I Call.

It is in my arms
My tongue
My fingertips
Dancing beneath the nail beds
It seeps out of the broken toe
The one that is slowly healing
But I feel it there

It is in my hair
Samsonian elle
It lurks in my stares
And the dips in my chest
It is within because I feel it crawling
Ever so slowly
Gliding on my muscles
On my shoulders
As though to embrace me.


Traveling through my blood
Steady
Elegantly
Slowly
Calculating.

Strength.
On my forehead
And further,
To the back
I know it is there
And will that it finds its rightful place
Soon, I ask
My voice
And speaks forth
Something strong.

Six Waistbeads.

I don't realize they're there, most times
But sometimes, when I'm not looking,
They creeps up on me
I look down and see

I have these pretty beads on my waist,
Adorning it
Black, yellow, red, and green
Calling my eyes to me
To me, my body.

These beads, say
"Hey! You're a little curvy.
Yes you're curvy and I like it"
and my face brightens

Only I get this feeling
And I get to blushing
Thinking about the definitions on this
This body.
My body.

I will eventually walk away from the mirror
But this time, I won't just walk.
No, no, walking got old
No, this time, there'll be a few springs in my steps
And swings to my hips

My waist will orchestrate a rhythmic dance each time
And my whole world will feel it
It'll be easier now,
And no wonder it'll come easy

It's a group effort afterall,
We'll make that swing
Left, and right and a jingle a step
Me, my little curves, and these six waistbeads.

Round.

There is no middle
There is either here or there.
Our compulsive drive to choose a path
Obsessive.
Adhering to it
Not ever faltering to question
The imperfection of it all.

Everyone has got a brush stroke
Similar to the next being's
And on their canvas is you
And me
And us all
We must be defined.
To come to life, we must have names,
Titles, definitive emotions within which there are protocols
If you feel A you must expect B
If you are 1 then you simply cannot be 2.

We forget that humans are florals
Prints like ankaras, in several different shapes
In multiple colors
Collages that words cannot quite capture
And ever changing like attires
Molding only to umold
Holding just to unfold
That you and I are little growths of what is to come tomorrow
A person we will be
Within which we will see today's child
But only remnants of that
Never full.

We forget.
That that child within tomorrow's being has a number of child's within it
The same child, only different
And that if we were to searxh within long enough, that child may offer more questions than answers
And that what makes questions divine is the reality of the truth;
That one truth, that nothing is entirely true at all.

Nothing.
Nothing.

While you're strengthening our boarders
Enclosing you and us all into this safety
While you are busy brushing yourself into the box within
Ensuring that you bolden the borders
Pinpointing the one thing that you should be
Straight.
One.
Oh dear one,
Remember that the earth is round
Hell, even trees
That which boxes are made of,
Curves.

Pony Ride Video

So the video for my spoken word poetry piece titled Pony Ride is out. Have a look and share your thoughts.

Fire.

Purposeful determination for this love
I pursue it
With rage
With fire
With everything I've got
I am willing
To keep it
To nurture
To ensure that it stays
As is.

Always burning.
Always. Always, fire.

Reminder.

It becomes clear again
Though I forget every now and then
That memory serves to remind us
And pain, to deter

Never forget. Heal, but never ever forget pain.
It serves to deter.
It ensures that you do not un-learn.

Everywhere but there.

But there are words spoken
In languages you and I know
In the midst of the crowd you shout
And I run.

Loud and clear
I run.

I swear I do not hear you
Yet I run each time you shout.

I swear.
We speak this language
You and I.

And faith made it
Into you, I ran.