The War I Wage

I’m lost in oily skin

and unkempt hair.

No visitors and dirty dishes

a reminder that I’ve retreated.

I’m found in the energy

of a hot shower

and blowdryed ends.

I’m lost in my living room,

without a book, or even a friend,

pajamas from two days ago

slung over my tired figure.

I’m found in the sunlight… 

in the wind.

At the beach, sand on my skin.

Laughter of my son

the joy expressed

at water’s cleanse.

I’m lost in worry,

night time trails

my mind frequents.

Pissed off at empty spaces of clutter

and the all consuming darkness,

Broken record of things

I should and shouldn’t have started.

I’m found in the morning,

jasmine tea hot 

next to my tasteless plate. 

In the fight for happy

that comes every single day. 

Single Mom Pregnancy Woes

I am tired

of headaches,

of living between 

not being able to take a shit

and needing a bathroom right now! 

I’m tired of 4am wide awake

burping up last night’s dinner

while my baby does the best it can

to kick my pelvis outward.

Of backaches and nobody to press their hands

into my sore spots.

Of crying those gut wrenching cries

that sound like a soul is dying

at anything remotely sad.

I’m tired of the chaffing of my thighs

in my flowing dresses

and the way my waddle reminds

me of my growing ass…my double chin.

I’m tired of a man that says he will be there…

And isn’t.

The one that leaves every opportunity 

to be there,

in his place empty promises.

I am tired of being reminded

that every place I’ve gotten to

has been where my own feet have wandered.

That my choice in men is destructive,

guaranteeing my babies will only

ever have me without question.

Fearing the future 

before it is written 

simply because the past and present 

cannot be forgiven.

But mostly I’m tired of waiting

to hold my baby in my arms

And whisper in my little one’s ears,

“you were made with a piece of my heart

and my love you will never have to fear”.

I Am A Matchbox Stick

I can barely breathe.

My chest has been heavy

for weeks upon weeks,

years upon years.

The future weighing

down my optimism.

My patience suffocated

by the need to be real.

Can’t swallow one more

fake time happy pill,

won’t smile for a crowd

of hating fools.

Only person that pulls me back

is my son

  • He’s so damn beautiful.

Reminding me

not to give a fuck

about anybody

that’s not present in my circle.

Quieting the rage

I feel when questioned

by fools that play the game.

Like why do they

expect me to be graceful

when they question

my need to be real?!

Only for my child

does this deep breath

come natural.

For him,

I’ll take an extra minute

to contemplate my reaction

and not give in

to what feels 

like a rage that I was born with.

Natural as the fire

at the end 

of a matchbox stick

when it meets friction.

A feeling of never fitting in,

never drinking the koolaide

laced with bulshit.

Societal expectations

of happiness.

A pill I can’t swallow

because society

along with her fake ass smile

is poison

and my throat won’t open up

for even one drop of water

to help wash down

the games I gotta play

to sit at that table.

All I know is,

the only thing that’s real

is when I hold him. 

Through a thousand 

thoughts of pain

while my mind 

fights every moment of fake,

my son’s laughter

breaks through,

shattering my misery

like cheap glass.

Clearing a space

for me

that just is.

I’m still a matchbox stick

but with him

there’s no friction.

The ropes around my neck

will always be my affliction

but being his mother

saves me from astriction.

Zane Means God is Gracious

I don’t deserve

my son’s grace.

Today I had

a hard day.

Personal stress over

the mockery of feelings

that have become

my nonexistent love life.

Instead of crying

over my broken heart,

I sucked it up all day

like a strong mom.

Until I lost my patience

over the slime

that my son had spilled…

I should have took

a deep breath

and helped to clean up

but instead I yelled

about the mess

in the carpet

before I realized

that I was

having a panic attack

over my child’s fun.

So I turned my back,

walked slowly to the couch

where I sat down and cried

my eyes out in shame.

My sweet child

who could not let me

lie down in pain,

came forward

and standing before me

he said,

“It’s going to be okay, Mama.

Don’t cry.”

Then he reached

his loving arms

around my neck,

hugging me

through my disheveled breaths

until I found grace again.

The Pain Before It’s Over

My heart knows

the loss of you

before my lips

have found the courage

to let you go.

I’m sitting inside myself,

mourning the hope of us

which will surely die

when I’ve spoken my truth.

I know what I will say,

given the opportunity

pattern making plain

the future.

I have my reply

before the conversation begins.

Saved on a notepad

for the next time that

you ask for my bed,

or claim that your schedule

is too busy for anything

more intimate.

Ask me

and I will copy and paste

my freedom into our text.

The pain, by then,

will be almost over

because I’ve been prepared

for your response

by predictability.

Allowing me to mourn

your answer

long before you spoke it.

It may confuse you,

that I even thought to

give opportunity to this conversation

when I knew your answer was

bound to hurt me,

but I thought that assumption

was shallow

and I wanted to give you

the chance to purposely

choose me.

You Are A Cloud

I’m bored with you.

It’s a verse

that I want to scream.

Why I’ve been choking it down

for intimate falsehood

is beyond me.

So I’m saying it,

accepting it.

Hoping you will forgive

my forward speech.

I’ve lost interest

in your minimal efforts

and predictable patterns.

Deep breath out,

exhaling my truth.

Finally, I feel better.

Do you?

Enough Said

My thoughts carry me

in gusting winds

to the things that I should have said.

Repeating moments that could have been,

imagining the space in time

where I took a deep breath

replaced by the pain I should have spoke to.

The moment when…

I’m fed up and burst

with the venom

that has been held back on my tongue

for the sake of your attention

until patience is no longer my grace

and I can’t look at you with kindness.

My anger a seed that rumbles in my chest

which grows rapidly like vines

out of my limbs

wrapping around my torso and lips

until it is all consuming,

and I, a deadly flower that you must’n pick.

In that moment,

my thoughts are carried to you

on the wind

falling short of your deaf ears

and egotistical stare

which stops me in my tracks.

The pain retreating into me suddenly,

the vines a shadow presence.

The futileness robs my vocal cords

just as suddenly as a storm ends.

Each time I’m taken there,

the wind stops abruptly at the dead end

which is your cold heart

and I’m left to sit

in the self loathing presence,

where the venom still lingers on my tongue

and my disappointment leaves me

a woman with less to give.

Hello, My Name Is Tired Mom

Hello to the neighbor

who plays his music too loud.

I live above you,

my name is Tired Mom.

If it wasn’t for you,

I would be asleep by ten o’clock.

As luck would have it,

your music stayed on closer to half past

the moon’s descent and right before

the birds’ song.

Hello to the landscaper

who starts mowing my lawn

at the break of dawn.

My bedroom is the one

with the windows cracked open

in hopes of a slight breeze to bring me calm.

My name is Depressed Woman.

If it were up to me,

you wouldn’t be my alarm clock.

Hello to the woman screaming

at her grown daughter

in the building west of mine.

I shouldn’t be able to hear all that you say

with the volume of my tv turned up high.

My name is Desperate For Quiet.

I needed an afternoon nap,

but your argument keeps me staring at my walls.

Please do us all a favor

and shut the fuck up.