People ask me why I write.

Why I take some and such things,

And elaborate on them to lengths that literally no one even asked for.

My response was,

Have they ever had a feeling, that they couldn't put into words.

You see, I may not be able to speak for everyone,

But I know I speak for someone,

If not anyone else,

Then with confidence, I speak for myself and proudly so,

When I say,

That my emotions are not mental creations that can be so easily put into single words,

I am never happy.

I am also never sad, glad, mad, none of that.

I am a writer. And I use my words well, to describe what's on my mind.

You see, it is not depression.

It is a spinning whirlwind of hellish thoughts,

Of anxieties, my nightmares walking around me,

Whispering in my ear like a lover,

Like my love that I pushed away so stupidly as it loves to remind me,

Yet also tear me down and remind me that I was undeserving,

Of my worthlessness,

Of my mistakes,

The ones I'm doomed to repeat whether I even made them or not,

Speckling every word with previous failures and memories.

Caught in a web of every tear shed linked to the next,

My depressive thoughts,

A spider that I watch calmly,

Being seasoned with every word of previous failures and memories,

Stuck in a cycle of deja vu and repeated 'I'm sorry',

As I'm spun into a cocoon, ready to be devoured.

And I dared them, oh you can be sure that I dared them,

To even think of telling me I'm making mountains out of molehills,

Because honey, I did not build the mountains in front of me,

If I could choose, I would put obstacles, most definitely,

For life without some struggle is way too easy

And gives me no opportunity to think and grow,

But I definitely wouldn't make them all mountains,

So please, don't even think to start calling them my creation.

When I create something, I am goddamn proud of it,

But you can be goddamn sure,

I'm climbing every single one and planting my flag on top.

And this is not anger,

No, now no fury of mine can be restrained under a single word,

No, it is a powerful storm.

At times, it can be sporadic as lightning,

Ready to strike down any and all who oppose me,

Who think striking a match in a room of methane and gasoline

Will turn out well for them,

But let me assure you, stank air is not what I'm full of,

I am a nature-defying being of magic,

For I am cold fire,

A beautiful oxymoron ready to roast you like there's no tomorrow,

Like I won't be here still tomorrow,

Over the fiery gasoline running through my veins,

Breathing out methane in your face,

And I freeze you.

With an icy glare that beats every avalanche,

That one could hope to summon on any mountain I have conquered,

With temperatures so freezing, even my heart skips a rare beat with it's shiver.

And let me make it clear, there is no happiness.

There is something much more than that,

For after the catastrophes that are my mood-swings,

The deathly calm of my drowning,

Under giant tsunamis caused,

By my nether-born hell rage,

I also hold the light.

The long-since prayed for sun,

The reason so many in history believed their savior to be the fiery skylight on the blue,

And wished for the sun god to bless them all,

With my smile being the ray of light, bathing every war-torn face,

With eyes both glassy and watching,

With no judgement,

As I know how hard it can be for someone so praised to be so horrible.

And my laugh...

My laugh is unlike earthquakes,

Unlike the hurricanes and tornadoes,

For it can shake a world, but cause no destruction,

For I shall always be a beautiful oxymoron,

With only a little emphasis on the second part,

No matter how much nature may strike upon me,

No matter how much fate may try to tear me down,

Ignoring the sounds of cracking hearts,

I ignore the sounds of my thread being woven,

Because I'm used to ignoring spiders that cocoon me day after day,

I ignore the sound of it's length being measured,

Because I'm used to having to measure up for others,

I ignore the sound of the scissors ready to snip,

Because no more do I aid them with a rope of my own,

I am a writer.

And I will be proud of it,

And honey, you can bet every single dollar you make,

That I will always be a goddamn writer,

Long after my fingers stop typing, my pencil stops scratching and my mouth stops moving,

My words will haunt.

I will always add my flare and dramatics to every single piece of paper I touch a pen to,

Honey.

You were always so sweet,

yet so salty as you rubbed yourself in my wounds,

I will never get fully over you, but I can assure you,

You will never compete with the oxymoron of me,

My mind, my emotions,

My writer's emotions of flare and fire,

As a writer that can be the greatest of windstorms and the weakest breeze at once,

I'm proud to still be strong enough to ruffle your feathers.

