersa.

Por eso a mi me gustan los viejitos que son maduros y cariñosos y amorosos por todo el tiempo, aunque llegen a ser viejos ya en ese tiempo juntos andaremos.

A Fall From Grace

poetisa17 — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 17:57:45 +0000

I honestly think
that if you and I were to date,

you’d quickly find
how disappointing

false idols are.

Eff My Heart

poetisa17 — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 04:01:54 +0000

I’ll eat fries deep fried in pork fat,
and pork seasoned in more pork.

Fuck my heart because it’s already broken.

I’ll eat myself into a comma
because there’s nothing better
than sleeping on a full stomach;
The worse the dreams
the better reality seems.

You took my heart, and you don’t give a fuck either way.
So why should I care if it doesn’t belong to me.

Fuck O.P.P.
Fuck what we could be.
Fuck tomorrow.
Fuck existence.

I’d rather wake to loneliness than be in bad company.

Fuck this insecent buzzing in my ear,
it sounds like apologies but there’s nobody here.

So Fuck forgiveness.
Fuck crying.
Fuck what you thought of me.
Fuck if I’m dying.

Alone.

Without you.

Fearful of my own demise.

I just can’t bring myself to give a fuck.

Not even when looking in your eyes.

Sleep

poetisa17 — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 17:37:23 +0000

I tried to sleep away my misgivings about life,

but they only crept into my dreams

and tried to suffocate me.

They woke me suddenly and then,

things weren’t as bad as they’d once seemed.

Will it make it through the winter?

poetisa17 — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 04:00:41 +0000

Is there a cure for loneliness?
A dollop of relief when at the least one’s spirit seems so low while it’s solo, that the world seems baron? Unable to conceive true friendships it wilts like a dried flower. Neglected and undernourished the flower wilts in anticipation for spring, but through the winter it’s barely able to hope for sun.
Will anyone remember the flowers delicate beauty through the clout of fall and winter? Or will it be forgotten? Desolate, and affraid that it may never bloom again.

And So I Fell

poetisa17 — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 04:01:15 +0000

Falling
Is
Scary

It’s
Even
Worse
In
The
Dark

11 De Septiembre, 2001

poetisa17 — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 04:01:40 +0000

Estuve en la oscuridad.

Meses. Anos.

Por tanto tiempo que mis ojos cambiaron

de color café a blanco.

No había luz.

No solo yo pero un mundo de personas como yo perdieron el sol.

La noche no se iba y el día se había perdido.

Sin ningún aviso, el día, no amaneció.