Temporal hurts cause sensations to quake
within a metal case, emotions forsake
pervasive it spread, somewhat sporadic
left a warped mind, deemed actions erratic
somber, I told them, the feeling had set
returning daily. I can’t soon forget
still I don’t remember how it began
three years have gone, on a diverted plan
in blows December, and I’ve yet to find
the loq's long lost mind, though I've tried to rewind
while self destructing, I tried to appeal
a damning sentence, but this is not real.
Occipital, it leaked, changing positions
past due was the deadline to stop the transmission
disappointing, she said, of the certain downfall
this pulsing, she stated, was not real at all
tensions seize up underneath tawny flesh
temples invert, causing memories to mesh
emotions no better, seldom separate
leave but one expression, it’s all been a mistake (perhaps this is fate)
tremors flourish within dark metal shells
bring emotions to head, can no longer be quelled
I was once a fixer, now messes congeal
the brave heart has broken, but this still is not real.
Parietal, soft droplets on wood,
not much was spoken of it, wouldn’t do much good
munchausen, he says, it’s been ruled fictitious
an ache, to which all comfort had proven malicious
no fault, claimed he, this had all been on you
I do my duty, the concept isn’t new
just smile and push through, my he hasn’t a clue
no empathy, and she’s physically caught in a bind
brows furrow in distress, seek to uproot unyielding vines
daily, it pulses under tendon and raw skin
mass brimming, suffocating from within
this sensation, spread through head and breast
seeking new refuge, caused tightness of chest
this sensation, it spread behind dull, glazed eyes
causes ruptures, damp storms, shed its disguise
laziness, he said, is what caused her demise
what she needs is focus, not help, it’s all lies
silent she fell, accusations surreal
vowed to stopper this phase, for this couldn’t be real.
Frontal, fully exposed yet still shrouded
an enigma in black, few ask unless guided
mass, ever present, sought secondary escape
that which an open mouth would only misshape
anxiety, she clawed at imperfections past
left craters in skin and her peers aghast
her alias, it lied, for three years time
though silence, it seemed, they deemed her true crime
should have said something if she needed help
when the only thing she did not do was yelp
daily she sighed and conversed with glazed stares
whilst peers blathered on, words fell on deaf ears
I hate it when you say that. girl, where have you been?
watching things fall apart, much to my chagrin
it’s my attitude, they said, that must be cause
we all know how you act, he said, without taking pause
accusations, tugging already sore veins
a marred outer shell was all that remained
the fault, the blame, rested squarely on her
shoulders, hunched slightly, to late to defer
to begin again, new possible end
a different future, I would not apprehend
sleepless nights, long hours, all for shame
seemingly ending by extinguishing the flame
lit in years prior, like a dark sky
whose dreams and wishes had all gone awry
now fears culminate, leave little chance to heal
merely days until she is sent away
though, perhaps she was never real.
Author Bio:
The past three years have been a learning experience, teaching me the importance of speaking truth, whether it be your own or someone else’s, and the importance if reliable storytelling, in regard to personal writing. It is with this in mind that I submit my poetry, in hopes of having it published.
The past fifteen years of my career, academic and personal, have been shaped by perseverance towards success and activism. My qualifications in design, publication in conjunction to my quasi cynicism would prove a valuable asset to the HerCampus brand. Accepting things as they appear has never been in my nature, neither has withholding truth. In the age of social media and public violences against certain groups, we are more in need of truth of criticism of than ever. Storytelling (inclusive of blogging and any form of writing for the public consumption as well as personal relief) of the future has evolved in tandem with not just political correctness in mind but with an eye for correct portrayal of a history as it is made (whether it be yours, mine or a specific minority group). Troy Maxson said it best: Don’t try and go through life worrying about if somebody like you or not. You best be making sure they doing right by you. We are in age where we can’t afford unreliable storytellers or writing anymore.
Realizing the ways in which culture and prejudices act on one perceived self worth and their understanding of the world, especially during one’s delicate college years, is important. Far too often, black youth in America, specifically our women - our stories and experience are constantly being degraded or fully eliminated from what is perceived as the cultural norm. Black women are forced to validate their choices, their features, their interests and furthermore their existence on a daily basis, and this is why I create and write. There is one thing that can’t be questioned, at least in the normal sense, and that is art and writing. Once it’s out there, it’s out there for all to see and it speaks for itself.
within a metal case, emotions forsake
pervasive it spread, somewhat sporadic
left a warped mind, deemed actions erratic
somber, I told them, the feeling had set
returning daily. I can’t soon forget
still I don’t remember how it began
three years have gone, on a diverted plan
in blows December, and I’ve yet to find
the loq's long lost mind, though I've tried to rewind
while self destructing, I tried to appeal
a damning sentence, but this is not real.