Because I won't settle anymore in single words,

And I can never,

be just ever,

Happy.

God stop sending me angels 

I can´t bear another heartbreak 

I can´t bear another crack to my heart 

because it´s holding up with duct tape 

I'm dark. I'm BLACK. I may be violent, cantankerous, periodically complacent, but

I am NOT afraid!

A BLACK girl is presumably “so serious and angry all the time” and goes to a predominately white school because the predominantly black school could care less about another Afro’s education. Where has history left us? In social settings where I am encouraged to share my different experiences and communicate with my black associates, I don't because they are incognizant of their minority status or better yet they are just ignorant GHETTO blacks that can't name one AFRICAN slave. Or vice versa, in classroom settings where I am exposed to a pool of whiteness, I don't share my experiences because they are inherently misconceived and desensitized.

So these idiosyncrasies haughtily reveals itself

As I digest these incurable fallacies

The reality authenticates

After I hear my dad call my mother a “Nigga”

The reality authenticates

After my granddad extols my straight, flat-ironed hair

And degrades my natural kinky curls

The reality authenticates

After I reflect on my past ordeals

In which I disgraced and dismissed my own fragile culture

Yet

After my reflections metamorphoses to dreams

My future effaced these realities

My life reflects the sun's brilliance

When I have deep, intriguing conversations about cultural diversity and inclusiveness

My life reflects the sun's brilliance

When I disapprove the unsound criticisms against my darkness

My life reflects the sun's brilliance

When I edify a non-black culture of AFROCENTRIC feminism

My life reflects the sun's brilliance

When I watch intellectual film crafted by an African woman

That reconceptualized the stigma between Africans and African Americans

My life reflects the sun's brilliance

When I declare my own prosperity

Through all of the humanities

That binds the inscriptions

Of Ingenious Cognitions

So I am NOT the ordained setback

Even though history

Continually brings me down

My resilient culture

Brings me back up

The BLACK FIST

I raise proudly in the air

Not only evinces my solidarity

But revitalizes my ethnicity

Hence

I am not a racist

Nor am I an extremist

I am a dedicated activist

That my ancestors had predetermined

I regret. I regret I hadn't kept a diary in all that time I was hurting. A day-to-day journal of my brokenness, of my pain, of my agony, my distress. Poems. I had disregarded my Number 1 passion. My words did not proliferate, instead I just soaked my bed with tears and praying so hard it would go away. How could I have been so careless? All those times I could have made art, poetry, books, all wasted in a single act of, Go away. I don't want to talk to anybody. No, many single acts.

And if, if there is a grander event, a bigger event than that, that would ask for my tears, for my body to stay in bed all day, for my mind to be lonely again, I would do so, in a flight of passion. Hurriedly. I would scurry to this grander event, happily shed my tears and write about it. Hell, how have I not known about this before? For if there is a passion that I would not happily enslave for, in a glance, in a thought, in a second, it would be writing

Now I had forgotten. I forgot to be angry, to be hurt. My heart does not bleed anymore, but also my ink. My ink refuses to bleed, the way it so automatically used to before. Nothing. My heart is happy, but not my pen. I would wave it, shake it, throw it, but it would not wield its literary magic it once used to bestow...

Day 1: Evening

Dear Diary,

I'm so sorry that I never have happy news for you. I only ever write when something bad has happened. Unfortunately, it seems that there are only going to be bad things from here on out. 

I apologize in advance. 

Mom went out today even though Barry Moore, the anchorman from Channel 14 News, said that it was dangerous and nobody should leave unless they absolutely had to. She said it was important. The baby is nearly out of diapers, and if she didn't go today then she might not get another chance. That was six hours ago. She isn't answering her phone and I'm starting to fear for the worst. 

Baby Madison hasn't stopped screaming since she woke up from her nap and found that Mom wasn't there to greet her. I tried to feed her the canned peaches that she likes, but she didn't want them. I tried to read her favorite story to her, but she kept using her chubby hands to push the book from my lap, screaming for Mom over and over. Eventually, I ran out of ideas so I put her in the living room with the TV and tried to finish my math homework. 

