Two Untitled Poems

Untitled

By Lame

bend the steel ribbons
that bind your unconscious
mind to poisonous rhymes
twist fates to conquer
hate that lives
more divine than the divine

build on your truths the serene
darkness that floats on your skin
teach the birds to show you
peace in the patterns of their flight
companion your soul with the dreams
that foul your spirit
and the truth will come to you


Untitled

By Lame

I believe in inspirations, dedications of a broken heart
when i am swallowed whole by the mysteries of my nature
read the pages of my body written in inks of has beens, isms and to bes.

I believe in inspirations, dedications of a broken heart
when i am swallowed whole by the mysteries of my nature
read the pages of my body written in inks of has beens, isms and to bes.

I believe in songs written to pinch souls
to dig and rip and uncover golden stones
pools of honey coated history of you and me lived
through her and him

I believe in the complexity of the air that has no care
a constant reminder of my consciousness
to breathe is a careless chore without love
when men and women hide from the pains and pleasures of a smile

I am founded by the burning sun which melts
my sorrows with its scorching gaze
so i stare into the dancing air with delirious happiness

I remember that i am black, a woman, poor
I remember my mother just like me

me, black pines for careless living
to grab the skies and kiss them goodnight
every night
to feel the cool breeze chase away the hot air from my leather skin
I could breathe again

me, woman wants to shout, out and loud
to storm the earth like he man
to feel life without being a woman
the reflection screams “you are woman”
I shout back “i am everything”

me, poor can not recall the comfort of cotton socks
the taste of chicken
and my garden only gives me cabbage

me, poor, woman, black believes in the frequency of my heartbeat
the salt in my sweat
the smell of my armpits, that smell of life

I believe in the dimples that happiness brings to my face
the shadows of my past
making love at midnight
feeling the tender beads of soft porridge glide into me
I believe in the lines on my mother’s face
that to live is to smile
I smile
me, poor, woman, black

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One comment

/ Reply

…you, poor, woman, black are divine inspiration…and i miss you dearly, friend.
🙂

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