Occipital, it leaked, changing positions
past due was the deadline to stop the transmission
disappointing, she said, of the certain downfall
this pulsing, she stated, was not real at all
tensions seize up underneath tawny flesh
temples invert, causing memories to mesh
emotions no better, seldom separate
leave but one expression, it’s all been a mistake (perhaps this is fate)
tremors flourish within dark metal shells
bring emotions to head, can no longer be quelled
I was once a fixer, now messes congeal
the brave heart has broken, but this still is not real.
Parietal, soft droplets on wood,
not much was spoken of it, wouldn’t do much good
munchausen, he says, it’s been ruled fictitious
an ache, to which all comfort had proven malicious
no fault, claimed he, this had all been on you
I do my duty, the concept isn’t new
just smile and push through, my he hasn’t a clue
no empathy, and she’s physically caught in a bind
brows furrow in distress, seek to uproot unyielding vines
daily, it pulses under tendon and raw skin
mass brimming, suffocating from within
this sensation, spread through head and breast
seeking new refuge, caused tightness of chest
this sensation, it spread behind dull, glazed eyes
causes ruptures, damp storms, shed its disguise
laziness, he said, is what caused her demise
what she needs is focus, not help, it’s all lies
silent she fell, accusations surreal
vowed to stopper this phase, for this couldn’t be real.
Frontal, fully exposed yet still shrouded
an enigma in black, few ask unless guided
mass, ever present, sought secondary escape
that which an open mouth would only misshape
anxiety, she clawed at imperfections past
left craters in skin and her peers aghast
her alias, it lied, for three years time
though silence, it seemed, they deemed her true crime
should have said something if she needed help
when the only thing she did not do was yelp
daily she sighed and conversed with glazed stares
whilst peers blathered on, words fell on deaf ears
I hate it when you say that. girl, where have you been?
watching things fall apart, much to my chagrin
it’s my attitude, they said, that must be cause
we all know how you act, he said, without taking pause
accusations, tugging already sore veins
a marred outer shell was all that remained
the fault, the blame, rested squarely on her
shoulders, hunched slightly, to late to defer
to begin again, new possible end
a different future, I would not apprehend
sleepless nights, long hours, all for shame
seemingly ending by extinguishing the flame
lit in years prior, like a dark sky
whose dreams and wishes had all gone awry
now fears culminate, leave little chance to heal
merely days until she is sent away
though, perhaps she was never real.
Author Bio:
The past three years have been a learning experience, teaching me the importance of speaking truth, whether it be your own or someone else’s, and the importance if reliable storytelling, in regard to personal writing. It is with this in mind that I submit my poetry, in hopes of having it published.
The past fifteen years of my career, academic and personal, have been shaped by perseverance towards success and activism. My qualifications in design, publication in conjunction to my quasi cynicism would prove a valuable asset to the HerCampus brand. Accepting things as they appear has never been in my nature, neither has withholding truth. In the age of social media and public violences against certain groups, we are more in need of truth of criticism of than ever. Storytelling (inclusive of blogging and any form of writing for the public consumption as well as personal relief) of the future has evolved in tandem with not just political correctness in mind but with an eye for correct portrayal of a history as it is made (whether it be yours, mine or a specific minority group). Troy Maxson said it best: Don’t try and go through life worrying about if somebody like you or not. You best be making sure they doing right by you. We are in age where we can’t afford unreliable storytellers or writing anymore.
Realizing the ways in which culture and prejudices act on one perceived self worth and their understanding of the world, especially during one’s delicate college years, is important. Far too often, black youth in America, specifically our women - our stories and experience are constantly being degraded or fully eliminated from what is perceived as the cultural norm. Black women are forced to validate their choices, their features, their interests and furthermore their existence on a daily basis, and this is why I create and write. There is one thing that can’t be questioned, at least in the normal sense, and that is art and writing. Once it’s out there, it’s out there for all to see and it speaks for itself.
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