one hundred-six.

baby boom.

addict.

sniffed it.

spliffed it.

addicted.

higher than a planet

hanging in the stratosphere, she hung

higher than the stratosphere hung in its own space.

she was strung.

she was a crack addict that cracked a bad habit
open and now her body's exposin' places that
God has been holdin' closely. for years.
now the coke is wrapped up in her tears.

got used for 7 minutes to escape herself while

entering a drug sell. she hit a climax and didn't

want to fall down - no, she didn't want him to

calm down or come down or cool down.

9 months later she's wailing in labor on the day of labor

birthing a baby on white sheets, you could feel her scream

and you could hear her bleed rivers of blood that came

from her addiction buried underneath her verbal diction.

she held her baby underneath her bosom and rocked him slowly.

told him a story and stuffed him in a bag, tied it, and left it at the
door of the most Holy.
whispered underneath her dusty breath that she could not let go of this.

she was referring to her addiction.
she gave away a life to be lifted

with the same clouds of smoke

that kept her addicted.

one hundred-five.

one thing.

if there was one thing that i could recite to you

it would be that i love you deeply and appreciate

your imprint in the chapters of my life.

you are quite wonderful in the eyes of forgiveness.

you are something special to this earth.

i just wish i could see you more.

one hundred-four.

time traveling.

she stepped in a field of green blades

that carried a wealth of rain fallen

from her eyes, rolled down her cheek,

laid on her lips and dove off her chin.

they were filled with memories and pain

and hurt and stains that remained permanent

because she told herself she would forgive but

never forget - she had to learn, she had to grow.

she sat in the field of green blades and lifted her

head up to the unmarked skies and found liberation in it.

whispered a silent prayer to God asking Him to
hold her in that field of lonely filled of green blades.

they were blades because they cut so deep

but green because each one is lending her peace.

healing is traveling right on time.

on His time.

one hundred-three.

you, boy.

i feel for you, boy with no direction.

starring into the face of your crew for
perfection in a distorted reflection that
doesn't even resemble your complexion.

you've created a compass with your filthy hands

causing you to stray the path of identifying yourself

in the face of a Man that is begging for your attention.

still, you're searching for perfection in that distorted reflection.

when will you wake up and understand that you are not even ... you?

you're only who you should hate to love to be. wake up.

one hundred-two.

trash away.

it's only right to delete and omit and erase
all the things we consider to trash our lives.

it's only right to cut out and crumble and throw out
all the things that hold our hands while holding us back.

pulling us away from what's Right
pulling us to sleep, longer at night.

demanded me to remove your words from my property, i did.

now i understand why - because it was trash when you sent it.

trash, just. like. you.

but now,

i smile.

how do you encourage others when you can't even encourage yourself?

how do you motivate others when you can't even motivate yourself?

how do you love another when you've been hurt, don't know what love is ... or who Love is?

i know this isn't me living anymore. it's not. it just isn't. i know it. because i can't. and i couldn't.

now i am.

one hundred-one.

purification.

the rain was generous today.

it was special today.

it purified today.

the rain was friendly today.

it was inspiring today.

it fell gently today.

the rain exercised it droplets

on the bend of a leaf

as it rolled off speedily,

the lens captured it

be set free

on the concrete

beneath my knees.

the rain was quite generous today.

it sprayed pedals and

silenced the birds.

the rain was classical outside of my window.

"And my love for you is to the square root of your love."

one hundred.

three digits.

one for the Maker.

one for the Saviour.

one for the Comforter.

one hundred - pure.

one hundred- alive.

one hundred - real.

one to praise.

one to worship.

one to meditate.

my life will never be the same.

ninety-nine.

haiku for you.

quite intriguing, the

way my thoughts have found a path

back to your warm heart.

ninety-eight.

rips and tears.

each muscle rips and tears

and we become weaker and feel weak

and feel brittle and feel fragile.

but once that phase has passed

those same muscles retract and react

and become stronger than they once were.

that goes for our hearts as well.

ninety-seven.

death control.

the way that water runs clean

in between my palm and its five digits.

the same way a spirit lifts up out of

a soul, out of a body, out of existence.

the way it executes the life that once

breathed freely on this gruesome place called earth.

the way death grips hold of a soul we

so frequently spoke to and laughed with.

