Writing Careers

Being an English major is no easy thing. When I tell people that it is my area of study, the first thing that they ask me is if I want to be a teacher. Is that all there is? Is that all people think about when they think of an English major? Not knocking teachers, but that is just something that I don't feel that I want to do right out of school. I want to write and explore the world, and then come back to the states and be that English professor that every student wants to take. I'm not sure what writing path that I want to take just yet. I've thought about film/TV-writing, editing for a magazine, or being a food critic. I'm so scattered brain that as of now I'm just going to take the LSAT this spring to keep my options open. I'll let you know how it goes... :)

Crazy

Some days I feel like I'm going crazy! I don't know why or what for...but there are just those times when my brain frizzes and I have to shake away the madness that invades it. Maybe it's stress from school or the disappointment in not finding an internship...I don't know...but I'm sure as hell gonna figure it out.

Search for Sistahood

I was looking for a Greek sista
with whom I could share my beliefs.
I was looking for a Greek sista
who was just like me.

I didn't know if I was meant
to create change with the Deltas,
the ladies of crimson and cream,

or just rock out as the first
with the women of AKA,
who strut in pink and green.

Then I heard there were those
who were called Zetas,
sistas of pure white and royal blue,

and the women of S-G-Rho,
who rock gold instead of pure white
with their royal blue.

I was looking for a Greek sista
with whom I could share my beliefs.
I was looking for a Greek sista,
but I what I found was just ME.

Pierce my skin

Pierce my skin
but not my soul.
Take everything
that means nothing,
but take nothing
that means everything.

My hips,
my thighs,
my legs.
They are nothing without my soul.

So leave me with
no breath,
no blood,
no scent, no taste, no sight.

But my voice will never die
It will forever live
as long as I have my soul.

Sometimes love isn't always

Sometimes love isn't always
about marshmallows and cocoa.

Sometimes love isn't always
about sunshines and rainbows.

Love is waking up and finding
yourself wrapped inside
no judgment,
forgiveness,
support,
and security.

Love is being vulnerable.
It is telling a story from a chapter
that is now colsed
and trusting that
the listener will appreciate
the delicacy of its words,
the beauty of its structure,
and the intensity of its emotion.

Love is always letting go,
but never giving up.

It was the strength of your arms
as you held me at night,
and the look in your eyes
as I told you my story,
that made me realize that
marshmallows and sunshines,
that cocoa and rainbows,
isn't all there is.

Thank you.
Thank you for teaching me
the difference from
sometimes love and always love.

I haven't put up a new post in almost 4 days! Shame on me! But just because I haven't put up any new blog posts, that doesn't mean that I haven't written any new material.  So what you'll be reading in the next few posts is some creative vomit that I have waited to hack up until now.  Not having internet access at home REALLY sucks, so maybe I'll try to fix that before the end of the year! I know you all missed me so enjoy! :)

She thought she'd be living glamorous

She thought she'd be living glamorous
in a million story highrise
in the bustling city of New York.

She thought she'd be strutting
in six-inch heels,
to celebrity soirees on the Lower West Side.

She thought she'd be cuddling
next to her fluffy white maltese
in her queen size bed.

She thought she'd be eating
croissants and fresh fruit
for breakfast each morning,
and steak and fresh vegetables
for dinner each night.

But she thought wrong.

Instead she sat in a million story highrise project
in the tireless city of New York,

wearing her dirty pink slippers
as she watched the latest celebrity news
flash across her old 19-inch box TV,

listening to the sound of fluffy white mice
pitter patter across her hardwood floors
as she sat on her lumpy twin size bed,

knowing there was no food
for breakfast each morning
and only cans of soup
for dinner each night.

Tears fell from her dark brown eyes,
and over her rosy red cheeks.

They slowly washed away
any hopes,
any dreams.

Two fingers to the sky

Two fingers to the sky,
right hand over my heart.
This is what they made us to be,
patriotic machines
who know no laws
and know no world
outside of the reds,
the whites,
and the blues.

She sits among black trash bags

She sits among black trash bags
and multi-colored grafitti walls,
in front of "Do Not Enter" signs,
and amongst a city that never sleeps.

I remember you

I remember you,
your words of kindness shown
at the most unexpected time.
Lying among yellow flowers,
orange leaves,
green grass,
you found me with your voice.
You saved me with your words.

PSA

Hey you guys! I just wanted to apologize for not putting up a post yesterday! It sucked just as much for me as it did for you! I'm having some difficulties with the internet at my house right now, so if I want to update my blog I have to come on campus to do it.

I just want to let you know that if I am unable to update it daily, then I will make sure that I have at least SEVEN new posts each week!

Thanks for reading my blog :)

To Novel or not to Novel?

I'm considering doing a blog post every week...probably Fridays...focusing on a story...a cliffhanger story.  It will kind of be like the serials from the silent film era without the contradictions of female independence and the dangers of that independence....or maybe it will. Lol I don't know....I just know I'll start it and see how it goes...maybe if enough people enjoy it I'll turn it into a book! I can start tomorrow....I WILL start tomorrow! :)
Stay tuned!

Too Afraid

I was too afraid to struggle
against his strong black body.
I was too afraid to admit
that what he was doing was wrong.
All I could do was cry.

Black mascara streaks
flowing from the corner of my eyes.
Red thick blood
flowing from the inners of my thighs.
How can I admit that I was a victim?

He was sweet before then,
bought me anything I wanted,
took me to the best restaurants,
and introduced me to his friends.

So when he invited me over
to his apartment in the Bronx,
I went freely
in the middle of the night,
looking good
smelling good
with my hair done right,
so what?

He probably didn't understand
how when I said no I really meant it.

He probably didn't understand
how my tears were ones of pain
and not of pleasure.

