I AM WOMAN
I. She has no God. She has no home.
II. What does it matter if I write?
it’s to set me free darling~
III. She walks around with a scarlet letter. She wears a helmet of worms and fire that terrorize her from the neck up.
She moves. She grooves.
She embraces her label. They find new ways to cut the air she breathes. She stops breathing—they pump her corpse with old lovers. & We all know:
loves never dies so it does tortures the soul.
IV. Sell the soul.
V. As long as she is bound to flesh, there's war
VI. God/goodness is certainly a myth. The world exist solely as a product of evil and wrongdoings. Religion is a trap for ones wishful enough to look to the sky, and foolish enough to live by book.
People are powerful. People are our reality.
VII. The Untold Story
because [What do men know?] I say that with grace because their strength is not in the intuition like woman’s. My tongue stabs a “socially conscious” society. I want to say forgive me, but there’s more important things to say—
—she only sings, just love me foolish little girl.
Blood red, blood rich.
A few moments later, 911 happens. The war is spiritual. The war is always spiritual.
Daughter oblivious
& the rest of the world plays slip & slide—
VIII. Unfortunately, love awakens. & It did just that 16 years later.
IX. Despite it all, she was able to feel the world around her. More than anything else, she is heart and brain, and subject to devotion. She ran through forests of curiosity. She let the love guide—first up, then into herself, and leaped—
Slavery is a choice. Let the Mongo say it true: slavery is a choice.
X. Love is one too.
XI. Her first and true lover changed the fate of the world when he abandoned her. I don’t know if I believe in God, but I do believe in free will. & If there is a God as we know it, I know He did not intend individuality.
I believe He planted salvation not in a Jesus, but between a man and a wife.
XII. What does it mean to be a woman?
It means to go mad at some point and to find a new balance in it.
XIII.
My skin is mocha with blush undertones—I am woman.
My skin is gold with red undertones—I am woman.
My skin is taupe with red undertones—I am woman.
My skin is cream with cream undertones—I am woman.
My skin is white with white undertones—I am woman.
My skin is silver with black undertones—I am woman.
My skin is beaver with red undertones—I am woman.
I am woman, full of electrifying synapses that never connect. My collar bones present to show fragility—yet, I carry this life. Nothing ever steps outside of the boundaries of my grace. I bring life into a room—or a corpse of a man, you choose. Excellence is only a product of my existence, my focus. & When these bones crack it is because I am pushing out pity.
I am woman. I am woman. I am ricocheting mad woman.
XIV. I cry. I agone at the pain in my suckle. I agone…it hurts hard.
XV. I bleed tears from my heart. I explode through my pores. No, not lost. Just no love. Not loved. Jason. My brain bust. Di—The vault of my dreams were unlocked. Anthony. I cry. Anthony. I weep. Anthony. I love.
XVI.
When it comes down to it, she’s spotless. Christopher holds her notes. /
She halts vicious waves of the sea into order and silence. Ty’Jon. Boateng. I am as subtle as pop rocks; my back rips easy like paper. I fall, religiously. There is no longer enough lessons to justify my pain. I turn the belief switch off. I am as subtle as pop rocks; I burst on paper. Quan. Dillon. Too many pins and needles to last a lifetime. She’s alive, and filled with holes. When it comes down to it, she’s burning.
Brent. Meek.
XVII. BETWEEN THE GRASS—BEHIND THE HUTHOUSE—IN THE GREY SPLATTERED ROOM
It left me hunched over and unconscious for 15 minutes.
I had to die to gain stability—
to go back to the city.
XVIII. WELCOME TO NEW YORK—
Rockstar, a motherless man, sucks the life out of my notebooks. Bitterness is the strength of his sweet, frail chest.
TAM.
“America. Says they want someone to love. But they want someone to hate. & They want it easy.”
& it’s the woman that bares the cross. jesus.
XIX. I HAVE NOTHING TO APOLOGIZE FOR
I am woman and only woman. Let my silence fly with the turtledoves~
XX. A Conversation Between the Sexes:
A: I don’t know how to be a woman.
B: What do you mean you don’t know how to be a woman?
A: Well, only instinctually; only at the bare end of my of soul do I know the truth of what it means to be a woman. But practically? Nope.
XXI.
I can teach you how to heal me.
Society's dirty again—it crawls in her panties.
The con of dying—deadness is easy to manipulate.
XXII. ROBERT
I want to talk less
of love or what it does
but I’m a poet. candor
is the only thing left
dripping \
of this broken body.
& if a man
were to ever have me
slip through the
gears of his back
again, this time
I’ll simply be oil.
XXIII.
I relive the dead slaves of souls again—thanks to Control. Cut off my arms.
Eventually, we all die
& when the day comes, I’m a rubber slingshot going home. I wish you the worst or nonexistence. ciao!
XXIV. SKIPPUHR—
To be an artist at heart cannot be taught. It is a heartweight, a child, and at times, a shaggy head. Sure anyone can master a craft or work thousands of hours to boast in front of an audience. But to be a true artists means to work your heart from your head. A true artist gives endlessly
& when he’s not giving, he’s working for protection.
So, when I ask you: Do you call yourself an artist? And you know you exude destruction. Please understand you’re a con artist.
XXV.
I am mother through my unborn children. I am mother through the mothers of good intent. Adele. Christine. Saiyida. I am the mother who keeps her womb intact…who decides the responsibility of her existence ends with her.
[ For however long the world continues, let my existence open the doors for the children to go further. Let them reach higher levels of consciousness for humanity. Let them be more aisled in themselves and less stretched into group thought. Let them arrive at a few truths that will enlighten their paths and their people. More importantly, let them learn to respect the truth—for they are your last hope.
I want to send my deepest apologies for living beyond my time. I’m sorry for disrupting your lost habits. I was perfect, and I’m sorry for the chaos that comes of that. ]
Truthfully, I forgave all the mothers when she sang, I cried after you. I forgave my mother, then hated her again. This life is to be lived in vain. Maybe I’ll forgive her when I’m dead. xx
