poetry

Like A Year 

I am like a year. I go through seasons and sometimes I’m not constant. But with me you will always know what day it is. My seasons depend on my body and the time surrounding it. I can have times where I am barely conscious. When months go by and I’m sleeping due to the exhaustion. 

Then all of a sudden I will be alive and happy. Where I experience everything going on around me and the Lord is constantly present. 

Again the season will change and all I experience is trial. I get stuck inside myself and God is on the back burner because I need to be strong on my own. Being weak with God gets prolonged and I slowly fall into a pit. 

I’ll end my year flat on my face trying to receive forgiveness. Forgiveness for the same sins I committed the year before. Making empty promises to my God about how I will serve him through out my year nonstop. 

I know what my seasons are and that I need to change them. But I never do. Each day I know I’m doing it all over again but I let it take its course. And through out it all, my savior is still as close to me as my right hand. What a fool I am and what a merciful God I serve.

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poetry

Lonely

I’m lonely.

I have a filled up

space with an empty

bed.

I have an empty mind.

Not even my mind comforts

my needs.

I don’t have love

that’s worth singing about.

It feels blank.

And it’s lonely.

I imagine my chest

empty.

I don’t want to depend on

someone to feel full.

I would still feel the

cleared out space.

I want a reason to dance.

Instead I’m still.

Staring expressionless

with the music running

to my ears.

It keeps me motionless.

Statue made of life.

I won’t move and

it breaks me.

It happens when I’m alone.

When I can’t hide the fact

that I’m loveless.

I want to be opened and read.

Taste fingertips and meet glances.

I know I can’t have it.

It leaves me on pause.

I refuse to keep playing.

But the melody is still going

and I’m left behind.

Now I am just so lonely.

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Chronic illness, poetry

A Slow Hollow

It’s slow. Agonizingly slow.

With each moment it grows more

and more swollen.

Closing my throat.

Digging my nails into my neck

trying to catch one breath.

Hours pass and I don’t want to

keep fighting for survival.

I can’t get rid of the poison.

Every heart beat feeds it.

The longer I continue to live

the longer it has to find more ways for me

to suffer.

Who could ever love this reality?

To exist next to it.

Who would choose to suffer

because I had no choice?

It eats me.

Slowly consuming me.

Seven years, what is left of me?

It makes me into nothing.

I’m wasting away, unable to

choose my existence.

I exist as it wants me to,

Hollow.

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poetry, Uncategorized

When You Finally Die

I have never seen death 

manifest itself up close.

But I have seen worse 

happen days before.

Death, usually, 

is only cruel to the people 

you have chosen to love

and those who have chosen 

that you are worth loving back.

The days, weeks, months, years,

waiting for death are only cruel 

to the one chosen to die.

The body was made to live.

It does anything else 

it will sacrifice your sanity 

for the sake of living.

Even if it’s a life worse then death.

When it fails,

when you finally die,

you take pieces of the people you’ve 

touched, people you’ve hurt,

the people of almosts and 

the people of forever. 

You take the piece of 

yourself that you planted 

in them.

Rip every tendent. 

Leaving them all in 

critical condition 

hoping that it will heal 

correctly.

Death.

It’s complicated.

Burdening, soul wrenching.

Something to look forward to,

and end to suffering.

The beginning of grieving,

or possibly the end. 

The end and the beginning.

I’ve only seen the before 

and after.

I’ve seen people,

people who where slowly 

painfully dying.

I’ve seen a body,

motionless, heart still.

Eyes shut, never opening,

Caked in makeup, dressed

as their families want.

Both sights looking

nothing as who they truly are.

The before taking away 

their light and voice.

Not able to be how they 

truly wish to be.

The after letting the families 

put on a show, the big production.

“The lie of the one who has died.”

People showing up 

that should have showed up 

a couple heart beats earlier.

Words spoken that

should have been said

To rosy cheeks 

not cold bloodless lips. 

Death is regret.

Death is inevitable.

Death is at any moment.

Celebrate! 

We have an excuse to live.

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Christianity, Chronic illness, poetry

I’m Just Fine (My First Rap)


People ask me “Why you don’t talk” all the time.

Well here’s your damn answer,

My body’s decaying, it’s breaking.

But no one gives two craps unless it’s cancer.

All I do stare up at ceilings

Trying to ignore the fact that my skin keeps peeling. Off

Damn Doctors, they insult me 

It’s all in my brain, they say.

