The New Child Abuse

Dipped in sugar, laid in sweat, poured into the ink pen, 

Drama keeps it wet.

Thirsty for a plot, bobbing to stop the bleed, 

Head swinging left to right, to interpret  what you read. 

Three found dead, rocks on the scene.

Change the font, adjust the format. 

Nope! Same old scene. 

Script has been rewritten. 

But the play stays the same. 

Just because you on the set, 

The game hasn’t changed! 

No eraser on the tip. 

No rubbers on your uhmm… feet. 

Nine months later, new little treats.

Dressed real cute, 

Let them watch you blow,

Your money, smoke circles and oh yeah, your neighbor, Joe.

Our children have turned to kids,

Baby goats with demonic souls. 

Drinking from the ink of the rewritten rules.

Dressed in their best to cover the bruise. 

History, a repeating chapter of book never read.

Grandma is leading the funeral cause, the preachers been dead.

No daddy, No mama, No spiritual truth. 

Queen Bey and Kanye raise our youth! 

Without a doubt, The New Child Abuse! 

KING ME

My back ground Music

He is my back ground music!
When I move, it’s to the sounds of his adoration for me!
He is my back ground music!
Peeling me open like a banana, he kisses my bruises!
Yes yes he is my background music.
I rock slowly to his roar and fall a sleep to his purr!
He is my back ground music!
Slaying dragons, calling stars, within my reach, to the rhythm of his instrumental climax!
Dancing in a frenzy to a hypnotic beat!
Inciting, enticing, magnetic grooves.
Moving me to the depths of my inner Queen!
Pulling me to the horizon of my destiny!
My background music in the notes of a high sexy, and intense integrity,
Resting before, the entrance of pretty flute notes singing my creativity,
Saxophone solos whispering Gods favor upon me!
Angels singing praises to the woman I am…
Slave’s hums of what I am to become!
I am captivated by the beat!
I roll my hips, and twerk a bit,
Then pop my fingers to the song,
As the world wonders, how I am so strong?
They can’t hear my background music!

The secrets out!

So many of you trying to keep the secret.

The X-ray vision of life sees through your red dress,

Your eyes lashes our fake and your hair line is a mess of bald patches in distress.

Why do you keep pretending like you got it all together?

You are held in bondage by panty girdles and quick dry glue.

You are so covered up that you lost the meaning of beauty being skin deep.

Yes you are in too deep!

 That make-up does not enhance your current situation.

Skin busted, insides feeling disgusted,

Painting on happiness, and praying for seeds of self destruction to be uprooted. 

Promoting false securities  with gel tips nails and rhinestones.

 None of it is really your own.

Undress! Stand naked and proud!

Displaying truth, highlighted in pink see-through lip gloss

So they all may be lost in the words that you speak. 

Shine the light on your inner beauty, so that it may be your halo,

Wear it proud in the middle of the day,

Nakedness glaring like young tits protuding out of  a sheer t-shirt.

 Close the closet of make believe, and dressed up dreams. 

Display your beauty as if you are on reality TV!

In color, out loud, unashamed of the flaws in  your life.

Inserting piercings in your scars and tattoo your mistakes.

Let the secrets bare your soul that we might know you.

Yes Yes dear bare your truth!  

A Grown- Up Conversation with God

My New Project is almost complete! I am so excited! Watch the  studio video and tell me what you think!!!

http://youtu.be/XXKr0go9ITI

If Only I Could Spell

I want to win the national spelling bee!
Spelling big words like that movie, AKEELAH AND THE BEE.
Then maybe I could spell a word that would transcend me from poverty.
Maybe I could elevate my status to black women, from minority.
Spelling out my understanding of the roots of my civilization.
Allowing you to  understand that before the history of slavery,
We were the Kings and Queens of our Nation,
Building the pyramids you admire and owning the treasures you trade,
As if they belong to you!
Oh yes, I would spell out the truth!
I would spell Christianity with all black words!
I would spell a word that would call out the names of my people,
Whom you tossed in the sea!
Then spell another word that would repeat them in your sleep!
Oh, I would spell out words that would close the liquor stores on every street in the African American Communities!
I would spell a secret breaker of the drug activity,
That would whisper the names of all the profit makers,
Who brought heroin and crack to my community!!!
If only I could spell like that little black girl in the movie,
I would spell words that would allow black men to be free!
Opening the jail doors and ending the sale on justice, exposing sentencing disparity!
If I could spell, I would tell!
That little girl had a neighborhood of coaches!
But in my neighborhood we are big on lost hope, broken homes and cockroaches!
With one wish of a black female, desiring the knowledge to spell,
To write a story of tall tales, murders of seeds, and black males,
Blacked mailed, and robbed of their destiny!
Oh what a story she’d tale if only she could spell!

