Blackened Pages

I remember when someone read my inner most thoughts.
I felt naked, transparent. As if all my weaknesses had been laid out on a silver platter.

I write but I'm not an open book.
I'm a paragraph and a few chapters here and there.

Blackened pages where I don't want light to shine.
My thoughts are golden like honey coated cornbread.
My mind is a hive, I protect its sweet nectar.

My thoughts are outside the box. In a different geometric lane.

I think of aliens in far off lands and what they think of the human race.
I dreamt of my past life. I ran as a slave.

The image of caged black bodies, burning, seared into my memory.

Sleep became my mothers secret lover.
Forgotten at school, I knew she was locked in his warm embrace.

Asking my father where he was going resulted in a snarky reply of, "To the moon."

It wasn't long before I appreciated his time spent on the moon.

My mother laughed and played music. She relayed cherished tales of my Grandmother; who would whoop the ass of any woman foolish enough to tamper with her man of her children.

A light and a certain vibe filled the house. Peace
Peace that never existed when my parents were in close proximity.

It was hard to believe they ever loved each other. Years down the road, my dad told me that they were the same person in High School.
But they didn't grow together.

He blossomed into a social butterfly.
She stayed in her cocoon receiving small glimpses of light.
Me and my sister made her glow.
Watching her stagnate made me dim.

It pains me to watch the beautiful women everyone says I look so much like fade.
Bitterness and anger stand where she used to be.

My aunt told me she wasn't always like this. Not when she was young.
When her mother died a large part of her died.

I can't deny that a part of me resents the woman I never met. She took my mothers joy with her to the grave.

Nomadic

Is ignorance still bliss when you're on some locked up shit?

Can hardly read but got a full length sleeve
full of rhymes and quotes.

Reagan said more jail time for selling crack than coke.

African American is an oxymoron. I am not an African or American.
I'm a nomad in the land of every man for himself.

Land of "I'll beat you black and blue as long as I obtain my wealth!"

They say Black is not an ethnic group its a color but that's all I am. All I know is my skin.

I don't know shit about what tribe my family lived in. I don't like fufu or chin chin.

I'm all fried chicken and grits.

I got my European last name, that's all i know.

That's it.

6 Word Memoirs

Two Separate Families in One House

Laughter and the smell of charcoal

The Basement a Shrine to Sigmas

Her Number on the Dog Collar

So Strange, that it became Normal

Summer Time

Smoke, house music and my Dad flashing his badge at the cops when they mosey into the backyard.

            

           The basement a shrine to Sigma’s.

           

            The faces of the founding fathers greeting me every time I walked down the steps.

           

            Laugther and the smell of charcoal.

Nameless, faceless, people crowding around the grill like it was their last meal.

Water guns fights carrying inside the house from grown folks temporarily suspended in childhood.

My little eyes taking it all in.

My mother locked away in her room

Back before there were two families in one house.

Even then, there was her number on my dogs collar.

I guess it was her dog too.

I laughed my ass off when my mom called her phone informing her that

she was a whore.

     

           So strange, that it became normal.