Day Five ... Challenge of the Selfie

for so long

i’ve tried to find my voice

so i could dress

it in purpose...

but maybe

i’m searching for the wrong thing,

maybe 

it’s not my voice I’m supposed to be finding…

Day Four... Challenge and Judgement

In lieu of serving jury duty....

Day 4 —Write a story/excerpt to include the line, “Sorry, we can’t insure you for a journey like that.”

i entered a courtroom to find

one judge (white)

one clerk of court (also white)

one court reporter (again white)...

the defense attorney (black)

the defendant (black as well)

and the Assistant District Attorney (also black)...

three bailiffs ... ALL BLACK

“Sorry, but we can’t insure you for a journey like that”.

the defendant a Black Man, early 30s, married, dressed beyond nice,

the charged “carrying a concealed weapon”,

charge definition  –the practice of carrying a weapon (such as a handgun) in public, in a conceal manner, either on one’s person, or in close proximity.

 “Sorry, but I can’t insure you for a journey like that”.

Sorry, but I will not be a part of this determination squad, to set verdict to this a man’s life,

Sorry, but I will not have innocence of lack thereof on my conscience,

Sorry, but I will not send another Black man to prison…

Especially…

For exercising his right to bear arms.

Besides, am I too really trust the word of a police officer who’s motives are concealed?

 “Sorry, but I can’t insure you for a journey like that”.

Day Three... Challenge and Respect

each time i do this i learn something, maybe not learn but rather discover something about my actions. each time i do this i understand more and more that change comes from within and that change is often forced by challenges. so within these 30 days i guess i’m challenging myself in more ways that one. but on day three my thoughts are drowning in respect along with the task... let the day’s challenge begin.

Day 3 —Write about the worst time you’ve ever put your foot in your mouth.

according to the dictionary the definition of  respect is:

esteem for or a sense of the worth or excellence of a person, a personal quality or ability, or something considered as a manifestation of a personal quality or ability.

i'm not sure my lover is apt to this definition, in fact i think "respect" is a word we throw around attached to false meanings. i fear you therefore i respect you;  i love you, therefore i respect you; you are my parent, therefore i respect you.... all of the above can be absolutely true without respect being present. the definition shows us differently, and the only thing that keeps ringing in my head is

“esteem for the worth of a person”, “a sense of excellence of a person”

i wanna tell my Lover that she doesn’t respect me, but i already know that it won’t go over well, already know that she won’t receive it, because the weight of it’s truthfulness will be too much for her to handle. i already know that this will be one of those things, she’ll want to sweep under the rug, and the saddest truth is that i’ll let her, all the while knowing that that one simple act will end us. writing this alone is putting my foot in my mouth. but she has to know that i am NOT to be ruled over. God created us from a rib, located on the side of the our bodies, each one to match the next, therefore making us equal. so respect me in that equalness, because i’d rather have respect than loved any day.

the change....

last night I let the thunder beat loudly,

willingly let the fire ignite and burn through

control panes of strength…

i…

allowed the lightening to rain a watery mix of acid and pain

“Relax…. Let it happen…”

“You are safe…it’s ok to be emotional”

but the burn was too much, the itch too great,

the temptation not enough to risk the downfall

the spiraling out of control.

but she wanted me to feel, wanted to see the nakedness of my pain,

things I’m ashamed of and places I won’t go… things I won’t say.

“Relax…. Let it happen…”

“You are safe…it’s ok to be emotional”

then I start to feel like she’s too close, to accessible to my truths and the skeletons laughing behind 

my eyes… the ugliness of past transgressions warped under my skin…

the ugly facts that I hide daily….

the secrets I keep from myself to protect a “me” that doesn’t exist anymore.

i wish I could make her understand that I am only

a Strength of control,

a shell of love and anger,

that is struggling to choose happiness...

Day One.... Challenges

i believe that life is full of challenges, unlike most who believe that life is full of change... doesn't the change present the challenge "to be, or not to be". in this space, at this time, i find myself looking for the happiness outside of my household, yet... comforting myself with the solace of words held hostage by paper dripping emotion hearts can feel ....

but the how, when, and what escape me completely... i need directions for my obsession, a route slaved to my teetering thoughts, a challenge...

Day 1 —Select a book at random in the room.  Find a novel or short story, copy down the last sentence and use this line as the first line of your new story. Random book : Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling

"As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come... and  he would have to meet it when it did". Regardless of the facts that remain the same, when time repeats itself in order to unkindly remind you of a past twice removed by memory, you have to face it.

  Hagrid knew better, knew that the future was both promised and uncertain, and most times unwilling to bend to the will of the human touch, but he would try, he would fight, he would give into the pressure of hope and pray for the obvious... A cure. A magical potion of a medicine to cure the incurable, loosen the grip of pain, wash over the damaged, and heal the ailing.

but is the fight possible or even plausible, when the doctor labels you terminal, and sends you home with four months to live attached with a diagnosis of CANCER....

what would come, would come... and somehow we all will have to meet it, when it does....

brokenSILENCE

proclamation of silence

i’ve been meaning to sit down and do this,

but i find myself questioning

the value,

the purpose,

and the significance of

saying what’s on my mind.

honestly no one is worthy enough to hear the pressure of silence once hearts break and dreams are shattered…

i wish i could pour it out,

label it,

store it somewhere in the hallway closet;

but the cuts are too deep to hide;

too painful to be bandaged.

but somehow… they manage to still bleed passion and breathe hope. i thought i wanted to tell this story but my vocal cords have grown cold, my fingers wilted and my conscience unwilling….there’s to much to lose, too less to gain but a story always needs a voice, needs an ending to match then meet a beginning.

a story needs characters, needs to peak in order to fall…a story needs a life, but i am fighting to dead the one buried under my chest cavity...

So where do I tell it?

What ears will hear?

What eyes will bare witness??????

C is for ....

COUNTING

if i had any sense at all i would know that

almost doesn’t count,

and counting your blessings only means,

you count the curses too,

But I count…

the days in between the weeks,

outside of the months,

until I get to cleave myself

the secret,

of the covert affairs,

listed inside the classified articles of my lover.

the articles I tried to stay away from,

the periodicals I tried to tear my ears away from,

But couldn’t.

So I counted…

 13, 23, 31, 33

Telling stories my ears won’t be forced to hear,

37,43,53

Counting memories as dreams bump into my past

and default themselves…

counting the moments for the meantime,

 but between the time where

deaf ears, silence tongues, and muted vision,

can touch what cannot be touched,

slowly

undressing the articles of my lover,

counting them,

one…..

by…..

one…..