Rise,

live

Fly

Don't fall,

dont sink

Love,

care,

help

Truth,

suffering,

Take my hand,

don't die 

Dont fall,

Dread

of abyss

Earth opened up;

the living dead

Many go there

to suffer

Bodies on top of 

bodies

Lost hopes and

dreams

A place of 

despair

The soul sinks

into the earth

Departing from the corpse,

down into the catacombs

Down through the darkened

caverns

Into the furnace,

into the fire

They burn

They suffer

They cry

They die

No sleep

No peace

No relief

I am a

man

Born into a world 

of freaks 

I can see 

I can hear 

What is wrong with this

world

I see those who 

do not shine 

Trapped in the Spiders

web

I know my enemies

I know the darkness

Eyes are the window to the soul

and some are dead

But can they be brought back to 

life?

Can they shine

again?

Vampire

heres your stake

Time to die

you snake

In your heart so 

dark

End of a miserable

life

Face the light

face the truth

Look into the sun

feel the heat burn the flesh

You cannot evade

your fate

Not this time

you snake

Time to die

and go to hell

Where you belong

Polluted with incompatible

blood

Another race

has been invented

To take over

like a virus

Light they can't

stand

They retreat into

caves like bats

Night their

day

Evil for 

good

Death their

life

Dead souls

Insanity wreaks its

havoc in their minds

Downward spiral into

hell

Eyes that do not see

ears that do not hear

The truth not found

in their hearts

No love,

hate pure

worshipping their

graves

Broken stones

of idols

Temples of desolation

Abomination by choice

No fruit to bear,

No eyes to see

Ears can only recieve

the lies they speak

Sensory deprivation

of facts

Denial and ignorance

of God

Desolate of the 

holy spirit

Devoid of truth

Worshipping the animal

dying like dogs

Rotting in the grave

Sealed beneath the earth

Worms retreat below

to their new home

Worms cannot

ascend

Decompose,

degenerate

Decay 

Being weak and not being

able to handle the truth

You find comfort in lies instead,

turning to the darkness;

committing spiritual suicide

Becoming an agent of evil,

spreading the agenda of lies,

swarming rotten meat iikes flies,

There is no good left,

no sign of light,

wrongs for right

Clock is ticking,

Reaper is coming

to collect

Anxiety of death,

prolong the inevitable

but all in vain

Already dead,

already buried in the tomb,

your soul ripped from your corpse

Tormented by your "friends",

voices take over your mind,

possessed by your "Friends"

You will never see the light,

eyes blinded;

tomb opened,

Sealed in the walls,

sealed in the book,

stamped like a tramp.

A bitch,

a dog,

a coward,

a slave.

Too old..

No wrinkles just sagging skin. Loose strands of black hair shuffle between my thighs why? Because I’m too old. Elbow skin tough, rugged soul like wrangler jeans but with impromptu feelings of unsatisfactory thoughts as I scan my teacher I realize, I ain’t shit my ass is too old. Start over and get your life is a scream of tantrum of my inner Tamar who is holding up a force field shield to protect my heart. My heart, why is it so fragile with feelings and emotions because my ass is old!. My gut is not as strong so I can’t tolerate too much ignorance at one time why? Because my ass is old. 

Trying to figure out what the hell Maya Angelou be talking about in her poems was as baffling as to watch a slain gang member funeral on live tv. Praise and acknowledge me now, not when I can’t see you coming because my ass is old. Old is a proxy label of degrading your youth to a uncertainty of confusion and accepting the demise to understand and accept your time is dwindling.  

iPad in hand with numb fingertips trying to get your point across to a room of undeveloped ovaries is a procrastination of post it’s googling life but not understanding it. Demonstrating your true self within your herd community protects you until a virus of negativity slowly creeps in and infects us all. I can’t live your world, I can’t wait for you to formulate the confusion that sits in the palm of your hand I am too old and set in my ways. 

Waist training spirits with a Herbalife spark is motivation to some but it’s my enemy. Why because I’m old. I’m so old that my cursive writing is reverting to pre school chicken scratch before my fingertips. My oldness have taken over my spirt and is arguing me down that Air Jordan’s at my age is a reach for acceptance within my urban playground. 

My youth left me at the age of 21 when I birthed my first son. I knew I was gonna be old like right now. I cried at the sight of my abdomen looking like a balled up trash bag,I screamed when my breast looked beat up, I yelled when my hair was shedding and my teeth was hurting due to this oversized cocoon I just hatched. 

Now that’s old ass hell, when you consider your uterus as an cocoon. 

Sometimes when I'm lonely I like to go through my old journals.

I have a nasty habit of starting one when they're still one beside my bed only half finished. I like to read the half-completed thoughts and the half articulated ideas. I like the still sleep torn dreams that I haven't gotten around to editing yet.

They read like novels with no conclusion. Sometimes I get the urge to finish them. Sometimes there seems to be no proper way to end them.
I was going through an old Journal that had gotten on my 18th birthday. I had forgotten that my mother used this journal as a guest book at my party. At first it was uplifting reading all these messages that my family had given me years ago and knowing that at least most of them were still in my life.

Then I came across one that I probably should not have read. This message talked about a love that we shared, a friendship like no other. He talks like he was home, like it was comfortable casual. Like his words had no more weight to them then discussing your day at the dinner table.

I, however, took these words to Heart more than words written by politicians are lawyers that have effect on the world. They hit me with more meaning than any decree or speech. And at the bottom almost like an afterthought he wrote "you're my favorite". You're my favorite.

Those words hit me like a sledgehammer to my gut making everything in my body clench as if waited for an attack. He said it as though it meant nothing, it was just a term of endearment. Favorite. Those words hit my skin like acid burning their terrible disgusting design into me.
I Was not his only, I was not his first, I was not his last. I was his favorite.

All the pain that he caused me all the sleepless nights years of self-hatred he gave to me with as much love and tenderness as he was capable. I meant more to him, I was his favorite. The worst by far was the realization that while I'm glad a motherfuker is dead, well I'm glad that I was not there for his last week's and not there to bury his corpse, I still felt the love and tenderness that he honestly meant.

No matter how much pain he caused me no matter how he distorted my view of my own self, I was still glad that he held me in such favor. I felt loved even as I did not love myself anymore. I had a friendship even though I despised him.

I hated myself, but I was his favorite