Category: Writing
In Time
I enjoy the way he speaks. His vicarious desire to plunge into words ignites my spirit. He’s fearless. Openly expressing thoughts that encourage, sometimes offends, all of the time truth his truth; one that he holds dear. Much like a form of godliness is such truth; A manifestation of light. Not ridding the world …
Sometimes It’s Like That
I saw her limping up the trail to school. She was about an hour late and appeared to be taking her time. I ran outside to meet her. Her beautiful cocoa stained skin hidden by concealer yet melting away with tears.Asking what the problem was She glared at me blankly. Contemplating whether or not she …
To My Unborn
Although I am not child bearing, this exercise was to see if I could write to the unfamiliar…My topic was my future unborn son or daughter; a free write of thoughts. Innocence bled through a tube used for feeding I often wonder of you One created from love and passion You’ve developed amid me…and him …
9 Months
Delving into various forms of writing is always a joy. As I challenge myself through the many forms of poetry, writing some prose, even jotting down dialogue to replay later I find that at times it is difficult, but can be so rewarding. For this piece entitled 9 Months, I decided to write a sonnet. …
Crying Cracks
Although most often I write freely, some of my writings take on specific poetic forms. This piece is a small ballad that I wrote some time ago. The murder rate in Philadelphia was high then and it is even higher now. It’s entitled, ‘Crying Cracks’. Tainted cement has become shades of burgundy The cracks …
Interlocked
I touched his hand For the first time in three years, we connected through some sort of internal magnetic field other than our eyes. People always say ones eyes never lie. I used to believe that I could look into his eyes, peer through his shielded soul, and evaluate his hearts desire. I looked at …
A Proclamation of Self
On the second floor of my school, the senior AP English class had written these ‘I Am’ poems. In these writings our students professed who they were and where they stood, at the age of 17, 18, and 19 years old. I stood there reading these young lives posted on a bulletin board. The pages …
Scattered
We come from people that were forced into submission From a line that could not be snapped But somehow Down the line we’ve been broken and… And no one has glued us back together We’ve come from a people that have been attached by some sort of invisible thread This provides us with a measure …
Not a Novel Reader
I am not a novel reader. For many that would be surprising, seeing as though my love words often pop up in various aspects of my life. I equate words with life or life with words. (Is that the same thing? *shrug*) Placing letters together to paint puzzling pictures at times for all to dissect …