mizzpoetryfree - Tumblr blog

[mizzpoetryfree]

Introverts don’t make friends, they get adopted by an extrovert

[mizzpoetryfree]

I feel like I'm losing myself. Like everything that I am putting my passion into is spreading me thin. I am more irrtable and tired. When I sit to be with myself I think about all the other things I should be doing. I know that the semester is almost over but it feels like I can't wait the next two weeks because I just want to shut everyone out. I have become so accustomed to being alone and doing things on my own that I don't want any help. But when I'm in the motions and stressed and hurt I want anyone, someone to be with me. Why is it that I can no longer take care of myself. Is it because I have been giving every great part of me to everyone else and the only pieces of me left is pain, heartbreak, and weakness? I have been writing poetry but I never seem to care for the real side yet. I cannot open a page and give it my pain because I know my hand cannot write that fast. I started a painting and I can't finish because I'm worried about everyone else. My passion and dedication may be the death of me.

[mizzpoetryfree]

I feel like my life is shattered.

Shattered like glass hitting a hard wood floor.

Everytime I try to pick up the pieces I cut myself.

After a few cuts I drop another glass and there's just so much more work to do.

Occasionally someone comes with a broom and sweeps up the pieces.

Then I forget that I had so many broken glasses.

All of a sudden as I walk past that spot that I had bled out so many times I cut my foot on a little slither.

It is so small that the pain was minor. I pull out the slither and put on shoes.

I decide I will never be barefoot again.

Because I don't want any reminders of my broken past.

Then I continue to look at that spot and decide I need a rug.

The floor was too ugly any way so I may as well add some beauty.

Finally I feel closure.

I feel secure and happy because I am no longer reminded of the problems I have already conquered.

For some reason I remember that someone else had to sweep up the pieces.

I begin to get closer to them in fear that they will not be there next time.

Seeing that this relationship was built too fast on the notion that they would support me we do not last long.

This causes me to fall but this time I broke in two big pieces.

This was easy to clean so I move on and decide I will not get close to any one.

Because that was too close of a call and I cannot afford to fall.

I have already paid for the shoes and the rug and never purchased a broom.

No mind that now I am happy so happy I accidentally drop my glass.

I knew that being happy was a curse so now I pick up the pieces cutting myself and promising that I will only use plastic.

No more glass for me because I can not continue to open cuts on my hands that feel like they will never heal.

[mizzpoetryfree]

To know that you were proud of me is my greatest accomplishment...

[mizzpoetryfree]

Message unsent

I have a problem and there is no disrespect here to be honest it's only pain. I understand there are many reasons for things but to find out that grandma was in WI and didn't even give me the chance to visit until last minute hurts. I can count the number of times you all visited me here on one hand. But grandma goes to Illinois almost every other year. We have lived here for 11 years now and the only time she comes to town she doesn't let me know until it's too late for me to see her. Like I said I understand there may be many things at play, but that is no excuse for all of the times you all have been close enough to spend at least a hour with me. The number of times I have visited MI far outweighs the number of times any of you have visited here. And while many times we visited have been last minute the opportunity was always given. I feel hurt that I don't get to see my siblings or family often and they are constantly traveling near me. This is something I can not understand and it has puzzled me for many years. My mother has tried her best to be a positive voice in this but I am tired of feeling like I am being punished for living here. Is this something I am going to need to be bitter about my whole life?

[mizzpoetryfree]

like.

I’m Black like my momma Cause the islands kicked off the slave trade Black like my daddy Cause the Dutch wanted some too Black like the dirt under the nails of A slave that made watermelons grown Black like the woman who raised yo Grandma and was treated like dirt Black like the blood that’s pooled On the inner city side walk too long and gets mistaken for dirt Black like GOD gold, oil, diamonds And all the things this country goes to war for Black like the magic I even exist at the moment Black like the magic my people Have made it through all those moments Black like the magic used to sink Ships of stolen black cargo Black like we still can’t swim Black like we still fighting for civil rights Black like we using the same protest signs Black like we still getting shot Black like we still coming up missing Black like Willie Lynch still workin Black like my life matters A little bit more because I’m not dark skin But not as much because I’m not Light skin Black like the darkest person in the World and the lightest person in the world are both black Black like without it you wouldn’t have moon or star or all that shiny white Black like without it the world would be colorless, and bland, and boring Black like Kim K can get corn rows But Latoya on 6mi ghetto Black like Zico can have black soul But watch me get followed around Mr. Kwan’s beauty supply Black like everybody wants to be a Nigga but nobody wants to be a nigga Black like I don’t know my culture Black like I don’t know where I’m from Black like I don’t want to be anything else, Anymore Black like…

-pero.

