Category: Pain

Featured Poem of the Week

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Deb Ewing landed on Medium this past month and she has been lighting the platform up ever since! When she reached out to me to become a writer for A Cornered Gurl, I was beside myself with glee for I had been following her on Twitter. When I say this woman is a fireball, trust & believe she is that. Her writing shows no fear: it is raw and intense. I want nothing more than to read her writing over and over again. I am glad I get to be one of her editors.

The piece that lands her the feature for this week is her second contribution to ACG and it is aptly titled, “hate speech.” Not only is she an incredible writer, but she is also a visual artist. The artwork you see accompanying her poem is hers. You will not be disappointed. I guarantee it.

hate speech

you don’t see the cavity right away

Tongues, art by debora Ewing

you don’t see the cavity
right away

it slips between etiquette
and camaraderie
testing the atmosphere

where allowed, it swells
into a sandwich, eaten
by those craving sustenance

but the comfort of bread
only soaks up the serum
leaking out from what
might have been
meat

it crawls up the gullet
takes a life of its own
proclaims smiling

You Let This Happen

and you did.

Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.

Mister Brown Goes Insane

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Mister Brown Goes Insane

An Experiment

Photo by Pixabay via Pexels

An Audio Poem

Mister Brown lives on the corners of
Trident Avenue & 4th Street.
His rickety walk matches the
pace of a snail.
Reverend Burnham says he can’t
be trusted with the church’s
money anymore.
Something about embezzlement
and buying dope.

I stand on the corner, waiting for
The Man to pick me up for work,
and he glides down his steps
like a ghost on a mission.
I keep my wallet close to me.
He waves, I smile.
I don’t say a word to him,
but I watch him as he tries
to figure out how to get
into his car.
The door swings open,
he pushes his disobedient
body inside — closes it.

I notice the gas cap hasn’t
been closed.
I flag him down, but he’s
up the street quicker than my
hands can flail.
He hits a tree.
Cops come.
Reverend Burnham too.
Said he fell asleep at
the wheel.

Funny, I think.
He looked well-rested
to me.

Originally published in P. S. I Love You via Medium.

I Tell Myself, “She’s Off Limits.”

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womanportrait
Portrait of the dreaming Gertii—Egon Schiele 1911

and sometimes, it works.
others, I find myself
knocking at my brain,
trying to get it to shift
from thoughts of her to
thoughts of something else.
when I hear her voice,
the core of me lights up,
happiness centers around
my entire being.

I want to sit seaside with her,
shake my feet alongside hers
in the calming coolness of the
spring water.
I pick up my phone.
I put it down.
I pick it up.
I put it down.
This becomes a test of
testing my strengths and
my weaknesses and I
am weak for her.

I don’t want to be.

I want to be moved
without moving and yearn
without yearning, but in order
to do this, I have to
learn to let her go.
how do I do that when
all I have ever wanted
was to hold onto
her?

blessed sadness

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NaPoWriMo #27

 

Alone with my Loneliness

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NaPoWriMo #26

 

Death during a pandemic

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NaPoWriMo #24

Today was supposed to be my day off, however, I was called by one of my coworkers to come in and relieve our other coworker whose grandmother suddenly died–found in the home dead. Of course, no one should expect her to work through the day with this type of weight on her shoulders, but from what I am told, my supervisor expected it. I asked the coworker who called me to please give me time to wash my scrubs, get up and get going, walk Jernee, and get both of us fed, and I would be there. *sighs*

The last thing I’d want anyone to do during an already stressful time is to attempt to work in a stressful environment with death during a pandemic hanging over their heads. Count your blessings, people. Pray for others. Help whenever and however you can. Small things turn into big things, trust me. Peace.