As I'm writing this, it's growing dark. I can hear the monsters outside, groaning and scratching on the doors. I should go check on Madison, but she's been so quiet. I'm afraid that if I go into the living room I'll upset her and she'll start screaming again. Even so, I should probably feed her. I'll update you later, Diary. 

Bye for now. 

Day 2: Morning

Dear Diary, 

It's me again. Remember earlier when I said that I have a bad habit of writing to you about bad news only? Well, here it goes. 

I did something very, very bad. 

I went downstairs to feed the baby last night. She was asleep on the living room floor with some baby show on the TV. I made her some oatmeal and woke her up when it was finished, but she refused to eat it. She started to scream again, stomping her feet and demanding to see our mother. How do you explain to a toddler that their mommy is probably never going to come back? There's no real way to make them understand. 

Madison kept going for the front door no matter how many times I told her that it was dangerous. She kept trying to open it with her tiny hands, losing her grip each time. Angry at her inability to open the door and my unwillingness to help her, she threw herself down on the floor and continued her tantrum until she fell asleep. 

Exhausted and frustrated by my sister's inconsolable rage, I did something I really shouldn't have done. I left the front door unlocked when I went to bed. I slept locked in my room with my bed in front of the door so that if the monsters were to get in, they couldn't reach me. 

When I awoke this morning, the house was silent. I tiptoed down the stairs and peeked into the living room. The front door was wide open and my three year old sister was nowhere to be found. What if those monsters actually got her? 

Diary, you have to understand how horrible I feel. I mean, I love my little sister dearly. 

Does it make me even worse of a person, though, to admit that the silence is sort of nice?

Well, I guess I'll write later diary. 

Your friend, 

April. 

Who was I then?

I was a typical

Loud mouth teen

I fought hypocritical

And caused many scenes

I was dark and miserable

Those clothes were the thing

Feelings were all physical

In love at eighteen

Who am I now?

I'm still wild inside

But I've grown up a bit

I'm hard work applied

With two beautiful kids

I'm a grown up implied

But that's about it

Life's a crazy ride

When you're barely twenty-six

Who will I be?

I'll still be a dreamer

With my head in the clouds

And though I'll be a senior

I'll still be able to get down

And when I face the reaper

I'll have done him proud

Because I'll still be a believer

All the way into the ground

Where will I Go?

I will hitch a ride on the breeze

Blow freely across the sky

You will smell me in the leaves

As the seasons pass on by

My heart will beat the seas

Pulsing waves and ocean sighs

I will spend days with the bees

And I'll sleep with butterflies

Life is like a journey on the way to nowhere

And I'm in no big hurry to get anywhere

When you said you liked me,

The smile was real.

The talking was real.

The laughter was real.

The butterflies were real.

The only thing that wasn't real

Was you.

she slit his heart in 3's 

because he lied to her 3 times

he told her he loved her 3 times 

only to cheat on her with 3 different women 

so she slowly but surely took her knife 

and gently sliced his heart 

and put it in a slice of bread and ate it 

and then she felt full and complete

and she daintily wiped her lips 

and belched 3 times 

she twirled the 3 charms around her neck 

each woman he slept with he gave them a token of his love and affection 

each one was diffrent 

each one had a picture of how they would die 

but all ended the same 

with a girl 

perhaps his first lover 

dragging a knife into their heart 

just as he had done his first lover 

they would all face the same fate 

doomed to death 

all because they so happen to fall for the same man 

she laughed at her victims as she began each process 

3 slits to the heart 

3 lovely women drenched in sin and infidelity 

3 charms adorned her neck 

1 man who stole 3 hearts 

while creating 3 caskets...

3 times a charm 

3 times there luck 

3 times the pain

I created a world where you and I lived together,

And you destroyed the timeline to go live with another.

I forgave you.

I destroyed a world where you and I lived together,

And you created the timeline to go live with another.

You didn't forgive me.