[mizzpoetryfree]

Broken Glass.

You’re right I changed .. I became a better version of the broken woman you made .. I put the pieces together that no longer fit & made a twisted mosaic of what you left of me .. you took my best parts so I had to make due with what I had .. jagged & rough I cut others as they grabbed at the thought of having me. I tasted their blood & it felt good. To feed off the energy of the broken the same way you did me kept me sane .. is it strange that I didn’t even realize that you took from me in attempt to fix you but the prices never fit the same way the many men I tried to replace what you took with just wasn’t a match. I had to lean that I would never be the same clear portrait I was but in true artistic form I found freedom in the abstract.

[mizzpoetryfree]

Seven Responses/What My Mother Doesn’t Know About Love

My mother is angry because I have a tendency to take strays Without realizing how much commitment It takes to love something enough For it to be whole She tells me “You like projects, Thing is you’re enough of a project That you don’t need another Don’t need another knot to unravel until Your fingers are too numb to Handle the rope at your own neck” Tells me that my hands paint pretty pictures Of saints while I consort with mortals That my muses are often not made of the Metal I craft their likeness in Response Number 1: everyone is a project I will always need to have hands Willing to knead away knots made from pain I did not cause I will always need to know how to hold things softly So I do not crush them in my own excitement I will always have to have ears attuned to hearing hesitations to pick up on if my partner needs picking up Response Number 2: When I was about 8, my stepfather tried to teach me how to swim so he put my head under But I was not used to jumping into things head first Was not used to ever believing in things larger than myself What does an 8 year old know about trusting? When you learned to ride your bike, didn’t your mother tell you she was right behind you? Was she? Response #3: If I am to ever love a person I must learn to throw myself into ten feet of water to trust the lifeguard I must pedal with my heart in my hand And laugh without my hand in front of my mouth I must learn to jump into open heart surgery with my bare hands This is not a surgical manual This is simply what I’ve learned about loving another human Another problem Another project Response #4: When I picked up a kitten on the side of the road When she shivered like the cold Had seeped into her DNA Even after we brought her home When she cried all night When she cried all morning and bit fingers When she destroyed fingers and cords We never ran out of ways to love a Feral thing That clawed at ankles and Hissed at strangers that smelled foreign Response #5: When you raise a monument of a child, when you chisel a child out of marble, the greatest act they can learn is how to be something softer than that which they were born. To touch and hold and hurt. To bend without shattering. Response #6: I will always be a secret Sometimes a secret lover Of women Of sunset Of animated movies that make me cry Of poetry Of the way Handel’s Messiah sounds when i’m drunk and lonely The way Luther Vandross makes me miss dancing with my father Of the Isley Brothers Of the Bachelorette Of the idea of pizza Of hands of silk coated in teflon, Covered in thorns. Response #7: I am a builder of golden statues You are a builder of vitruvian men You do not see the dark thorny patches of my soul I love even when things are broken I hold even when things are hot to the touch You cannot fathom how I love that which hurts How I can paint landscapes of tundras that Look like rainforests But don’t you love me? Don’t I love you? Aren’t we all just artists loving muses That don’t always love them back? Sometimes they’re sirens Sometimes they drown us Sometimes we have to learn to swim

[mizzpoetryfree]

“Too Black”

Ha! I’m “too” what, you say?

“Too loud,”

“Too obnoxious,”

“Too in the way”?

My hair is “too kinky,”

I “show too much skin,”

But honey,

I’m unashamed of my melanin.

“Oh, if black lives matter,

then why not blue?”

Well, Becky,

you’d be mad too

if police were shooting you

for reaching for the ID that they asked for

or simply walking home from the convenience store.