Nickels and Dimes

Oh thank the Lawd, I got a Job!
But at the end of the day, I feel like I got robbed!
Not by the dysfunctional people I see,
But by the people that are suppose to be paying me!
I reviewed my paycheck and it don’t add up,
Cause for every cent I earn, I owe them two bucks!
A penny for your thoughts? Sista I can’t afford to pay,
I gotta buy folders, staples, a battery for the clock, & my paper supply is short,
My mission is critical, I cannot abort!
Danger Will Robinson! Danger Indeed!
I do not have the money to purchase tools I need.
There are children literally dying in the street!
Mothers using the food stamps to purchase their mental treats,
Fathers sneaking in bedrooms where they should not be!
I  am paid to protect them, but these fools keep nickling and diming me!
Shorting me on my milage and demanding too much paper work,
to pay me for what I earned, and already spent!
I am worried about these children, but I can’t even pay my rent!
Never paying me for my time or my ability to save lives.
They just keep reaching out and stealing my nickels & dimes.
I am on a mission to provide safety, well being and permanency,
Working with one hand, cause I need the other to stop them from robbing me!
The DEVIL is busy, working a full time job,
Teaching DFCS to write policies to steal money.
Aggravated robbery! Trickery! Thievery!
A bad investment, my social work degree, when I divide it
by student loans, subtract my rent, erase all the money at DFCS I spent!
Thank GOD that I have a heart, cultivated my skills and made them an art.
Thinking past the assignment, and made it a ministry,
Knowing I could never be paid for my worth!
Squeezing my pennies until it hurts!
Protecting children and providing  permanency!
All the while DFCS is robbing me!

Colors on my Face

I woke up this morning and painted my eyelids green,
Like a blade of grass on a rainy day I want my vision to grow.
Like a well oiled trimmer, my hands outlined my eyes with
black.
I wanted my boundaries to stay intact.
Added color to the cheeks as they are the rose garden to my face.
Besides it the cheeks that embrace the smile on my face.
I decorated my ears with green earrings that I might be quick to listen.
Frosted my lips with pink glaze and toned them down with a little brown,
Top them off with a hint of lip glass that they might glisten.
Read a verse from John to remind me where I come from,
Who I belong to, and to quicken the spirit that lives within,
Bow my head and prayed to God that I’d refrain from Sin.
Now I am off to start my Monday,
Remembering that is just one day,
Tomorrow there will be new colors to choose

Poetry and ME

Okay I am bout to be late,
But I had to take a minute to give an update
Me and poetry, an open display of public intimacy.
I am committed to Poetry like a MIC to an Emcee.
Letters never separate from my thoughts,
I hear the words in my sleep. I feel  them in my heart beat,
When it skips its natural rhythm, That’s a new found adjective striking a nerve.
The headaches, really just runaway verbs,
Stomachaches equal run on sentences flowing in my mind.
Alphabet soup streaming through my blood. It’s the L in my Love, the silent E in my cries.
The sweetness in my tenderness, the song in my lulabye.
Poetry and I are in sync. Really in love,
So my status updates or just an open display of my public affection, The ink pens creates my mind’s erection. A harmonic overflow of the longest orgasm of words.
Me and Poetry like my first and last name,  We just go together.

The Ghetto Kiss

assThe Ghetto Kiss

Early in the morning I put breakfast on your table,
Now that chick sure aint me!
Every meal we eat is in front the TV,
I am the poor, the whichamickfricken needy.
Tired of y’all sangin these love songs that don’t even relate to me.
Ya sneak up to my door my late at night, wit a chicken dinner and a sac of weed.
In those late night hours, you love my blonde weave
And how everything I got on is in camouflage pink.
Funny how when the sun rises,
Pink is the color of the skin you seek.
Where do you think I got my pride?
How do you think there is a dance in my stride?
Part of the radiance in my shine,
Comes from the whispers of you tellin me, I am fine!
With my legs spread wide and my back arched low,
Your stories build me up to be a Queen.
But when the sun comes up, it’s a different story you sing.
Somehow I transform into that hood-rat chick and crack fiend.
Those voices from the children you hear, are your seed!
Lost in why they can’t see santa,
Trapped in between, drive by shootings, & liquor store lootings, Wondering why they only see a man in the house at night.
In the wee hours of morning rise, they close their eyes,
Praying for a father to rescue them.
I pray for a lover of my mind and my thighs.
Wishing you could see that I decorate myself with pride.
My need of finances does not kill my creativity,
My love of community or responsibility.
You really just took me young,
Left me with your young, and I made do!
While you painted a story that is only part of the truth.
The love song you should all sang is, How I made it over!
Then take a picture of my pink thong ass and it put it on the cover!
Yes. Yes! Pucker up and kiss this lover!
Cuz every Ghetto rock star, rise of a welfare mother,
Older momma that rocks the stage with a degree,
That over-comer is me!
Singing my story, proud of food stamps and income budgeted rent.
It starts with a GED, spins into a master’s degree.
Encores with written books, movie deals and paychecks earned.
Birthed music writers, and basketball players who shoes, you buy!
In every story lives lies and truths, and I am living proof!
Yet sometimes in my mind, that blonde weave, ghetto chick
still exist and she screams with discomfort from the comments
of those who don’t understand the bunions on her feet.
Overworked and tired of the hits,
She wishes the world would just, kiss her ghetto grits!