My thoughts change to ink for I choose to write and not think.

Today I think of Jean;

To be Jean at 6 was to have joyful mischief dance in her eyes

While a blend of happiness and sadness dance in her mother’s

It was to hear the crash of a vase and have her mother’s fear projected to her face

It was to watch three wavy lines stream from left to right

Until they became straight and panic filled the place

It was to see peace on her mother face in rectangular box, in a rectangular hole, sealed and covered.

To be Jean at 16 was to sit in a corner, knees bent to head

Knowing what was behind but not what was ahead

Together with 40 others in a metal shipping container

Packed, sealed and sold to her new owner and jailers

It was to be battered, bruised and used

Until she was no more than a homeless man shoes

It was to stand with fake lips, face and body

And enjoy rape, just like a biology specimen likes being studied

To be jean now is to question the creator

It is wonder her inclusion in creation

It is to be Egyptian and drown in her own red sea.

An eye for an eye, a coin for a tooth

These were terms used for my youth

Punishment for wicked, innocence freed by truth

All done by the hero who emerged from a booth.

Naughty is wrong, nice is good

Just like Santa is red and the police is blue

Black means bad, White means good,

And apparently black lives matter too.

The truth is clear, I am not confuse

At least not before the news…..

…The news lady sat, with perfect poise and posture

Poised, to paint a picture, like an artist, our minds his paper

Her lips, held unheard words, her eyes told untold stories

Until, the theme sound sings and silence is sealed.

The news lady sang, in lyrics of just words

A song of, metal barges, colored boys, and unjust blood.

A song of, press meetings, street rallies, and court hearing

Not a song of, eulogy readings, sharp wailings, and incoherent swearing.

The news lady spoke, in words not too much

A sentence of, automatic guns, stained floors, and a peaceful church

A sentence about, press meetings, street rallies, and court hearing

Not a sentence about, eulogy readings, sharp wailings, and incoherent swearing.

“To live is the opposite of what it means to die. But does one truly live if he lives a lie.”

I lived many days and many nights truly lying myself, telling myself it was alright while doubt left seeds that grew weeds crushing my false happy sprouts slowly and methodically. The truth was like a two edged sword, sharp, piercing my subconscious, so blunts, provided a trusty shield, protecting me from reality.IN order to avoid facing faceless truths, I ripped the fabric of reality, wrapped it around sweet smelling grass and watched it disintegrate into ashes and smoke films. Now I float in the haze of cloud nine, literally nine inch above my nose. I’m lost in a sickly euphoria, trapped forever in its haze. Reality, poured in like a F5 hurricane, sweeping my false joy and living in its wake the issues I thought I escaped, unearthing the skeletons I had buried. The truth has once again bound me.

In the beginning there was you, there was me and there was us.

In the beginning was love’s lovely spell, shy kiss and tells, and arguments over harry potter spells.

In the beginning, were answer wish lists, flushed pink chicks, and cozy chick flicks.

In the beginning, was absent minded morning work, hand held evening walks, and heartfelt moon lit talks.

I could never tell when exactly jealousy crept in our rose garden and crushed our blossom, because in the beginning, I was smitten by my crush.

I was blind to the signs, deaf to the whispers and numb to the feelings beneath my heart.

In the beginning, I fell for you. Now I have fallen six feet deep, alone, unable to remember the beginning, when there was you, there was me and there was us.

Tears tear down my joyful peace, though my mouth holds sealed silent lips, my mind is held by chaos’ violent grip.

Like olive oil to my head my James pours his in securities onto me, blessing me with depression.

He would highlight the wrinkles and spots of my before and foreshadow my after. The errs of my past, past down to its heir, the present, till my mind presents thoughts on a fast paced colloidal course to the suicidal.

I try to remain unmoved, but the tidal wave of depression sends me crashing down the depths of the sea of sadness.

He would place insults like salt to my unhealed emotional scars, boxing blows both physical and emotional till all I see are stars through tears that becloud my eyes,

He stares me down, his great disappointment and say he wants what’s best but only sees my worst, claims to be love me but has hate and distain dance in his eyes as bears his canines like a feral beast while he beats and drown me in my now crimson tears.

Tomorrow Sunday I wear sun shades to shade my bruises though nothing can cover my bruised dignity,

So I conceal my shame in my faith fearing fate will unite me with my maker momentarily. Why wait. Beneath my James’ desk hides final piece to my peace. But before my final breath I send death in a text.

I would write anything that comes to mind

Including the lies that lie behind

My mask and persona masquerade

My self –deceit too deep to aid

I’m always down for a rhyme, that it’s downright “cheesy”

My flow remains good, my punch lines come easy

I try to be tangible like stone… or tangerine

Use English to rule the world when 1/6th of it speaks mandarin

Today though I lay awake my bed

And write lines as stale as old bread

I “mould” my words and fired them in a kiln

But it was an act, to short a scene

I searched the depth of my wordy ocean and found it shallow

Searched for content, my mind found it swallowed

My flow has come to a halt and is stuck

It would seem, dear Watson, I suffer writers block.

When did I become me?

When did I become the demon you see?

The image on the mirror screen

The monster behind your frightful scream

Amongst the dusty webs and tarantula creeping with care

When did I become the beast, that which made witches fear?

When did I become my demons host?

When I become what I dread the most?

When did become my creator and born the creature from the mist?

When did decay smell as daisies

When did the wiggle of maggots drive me crazy?

When did wails sound like symphonies in the opera hall?

When did I wonder the views from the eyes that litter my floor?

When did death seem as autumn, when did blood, fall

When I listen to frightful whimpers and hear it as nature’s call

When did I see girls as pretty when dressed as headless dolls

When did I shed my skin and wore my reaper’s skull?

The line that marked that point has been blurred by my victims’ echoes

I have since being baptized in my victims’ falsetto.

At the strike of the twentieth hour the universe paused.

The earth tremors around my heart, its beatings paused.

The scrolls of a space without time rolled to this text.

My tears of pain rolled down the text.

My Alice divorced life, remarried death.

Now I court pain, my eyes, our children, wept.

Encrypted in the message first, was disbelief

In false hope, I found relief.

My faith struck firm like a nail on the wall of a dilapidated building

Though built tall its foundation yielding

My anger broke down denial into depression

My lover left me in grief’s suppression.

My wails have now being mute, but not done

My pain in now numb, but not gone.