So, Becky,

don’t ask me why I’m causing an uproar.

Ooh, you see my “angry black woman” coming out!

You’re confused,

You say there’s nothing to be mad about –

Basic. Human. Rights.

You’d think we’d have them by now

but we’re still in this fight,

still in the tunnel slowly approaching the light,

moving away from oppression until it is out of sight.

But, in the meantime,

I think I’ll continue to be “too loud,”

“Too obnoxious,”

“Too in the way.”

I love my angry black woman,

and she’s here to stay.

- Riel Felice

[mizzpoetryfree]

[mizzpoetryfree]

What do you see when you look at me? An African American? Just African? Just American? Or just Black? Don’t worry about answering that Truth is I barely know how to answer it myself In the midst of all this talk about appropriation And debates on who can say and do and wear what I sometimes find myself in limbo Wondering exactly what point in time in history did I lose the right to claim my heritage? Was it when they changed my race from African to nigger? Or when they dragged me across the Atlantic, naked and in chains? Or when they ripped my tongue out and forced me to forget my own name? Or how about when they raped my grandmother and called all of us the same? I am Black and proud as hell But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little To be Black is to be an anomaly A melting pot of a race My heritage was erased and replaced with the color that almost everyone hates Black. Not African enough to cling to my ancestry Not American enough to belong What is African American anyway? I have no motherland Just motherhoods where it’s understood that I am forever standing on borrowed ground I have no place to call home And damn near nothing to call my own Everyone gets a piece of Black culture And what do I get? Shunned. Ridiculed. Used. Then discarded. And when I fight for the little bit of something that we made out of nothing and call our own I’m dismissed. Silenced. I am the product of a nation scattered And another built on my back Cut me me some slack I did not ask for this I never disowned the land I came from My memory was whipped and beaten and burned out of me My traditional wear was replaced with potato sacks And the only tribal mark I know is blood And lashes If anything, it is you who disowns your bloodline Black history is African history continued on another continent Yet, instead of embracing your kidnapped cousin You do just like them and say how dare I own where I come from? I have no right I have no place And you have no desire to teach me To help me relearn the part of myself that was excluded from my history books Because you don’t think we’re the same They made sure I forgot my name And now you do the work for them In making sure I never remember what it was Again I ask What do you see when you look at me? All I’m allowed to see is Black.

A Black Girl (Khadysha G.)

[mizzpoetryfree]

It wasn’t your fault for not loving me,“ she said. “I say that honestly, without the smallest ounce of self-pity. “It takes a whole lot for someone to love another person. Sometimes it’s there and sometimes it’s not. I shouldn’t have expected as much as I did.  She thought for a minute before saying quietly: “I thought if I gave you everything it would be enough though. I thought, at least, it would be enough for you to love me just a little bit.

Sue Zhao (via blossomfully)

[mizzpoetryfree]

People who are bad for you rarely take themselves out of your life. They will use you and your love up until you’re broken. And if they leave, it’s because they got what they needed out of you, leaving not for your benefit but often because your benefit to them was used up.

[mizzpoetryfree]

I can feel you forgetting me…

[mizzpoetryfree]

The lost will find their way, when they understand the light they seek for direction, is hidden within their soul.

- Spiritual Truths

[mizzpoetryfree]

Do you shower me with compliments because you believe them

or because you imagine you can see the dryness of my lips from where you stand,

because you’ve seen women like me trek for miles in the heat with pots of clay atop our heads,

because I look like I could use a bit of you inside?

Do you say these things to give me life or get me wet?

Would you regret your outpour if I let it roll off my back,

if I lifted my chin so high my pot slipped and shattered at your feet,

if I looked you in the eye and showed you the well I spring from?

[mizzpoetryfree]

Me

I got so comfortable being with you… I’m at a point where loving you hurts so much that I hate it. I wish I never met you, because you have shown me the best and worst sides of me. I have forgotten how it feels to be held properly. At this point the pain of being done with you isn’t about you… It’s about being alone after believing my life would be full of you. I have never had a real connection with anyone other than you.. Therefore this isn’t about losing my first love.. It’s about loving the person I should’ve loved first.