If your eyes tear ducts posess,
do not maim them in false pride,
if an urge to weep comes.
Haste, be quick to weep,
for weeping has a voice.
A voice as music upon dreaded ears:
every tempo right on time,
it's rhythm specific.
Make your eyes private though,
for tears wept in secret,
are those which wash the soul of all impurity
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
It was 1988, in labour she gleefully engaged, but all her glee was pain. 2:30 am was the time I was birthed, a bundle of joy or pain. Grief or calm.
I was black or brown or red, in truth of all the stories I heard from my many fathers, I was a different color. I finally concluded none of them really knew, for I was covered in so much blood.
Only thing is in 1988, February 12th was a friday, in 2009, it will be a Thursday.
For all I've become, I owe much gratitude to my mom for that friday's pain. To God, for that day's divinity. To my friends, for they have helped shape my belief systems. To my nephew, for he continually makes me a better person. To my sisters, for daily they remind me of what beauty God creates. To my brother, for as life tries me, he remains my rock. To Gonzo, for when in bouts of self- righteousness I engage, he loves me not less.