u will never find

u will never find another like me

will take those past loves

and make them distance memories

u will never quite find a lover like me

from high passion scream  

to evading every dream

you will try but will never be able to deny

that  the new hitch in your step came from me

leaving sweet memories between your smiles and sheets

love never felt so good without me

what i’m telling 

you is fact

9 out of ten women do agree 

that there ain’t another single brother 

in the whole  wide world… 

u can fight it but you’ll only make it to round three

float to me as  i sting u like a bee 

i say u will never ever

yes, ever, ever

like…me

@ maybe, something, beautiful

If you think you are beaten, you are;

If you think you dare not, you don’t.

If you’d like to win, but think you can’t

It’s almost a cinch you won’t.

If you think you’ll lose, you’ve lost,

For out in the world we find

Success being with a fellow’s will;

It’s all in the state of mind.

If you think you’re outclassed, you are:

You’ve got to think high to rise.

You’ve got to be sure of yourself before

You can ever win a prize.

Life’s battles don’t always go

To the stronger or faster man,

But soon or late the man who wins

Is the one who thinks he can.

© Walter D. Wintle

I have no answer to the blank inequity 
of a four-year-old dying of cancer. 
I saw her on TV and wept 
with my mouth full of meatloaf. 

I constantly flash on disasters now; 
red lights shout Warning. Danger. 
everywhere I look. 
I buckle him in, but what if a car 
with a grille like a sharkbite 
roared up out of the road? 
I feed him square meals, 
but what if the fist of his heart 
should simply fall open? 
I carried him safely 
as long as I could, 
but now he’s a runaway 
on the dangerous highway. 
Warning. Danger. 
I’ve started to pray. 

But the dangerous highway 
curves through blue evenings 
when I hold his yielding hand 
and snip his minuscule nails 
with my vicious-looking scissors. 
I carry him around 
like an egg in a spoon, 
and I remember a porcelain fawn, 
a best friend’s trust, 
my broken faith in myself. 
It’s not my grace that keeps me erect 
as the sidewalk clatters downhill 
under my rollerskate wheels. 

Sometimes I lie awake 
troubled by this thought: 
It’s not so simple to give a child birth; 
you also have to give it death, 
the jealous fairy’s christening gift. 

I’ve always pictured my own death 
as a closed door, 
a black room, 
a breathless leap from the mountaintop 
with time to throw out my arms, lift my head, 
and see, in the instant my heart stops, 
a whole galaxy of blue. 
I imagined I’d forget, 
in the cessation of feeling, 
while the guilt of my lifetime floated away 
like a nylon nightgown, 
and that I’d fall into clean, fresh forgiveness. 

Ah, but the death I’ve given away 
is more mine than the one I’ve kept: 
from my hands the poisoned apple, 
from my bow the mistletoe dart. 

Then I think of Mama, 
her bountiful breasts. 
When I was a child, I really swear, 
Mama’s kisses could heal. 
I remember her promise, 
and whisper it over my sweet son’s sleep: 

When you float to the bottom, child, 
like a mote down a sunbeam, 
you’ll see me from a trillion miles away: 
my eyes looking up to you, 
my arms outstretched for you like night.

© Marilyn Nelson

And if sun comes

How shall we greet him?

Shall we not dread him,

Shall we not fear him … 

© Gwendolyn Brooks

Because I always feel like running 
Not away, because there is no such place 
Because if there was, I would have found it by now 
Because it’s easier to run, 
Easier than staying and finding out you’re the only one who didn’t run 
Because running will be the way your life and mine will be described, 
As in “the long run” 
Or as in having “given someone a run for his money” 
Or as in “running out of time” 
Because running makes me look like everyone else, though I hope there will ever be cause for that 
Because I will be running in the other direction, not running for cover 
Because if I knew where cover was, I would stay there and never have to run for it 
Not running for my life, because I have to be running for something of more value to be running and not in fear 
Because the thing I fear cannot be escaped, eluded, avoided, hidden from, protected from, gotten away from, 
Not without showing the fear as I see it now 
Because closer, clearer, no sir, nearer 
Because of you and because of that nice 
That you quietly, quickly be causing 
And because you’re going to see me run soon and because you’re going to know why I’m running then 
You’ll know then 
Because I’m not going to tell you now” 

© Gil-Scott Heron

(Ever wonder what Kanye meant when he said Chloe Mitchell near the end of Blame Game? Well he used a few lines from her amazing poem.)

Things used to be.

Now they’re not.

Anything but us is who we are.

Disguising ourselves as secret lovers, we’ve become public enemies.

We walk away like strangers in the street.

Gone for eternity, we erase one another.

No phone calls.

No sweet text messages.

We are mere specs of particles, floating, unknown to our partners’ existence.

So far from where we came. With so much of everything, how do we leave with nothing?

Lack of visual empathy equates to the meaning of L.O.V.E.

Hatred and attitude tear us entirely.

We meet at opposite poles and no longer can we bond like love birds to a song or flowers to a Daisy.

The air smells of rotten love and burned hearts.

We have trashed our over cooked love that now accompanies the bin of deceit.

Don’t turn around. Continue walking away.

Disappear into that darkness that rests upon your gritty shoulders.

Let that dark cloud follow you wherever you go.

So long ex-lover. Farewell.

© Chole Mitchell - Her Tumblr

I have no answer to the blank inequity 
of a four-year-old dying of cancer. 
I saw her on TV and wept 
with my mouth full of meatloaf. 

I constantly flash on disasters now; 
red lights shout Warning. Danger. 
everywhere I look. 
I buckle him in, but what if a car 
with a grille like a sharkbite 
roared up out of the road? 
I feed him square meals, 
but what if the fist of his heart 
should simply fall open? 
I carried him safely 
as long as I could, 
but now he’s a runaway 
on the dangerous highway. 
Warning. Danger. 
I’ve started to pray. 

But the dangerous highway 
curves through blue evenings 
when I hold his yielding hand 
and snip his minuscule nails 
with my vicious-looking scissors. 
I carry him around 
like an egg in a spoon, 
and I remember a porcelain fawn, 
a best friend’s trust, 
my broken faith in myself. 
It’s not my grace that keeps me erect 
as the sidewalk clatters downhill 
under my rollerskate wheels. 

Sometimes I lie awake 
troubled by this thought: 
It’s not so simple to give a child birth; 
you also have to give it death, 
the jealous fairy’s christening gift. 

I’ve always pictured my own death 
as a closed door, 
a black room, 
a breathless leap from the mountaintop 
with time to throw out my arms, lift my head, 
and see, in the instant my heart stops, 
a whole galaxy of blue. 
I imagined I’d forget, 
in the cessation of feeling, 
while the guilt of my lifetime floated away 
like a nylon nightgown, 
and that I’d fall into clean, fresh forgiveness. 

Ah, but the death I’ve given away 
is more mine than the one I’ve kept: 
from my hands the poisoned apple, 
from my bow the mistletoe dart. 

Then I think of Mama, 
her bountiful breasts. 
When I was a child, I really swear, 
Mama’s kisses could heal. 
I remember her promise, 
and whisper it over my sweet son’s sleep: 

When you float to the bottom, child, 
like a mote down a sunbeam, 
you’ll see me from a trillion miles away: 
my eyes looking up to you, 
my arms outstretched for you like night.

© Marilyn Nelson