He probably didn't understand
how my cries for his release
were for his arms and not his
penis.

He probably didn't understand
that the blood that mixed with his semen
was not a sign of virginity
but a sign of destruction.

He probably didn't understand
that my cringes at his touch weren't
shivers of pure ecstasy.

Somebody please help me,
Come on just tell me,
how can I be a victim?
How can I be an added statistic
to the countless unreported rapes?

I can't be...I'm too afraid to be...
too afraid to admit it to myself,
too afraid to admit that
I am scarred and bruised and damaged,
too afraid to admit that
what he did was wrong.

He just probably didn't understand.

Clinic

She walked in with her mama at her side

holding her hand.

She was but a child.

A baby not yet ready to have one of her own,

but I knew she wanted to.

I could tell from her

puffy red eyes

and the tight grip that her

mother had on her arm.

She wasn’t as calm as the girl

across the room

reading Vogue magazine

with her eyes low

and her legs crossed.

It was her mama that didn’t want this.

Her daughter was just a child forced to lay her back

down on a dirty mattress

with her eyes closed

and her legs spread.

To her it was her fault that her baby

was left with an absentee father

and with a mother who ignored

her countless cries for help.

She holds her daughter tightly

in fear that she might fall into the reality

that she failed at being her protector.

But what she doesn't realize is that

her daughter don’t care about her guilt,

just about how to get out of this

inner city clinic on the south side of Chicago.

White lady at the desk don’t care

about no mommy problems

just about the problem in her belly.

Her hand out impatiently waiting for the credit

card that had no credit

and forcing a smile that had no understanding.

She’s just a child,

wanting to be the mother her

mother never was to her,

wanting to have at least one

person in this world who loves her.

Who loves her

dark kinky hair,

brown skin,

wide nose,

brown eyes.

I wanted to reach out to her,

to hold her,  and to tell her that

she is beautiful,

that her smile is radiant,

that everything would be okay.

But I just sat there,

next to the girl reading Vogue magazine

holding my own mother’s hand.

I was but a child.

A People Divided

My heart hurts when I hear you rebel against me

Against my culture

Against my ethnicity

I may not have descended from the Ogoni people of Nigeria,

I may not have travelled from the gritty streets of Jamaica,

And my family may not have perished from the earthquake in Haiti

But my skin is your skin

Your pain is my pain

I may not share your same culture

I may not share your same country

But my heart hurt too when Shell invaded the land of the Ogoni people

My mind was angered along with yours by the political unrest that plagued Jamaica

And my eyes wept with and for the people of Haiti when lives were lost on January 12, 2010

I can’t decide if it’s the excessive pride for your heritage or the excessive hatred for mine

I am American

A Black American

A PROUD Black American

I come from a lineage dripped in sweat and manifested in struggle

I come from a people who worked for their freedom and demanded their respect

My people were raped of their liberty just as yours were raped of their lands

By European men who only looked for destructive means to an economic end

So why is it that your tribe in Africa, your streets in Jamaica, and your life in Haiti is better than my life in America?

I am not the enemy

I am more Black than American

More color than citizen

I am you.

Someone who dreams despite capitalist America presenting me with the ultimatum of either succeeding or failing

I am someone who loves in hopes of making amends for my nation that has destroyed countries with their influence and left them with hardened hearts

I am someone who dreams, because my ancestors achieved a freedom against a nation that made them believe that it was impossible

I am someone who loves, because my ancestors defied a nation that told them that their hearts were unable to feel a passion for anything

I am you

We must un-divide a people that share more than a skin color

A people who share a history

We share a dream

A love

Take Back the Night

This week has been dedicated to Domestic Violence Awareness so in support I went to an on-campus event called "Take Back the Night".  This event featured Jinahie, a 19 year old Egyptian-American spoken word poet. Her poetry has inspired me to start to write uncensored and unafraid.  There is beauty in writing when it is raw and when it is real...I will no longer hide from the night...so as the sun sets and as I stare beyond the skyline...I will write until my heart is content...until only my hand aches and my heart is healed...
I love what writing gives to me...peace.
To all those victims of domestic violence, of rape, of sexual abuse...I pray for you...I pray that one day you can take back the night...that you will live unafraid and that your heart will be healed.

Therapy found in a sea of red.

Therapy found in a sea of red.
Found on a wall on a deserted street.
Found where no one looks
and no one believes.
All I have is my pen and my paper
to aid,
to listen,
to advise.
This is my therapy.

The woman looks skeptically

The woman looks skeptically
down from her stoop.
She watches me as I write.
She fears what words
my pen will say.
she fears what image
my paper will draw.

The house of many windows

The house of many windows
and few faces.
A world that can be seen
but never touched.

This is where we live, love, and die.

This is where we live, love, and die.
Among one-way streets and
out-of-date ads that lurk
around deserted bus stops.
Is this all we're made for?
Is this the reason why we exist?
For one-way streets and
out-of-date ads and
deserted bus stops?

Living in NYC

I have lived in New York City for nearly three years now, and it has definitely given me a new perspective on life and writing.  Sometimes I find myself walking aimlessly with my head in the sky admiring the smallest things - from the sound of leaves crunching beneath my feet, the salty taste of the city against my lips, the feel of chipped paint beneath my fingertips, or the smell of fresh linen escaping the cracks of an old apartment complex.  New York opened my eyes and my heart to a world that I never even knew existed outside the city of St. Louis.  I find solace here...I feel alive here.  Through my experiences of love and friendship and education, I have decided to write this blog.  My hope is that it will inspire someone else to find their passion and have the courage to share it with the world, unafraid of judgment or prejudice.  Know that because your art belongs to you, it is beautiful and nothing less than that.