how death has such a strong presence in the life

of the living and the power it extracts in the life of those "living".

quite shaken.

almost breaking.

the way lives are running through the hands of

death like water through our palms and digits.

take time.

slow down.

love Love.

ninety-six.

dragonflies.

not by accident - but by Sovereignty.

i held love in my eyes when i saw that dragonfly.

and that dragonfly made me love the species.

because it told me a story of their lives.

their symbolic presence is too often overlooked.

they start as larvae living ponds as water bugs,

until they reach a stage when they climb up a stem

and attach themselves to a leaf, crawl out of their shell

and spread their beautifully colored wings are veer

off into distant lands orchestrating their own

dances on top of the cool breezes.

amazingly, they fly above the same water they once lived

not allowing themselves to touch that pond again.

they can no longer make a connection or have relations

with their former living space.

it becomes a space that should not and cannot be revisited.

and i find that to be admirable and symbolic and synonymous

to the life that i live. to the life that you live. to the lives that we live.

thank God for rebirth and reflection.

ninety-five.

regurgitate.

there is a

level of disgust

settled in my throat

that is immeasurable and i want

to throw

it

up.  

all over you.

ninety-four.

the way you.

i watch the way you carry craters

in your possession as if it is legal

with so much discretion.

you go to the moon as if you have

free tickets to float and fly in the

stratosphere, no looking back.

and your speech carries a daze that

helps me find my way out of mazes i 

create in a language i don't understand.

it's amazing.  the way.  you do.  your thing.

and if i could, i'd carve into you an image of

my description, i would - so you won't forget this.

ninety-three.

pick pocket.

pick pocketing pictures of

a memory so disoriented

with a face stamped on it 

so displaced and disarranged.

it's ugly.

and i try to alter it and share with

it a feeling of harmony with my pride

steadily crumbling but still

it's ugly.

and it reminds me of why i keep picking

pockets of pictures with a memory so

disoriented because the face on it is

stamped so disgustingly.

and now i remember that it really wasn't me.

it wasn't i.

it wasn't she.

it was the face on the picture i pocketed after i picked it.

text message to a friend of mine. thought i’d share.

after you scrape yourself, it heals, then it leaves a scar. reminding you that you have been hurt. which means … you won’t forget that you have been hurt. and you are more cautious … protecting yourself, the hurt person. forgetting that God is already protecting you, He’s not hurting like we are. so He can do a better job than we can. instead, we think we should take matters into our own hands and as a result, we act relentlessly towards people that don’t deserve it.

a hurt person can’t heal a hurt person - translation, you can’t heal yourself. someone who is stronger than you can … and He’s waiting for you to surrender. i got tired of running from peace. it’s now living in me, freely. running from peace is more difficult than letting it live for free, in you.

defense mechanisms are dangerous murderers that pose as delightful martyrs. they are harmful and they don’t deserve the control that we allow them to have. let. them. go.

ninety-two.

erasable flavors.

if there was a such thing as

erasable flavors, i'd erase every

flavor i once savored of the one

i used to favor.

such a disgusting aftertaste it left.

and it lives in each heavy breath

i take.

they told me to breathe easy.

i'm beginning to listen and feel the difference.

ninety-one.

april springs.

april - PUSH!

breathe in.

breathe out.

you're such a beautiful month.

birthing such beautiful fruit into the lives

of those fallen on flushed and bruised knees.

april, you are alive.

and you are springing palm trees to overshadow

all the shadows of decapitated dreams - you

are admitting me to be as free as the breeze

that combs through my hair when i trek towards it.

that rushes between my face and my steady pace.

that lifts me up to and places me in a seat of peace.

april, thank you for birthing a new life to breathe in

and to breath out of my spiritual mouth.

amazing april, i will call you.

and i love you.

ninety.

last night, the alphas eta mu chapter held an event on campus - poetic visions. i was invited to perform. and i did. this performance was an impromptu improvisation.
i pray it moves you to think, respond, and act differently towards the lives i spoke for.in love.

eighty-nine.

too heavy.

she struggled to enter her jeans.
she wiggled and wobbled her way into them, aggressively.

perplexed, she gazed into the mirror.

"where did all this weight come from ... ?"

her bathroom scale called out for her, she followed to it.

she stepped on it.

she read its message.
"your thoughts are too heavy to weigh.

please, clear them. then, try again."