Thanks Doc,

Slam the car door, mom asks those three words,

“How are you?”

My mouth is under padlock.

She just wants to hear that 

I’m still as strong not easy to knock.

Even if every words a lie.

[CHORUS]

I’m, just, fine.

I’ll be okay, I’m living a normal life.

It’s sad from time to time, but God is kind.

Don’t you worry about me, I’ll bloom on time,

I may have thorns in my sides, but I was made just right.

I have my eyes on the prize, it will just take some patience and Christ.

I’m, just, fine.

[CHORUS]

There’s not light, I look at the time. I have a realization,

The medication can’t stop the PTSD or depression, my silence is a confession, open your eyes and make a correction on how you see me before I make a stupid decision that will make you learn your lesson. 

See me. I’m weaker than you think, don’t blink, you might miss it. Terrified of the what if’s the worlds darkest screw it’s.

You tell me I can’t live this way, I’m lazy and I never move from where I lay. 

No really? you think I wanted this? What about all the things I miss? Really?

This is my body, not me. If pain wasn’t in the damn way I would runaway, stand in line just because this mother could, I would dance all night pretending this white girl was from the hood. Only if I could. 

You ask me with that fake voice, “Girl, How are you!?” 

And so the conversation goes…

[CHORUS]

I’m, just, fine.

I’ll be okay, I’m living a normal life.
It’s sad from time to time, but God is kind.
Don’t you worry about me, I’ll bloom on time,
I may have thorns in my sides, but I was made just right.
I have my eyes on the prize, it will just take some patience and Christ.
I’m, just, fine.
[CHORUS]
What should I say? You all ready know that the pain is chronic, that I have PTSD and I can’t love myself, that I dig so far into my body that bleed, it’s ironic.

Can’t be my own lover so I make myself uglier.

You know that. But say it out loud, you run faster then a freaking street rat. 

So I’m fine. Cuz it’s crime to check box other.

Mother always says to treat others how you want to be treated so I show compassion.

Even after you ask me that question in poor fashion. Because no should be alone.

Even if love was never shown. In the first place.

So I get another text, the same stupid question.

As if I could describe with the words in my possession. So I hold up a mirror and have them ask themselves. Thats all people have wanted since I was twelve.

And…

[CHORUS]

I’m, just, fine.

I’ll be okay, I’m living a normal life.
It’s sad from time to time, but God is kind.
Don’t you worry about me, I’ll bloom on time,
I may have thorns in my sides, but I was made just right.
I have my eyes on the prize, it will just take some patience and Christ.
I’m, just, fine.
[CHORUS]
If the pain would go, my heart could show, and all this loneliness would be just a memory. But just because that’s what it should be doesn’t mean it could be.

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poetry

You’re A Whore

Shes never had sex.

She hasn’t given consent.

This was her choice.

Yet, her breasts have been 

squeezed and ass has been 

smacked red. 

She’s a slut,

because she’s not dating

anyone.

She’s a tramp,

because they touch her

and yell “complements”

as she walks her dog.

Ugh, she’s the definition of vulgar!

She’s terrified of the 

consequences of telling them 

to screw off.

She rests there for her bus.

He turns the corner and

yells, “Nice rack!”

Wow, what a whore.

She is a national treasure.

Born with sculpted curves,

skin painted with the best 

paint Van Gogh could buy.

She goes to the Chicago art 

Museum and she is the 

masterpiece.

People are degrading.

They can see that they have 

ruined themselves.

No longer worth her time,

but they failed to see

the beauty left in themselves.

So they ruin her.

They tarnish her purity.

They take away the truth 

of who she is so she suffocates.

They make her something 

only to get pleasure from.

Instead of someone who 

should be hidden, cherished,

by people who will see who 

she is and will become.

We all believe the lie.

We know the truth,

But we are silent 

we join in.

Our minds are bought and 

sold so easily.

And she’s the whore…

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poetry, Uncategorized

Can You See Me?


I am hidden.

I pride myself on being 

transparent,

but I find that I am so

much so, that I am invisible.

I have no color. 

I feel myself 

and there is no intriguing 

substance.

I have lived only 20 years 

and I just bought my 

first thong.

I am behind the times.

My body is a chameleon.

Morphing to the colors, shapes,

and habits of my surroundings.

No one can see me. 

Why do I blend into what 

I don’t want to be a part of?

How do I find myself?

Why does my honesty 

hide me?

Why can’t you see me?

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