scorn

Musical Selection|India Arie: That Magic

The Scornful Woman by Egon Schiele — 1910

she’d been hurt before —
this scorned woman who is learning
how to love again — live again.
I sit on my balcony and watch her
carry on with her day as if
the sun woke up just for her.

she saunters to her car,
pulls the door open, and
jumps into it ready for another
day of whatever it is that
she does for a living.

I keep my distance.
I speak when spoken to.
I do not draw good energy from
her, so it is my duty to make sure
our interactions are few.

my monster of a dog shows
her teeth at her shadow,
barks when she strikes the
ignition.
I take heed.

there are some of us who
cannot conjure up
a welcoming spirit — too stuck
in the past to allow ourselves to
witness the future.

too afraid to move forward
and march into something new.
I was where she is and
I remember how my soul
smelled.
I turned people off.

there’s always a bit of
magic around, enough to
push us into the light of day.
I think she will be
okay the moment her
feet touch illuminated ground.

I can’t take her there,
even if I do know the way — these
paths have to be walked
by those who need the journey.

I will, however, make sure
she has someone rooting
for her from the sidelines.
I think my sign is
big enough for her to see.


Originally published via Medium.

shift

I sat with my feelings for a week
and took a chance on shifting from
5-8s to 3-12s, rotating weekends.
Everything in my body says,
“Pray for this job, two days off
during the week one week, then
four days off during the week the next
is what you need.”

A smooth transition. Perhaps?
An easy transfer. Who knows?

But, I didn’t want to
fight myself later
for not taking a chance
just in case I actually get it.

I’ll never know unless 
I try.

Right?

Young Minds of Medium Featured Writer: Nour

Nour is an exceptional young one whom I have had the pleasure of watching grow on Medium. Over the last eight months, this young one has broken out of her shell and is sharing her life and experiences with us.

She answered the Young Minds of Medium “How Do You Sing The Blues” challenge for A Cornered Gurl with the following prose-poem:


Just keep breathin’

Young Minds of Medium “Blues Call”

Hasty outlets of yours truly over the years.

Tainted blue creeps in,
An armed looming shadow that threatens,
Look fiercely into its eyes, impassive
Let the ink embrace your heart, squeeze the venom out on paper,
Chase down freedom with your words.


It’s disarming.

How the story unfolds sometimes. So many lies embedded in between the lines and I foolishly believe. Destruction calling my bones for release of its pent up anger. Seeping its sorrow on my pages, adding lines. And my brain does nothing but smirk in approval, unwinding me to the core. Now all the chaos — thrown at my feet, no sealing to its mouth that keeps running.

I keep falling down.

Entirety is disarming sometimes.
Disapproval clawing its way in my mind,

Smitten by blues, add more salt to her wounds … if only you’ve done this. If only you were this …

Just stop. Press pause, go on rewind your tape and you’ll see where it starts:

All. In. Your. Fucking. Head.

I hold still for a moment. Let the truth sink in. So many inviting claws I struggle to dodge.

Oh, how it’s easier to fall into depression … but will you let in temptation?

And that’s how it starts. I breathe my screams out on paper, rewrite the story …

I change lines.

The claws are no longer inviting. ‘Cause no hunter falls for their prey.
The lies fade back to their dimension, this territory ain’t going to be stained.

I don’t pause. I keep going. Destruction no longer smirks.
Entirety could be disarming … unless between the lines you checked again.


Originally published via A Cornered Gurl on Medium.

“Watchmen”

 

if I were ten years older,
would you come for me
like Sister Night chasing
Cal into a tiny closet?

would you watch and wait
with bated breath–your fingers
itching to tug at me in places
where darkness falls?

I thought I could woo you
with sweet words and
draw you to me gently before
first light of a naked morning,

but I was wrong.

you still cling to a masked lover
who’s afraid to reveal her
true self to you.

and I am done
charging down the streets
of hell, chasing after criminals
of love–empty from fighting
bad guys.


Watchmen is one of my favorite series on HBO. It inspired this piece.

Hidden

For Every Black Man Waiting To Be Loved

Jurien Huggins via Unsplash

Hidden: An Audio Poem

she tricked you into thinking
you weren’t noticed — your smile
didn’t meet her in the middle,
yet I see you.

I watch as you struggle to exist
in a world bent on keeping you
hidden behind its sullen corners,
you are not what they expect

when they envision greatness.

I come to you, arms outstretched,
urging you to know my ways . . .
I want to calm your seas,
let me be your peace.

the caves for men aren’t designed
to home the wildest creatures,
we have to make our way —
we are not the boxing kind.

wrappers and bows.
garland and lights.
presentation is everything and
we put on a show.

come, dance in my direction.

I yearn to watch the little boy
emerge with his face aching
for the sunlight.
I know he’s there.

let me watch you
enchant this world around us,
give me the hope of a new season —
the flesh of a beating heart.

you haven’t allowed yourself
this kind of love in
nearly a lifetime, yet here I am . . .
flaunting it for you to touch.

I will not hide you, no . . .
not when something as beautiful
as you should be placed on the
front row of city buses.

no hesitations
no second thoughts
no reconsiderations

necessary.


Originally published on Medium.