Take Flight

I know,
it looks and feels
like a long way down,
a spiraling staircase
to your demise but
what if you fly?

I agree, the ground
is bone breaking solid
polished with your demolish,
but what if
you were meant to soar?

What if,
you taste of liberty
and get addicted to freedom,
get addicted to wanting more?

Truth is,
it might hurt to try,
but fear is but a lie
to keep you grounded
when your spirit
was destined for the skies.

So take flight.
Take flight and don’t return
to your cage,
do not miss
this stage of stagnant.

are magnetized to wild now.
give the rest of us some time
to reconstruct belief
back into our wings.

At least we can say
one of us made it,
and that one of us
was you.

You that nourished truth
and starved your fears.
You pioneer of dreams,
belief engineer.
We believe now.
We believe because of you.



Words, can indeed hurt.
So I’ll never meet
your fire with my lava.
I, will always have
a riverbed of forgiveness
to polish your stones
before you set them flying
in this glasshouse.

I, will always squelch your flames
with a tidal wave of love.
I, will never permit my voice
to be raised by temper,
mature into anger,
and adult into drunken madness.

I, refuse to be
the reason you leave.
I will not
yell after you to stay,
when I’ve whispered
all the reasons that you should.

Insurance Claim

does she ask for favors
but when she does,
it is backed by an insurance called:
“If you can’t, don’t worry
I got it,”
and she does.

Understand, sacred texts
refer to her as “help meet,”
male egos transpose her flesh
into just meat,
but her womanhood
can’t subscribe to either.

Her ether,
is in the realm of leaders,
and achievers.
Therefore, she has no time
for dreamers,
nor deceivers.

She’s constructed herself
with adamantine belief
you mistake for being
stubborn and hard-nosed.
Truth is,
she’s heard enough of Judas,
seen enough of Brutus
to not superimpose
her own brutish
into her being,
savage into her seams.

has hard-boiled eyes
that has never cracked
over the yoke she has borne
through the years,
so what makes you think
any part of you
is worth her tears?

Truth is,
she’s blueprint
for incompliant,
has a hard time being pliant
to your feeble frame of mind
so she can’t picture
being in need of you.

So if you can’t fathom
a woman composed
of less damsel than damnation,
less heaven than hell;
if you can’t imagine
a woman so whole,
holy becomes an understatement,
a religion you can’t sell;
if you can’t compute
a woman with enough
assurance in herself
that she doesn’t need to
buy your validation;
if you can’t,
don’t worry.
She’s got it.

It’s Okay

You could hear it in her voice. 
could still be detected 
in the undertones but
her tired
was seeping through her syllables,
her weary
leaking through her vowels.  

Dripping through the ceiling
of her patience, 
in a bucket brimming
with reasons to give up; 
was a drop away from spill,
a touch away from splatter. 

she could summon enough magic
to levitate her smile 
above the skyscrapers of her burdens. 
she had a scripture 
tucked under her breath
to whisper consolation. 

she could pretend 
that spreading herself thin and
running on the exhaust 
of yesterday’s hope that today 
would be better, 
was enough pep
to get her through. 
she had more faith
at the end of her day
than day
at the end of her faith. 

she didn’t wish
to be normal. 
She accepted that life
was carving out her precious
to make room for everyone’s hurt
but hers it seemed. 
She understood
she was given a mountain
to show others it could be climbed, 
but some days
she doesn’t feel like climbing. 

she doesn’t feel like hero. 
she doesn’t want to be nominated
to be the emblem of strength. 
she just needs
a moment to cry, 
just needs
a moment to breathe,
just needs
a moment to wallow 
in her vulnerabilities. 

Just give her a moment
to be human.


More Than an Address

Last month, 
my heart beat itself
into my 29th lap at life, 
14 years deep 
in spilling ink
and I have yet
to address you. 

born to islanders for parents
that spoke a dialect of love
so broken, 
it could be translated
into abuse 
all too easily. 

with the mother
that chose to raise daughter
instead of son
for a sum of reasons
I still can’t calculate. 

with the austere father
that robbed you of weekends, 
summer breaks, 
and childhood days
to secure a man that knows
he, who cheats himself
from labor today, 
saves himself the crumbs
for his daily bread tomorrow. 

Last night, 
the eyes of the woman I love
inquired for the inventory
to my damage. 
the barcode of my lashes 
pitched a price too high 
for my pride to break the bank. 

But verbally, 
I complied. 
My reply:
“I never felt
like I was enough.”

At times, 
parental love
felt rationed. 
At times, 
I envied the island
from whence they came
because the dialect
of the ocean’s love 
was all encompassing and 
I just wanted to be
loved that way. 

in a house with two kids
did I feel like the third option to love? 
did I have to question
if blood was thicker than water? 
were you going to inform me
that I was something worth bragging about
well after the party was over, 
well after church luncheon? 

may not be a confessional
but I needed you to be real with me. 
Some twenty odd laps at life
still searching for approval 
isn’t the idea formula for sanity,
or the blueprint
for constructing a man’s confidence. 
Fourteen years of spilled ink
got me skilled to sink
in someone else’s moccasins, 
when I just needed you to show me
how to walk in my own. 

I needed to know
what home felt like,
needed to see 
that it was more than walls, 
more than ceiling. 
I needed to know
it was comprised of feeling
more than longing, 
of loving and belonging 
to something more than an address
I used to call home. 

I Am

They told me 
I was a vessel 
for the breath of God, 
that my body
is His temple;
and I wonder
if things have changed. 

I feel more like ruins 
than sanctuary. 
I shatter into shards
searching for the sacred in me. 

the holy within
rides as far as my exhale. 
I cause cramps 
in my Potter’s hands. 

They told me 
that I’m just human,
woven and spun
to become undone but
is the embrace encased
in non-judgment 
and love;
are the hands that carried
my heathen ruins
back to believing;
is the breath that whispered:
“Try again
because you can,”
when hope felt crippled. 

are the words that told me
that I’m not just man, 
not just bone, 
not just breath,
not a heart
that beats to death.

We are,
you are,
I am…

Love unrealized, 
reposing in a stupor
waiting to be ignited 
by hurt, 
a series 
of unfortunate events
meant to remind us 
that I am, 
you are, 
we are 


When the sincerity in her eyes
inquires a deeper response than
“I’m fine,”
when her gaze
shifts in a way
to implore of you:
“What’s wrong;” 
know that no soul
will ever care more. 

her gentle demands 
stems from a place 
her hands desire 
to realign your vertebrae of belief
in yourself,
for yourself. 

that she has put her
personal battles on pause
to gird up and battle 
for your war. 
She’ll lend you her strength
in the form of untiring limbs
and an unselfish yet bruised heart 
in hopes of restoring 
the king in you. 

So be honest. 
Show her the chinks 
in your armor, 
the broken 
in your smile, 
the fissures 
in your laughter. 
Show her
that you bleed, 
that you’re human
and she will patch you
with a love 
you need not question,
a love 
just for you.