The other day, I posted a poem on my poetry website that was slightly uncomfortable for me to write. It was tapping into my fiercely guarded, underbelly. It took a nose dive into 40-year old scars--ones that have healed, but in the hurried fashion that scar tissue rushes in and lie down with the intention to mend, when any part of the unit has been comprised. Sporadically, frantically and without any direction.
As a grasshopper, I was told I looked like her (Harriet Tubman) by classmates and I'd be gutted when they'd say it to me, each time. I'd secretly cry in the little girl's bathroom stall. That tiny little stall, with a miniature toilet and handle to flush it. I'd come out and use the tiny sink to wash my hands and face and return to the classroom as if I hadn't been crushed and destroyed just 5 minutes prior. That was the highest insult back then. She's been the butt end of many jokes and was the ultimate "shade". But, like the fierce, yet weary face pictured above, that I've reminded so many of; everyone has their day and I'm standing at the front door of mine. Everyone has their time to shine; for their voice to RISE and be more than heard. It may take many deaths atop 50 years, but upon it's reappearance you'll be forced to absorb it.
The day the poem was birthed, I'd simply placed my fingers on the keyboard and word vomit poured out in chunks, that had been awaiting it's release. I wasn't ready. I looked at the publish button a thousand times before I clicked it. Upon clicking it, the voice within said, 'Oh well, it's done now. Plus! There is growth in the discomfort, these are merely growing pains.'
"I wasn't ready." I heard that last weekend by one of the most eloquent, poised and genuine speakers and story tellers I've ever had the pleasure of hearing speak. Mr. Dan Guerrero, thank you. He was correct, we deal with things when we're ready. Thank you for reminding me. I wasn't then, but I am now. It's been told to me since I was at least 20 years old that I should write a book, that I needed to tell my story. I wasn't ready. I didn't like the spotlight...I hid behind it. Behind everyone. My son, my pain, my spirituality and simply retreated into my world. I wasn't ready.
But! In order for me to tell my story, I have to be okay with being propelled and thrusted into the spotlight, which is exactly what's been happening. I'm ready. Yes! I'm ready; flawed, ugly, and all for my close-up.
I am honored to be associated with such a strong woman. A woman of grace and power; with a sympathetic heart and will to live and help others do the same. I no longer worry about the folks I'll affect in telling my story, my only concern is my freedom and that it may help someone else that may struggle with telling any parts of their story.
U aint got no alibi...
I’ve been ugly my whole life; never have I been a pretty thang
Those eyes I did happen to catch only held contempt and disdain
Helping me to create my invisibility cloak; I am no stranger to pain
Most days are bearable and oftentimes forgotten until a prick encites the bleeding of blotched ink stains…
Repetitively, reminding you crisply and fervently that you must be insane
There’s some cool ass perks to both though; ugly is as ugly does, but I happened to remain
Just me. Unfiltered and unbleached. Not – tampered with, forever + always the same
A wild child, wildflower with purple and gold-tipped and dipped ends, highlights my mane
With no place, no home and free to feverishly, roam & explore this glazedly, rough terrain
However, as glamorous as all may be, it’s not far enough to sustain. I’ve been ugly my whole life, I’m no stranger to pain.
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*Swish, scratch, swish*...went the brushes and palm swipes of seven-subtly, eager artists against their roughly-textured and prepped canvases. Resonating incredibly soothing feels, like a medium-bristled brush being lovingly and carefully raked through her hair. It gave her the chills (click to read more of the sample and purchase)...
She, steadily walked down the busy road, yet there were no appropriate sidewalks and cars were whizzing by. At any given time, there may have been a million questions/comments/thoughts/replays/intentions and words traveling along the synapses of her nerve endings, overflowing her system and blowing her mind (click to read more of the sample and purchase)...