The Chosen Few

I will
never know
Why I was
Chosen...but
As the blood
Stains these sheets

And the
life drains
Away,
I know
I have
Disobeyed.

I know
The plan was
To stay, but
The more
The pictures
Don't fade,
My memories
Become reality...
And I
Can't stand
Another
DAY

November...Death Defying?...Are You Kidding Me???

I don't like the idea of death. I'm scared shitless of death and dying.
Where do we REALLY go once we die?
Do we still exist, just in another form?
Do we really have souls?
If so, do our souls just roam the earth once we die
or is Heaven and Hell horrifyingly real?
Is death just a figment of our imaginations and we're just letting this
one
thought and/or idea run rampant through our minds and allow it to
control our lives.
Were the people who have already passed on ever really here to
begin with in the first place?
Or are we truly living in "THE MATRIX"?

For Frenchie...

She plays
as though
her pain will
flow out through
her fingertips.

Her story is not
written on her
face but
in her
voice.

Her struggle
rides the
waves of her
vocal chords,
expecting there to be
a platform on
which they land,
but instead...
they fall past the
nothingness.
On and on, further
into the abyss of
Deaf Ears.

I expected to
find a small child
or an impoverished
woman, but
what i found when she
looked up will
forever stay framed in
my mind.

SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL.

So much so,
that her beauty
shocked me...
And her mucis
haunts me.

And just as
she surprised me
when she came,
her absence tore
my heart in two,
as she breezed out
the door.






* i wrote this poem one night in a smoke filled club, i was working at the bar and a crackhead came prancing in, jumped straight on the piano, and poured her heart out into the music. it looked as if her fingers were in pain, and i didnt expect to find such a beautiful woman...i found out after she left that her name was Frenchie, and she was dying. here's to you Frenchie...here's to you

The Thing We Lost...

As this sob
Escapes
My throat, I
Realize that
Something Valuable
Has gone missing.

The Thing We Lost Was Trust.

It might've disappeared
The day he waved
His flirtatious hello
And I smiled
My blushing, cool-breeze,
Gone with the wind
Goodbye.

The Thing We Lost Was Trust.

Or Maybe
Just Maybe,
It could've been
the day you walked out
The door...
And as i smiled with
My eyes, Our
" DON'T ASK-DON'T TELL "
policy bore a hole
Through my skull
Like a drill to the
Earth's very core.

The Thing We Lost Was Trust.

It has seeped through the
Cracks of my bleeding
Aching heart like
Coveted water
From a split
Rock.

The Thing We Lost Was Trust.

There Was
A time when
Your absences
Were my "END OF DAYS"
And your touch
My guardian Angel.

The Thing We Lost Was Trust.

But Fast
Forward to
The present
And nothing could
Be further from the truth.


The Thing We Lost Was Trust.

Your touch is no
Longer a reassurance...
Your kiss simply
A glimmer of
Bias hope...Your
Presence No longer
Felt.

The Thing We Lost Was Trust.

IF I'M LUCKY ENOUGH YOU'LL STILL
LOVE ME TOMORROW.

This was me last year...in my school hallway...in my school uniform...i was much smaller then...idk...maybe that school wasnt for me....but im praying this one is...The picture above it is me on my 17th birthday...that was a really crazy day...but i thank god im still here...The picture before that is my best friend Melquan, on his graduation day...i am sooo proud of him...And the first picture is of my friend Vernelle and I...going out for the night

Dear Mama...

I feel so close to death already. God, I'm only 15. There's nothing left for me here. I feel it, and i know every one else does too. You have to, I'm around you 24/7 looking up at you with hopeful eyes...My soul, pleading with you to save me, not once did you try. This is not a harmful letter, it's intentions are not to try and hurt you...It was written to say I Love You, I Love You and Goodbye. Guess What ma, i still see Denny sometimes. Remember the imaginary friend i had when i was little?...I was cute wasn't i? Anyways, he's a really nice guy. Well, i left some poems for you to read...Some things i wrote over the course of my life...Maybe then and only then will you be able to understand me and my thoughts. Poetry is like wine, some poems are bitter, some are sour, and some are fine. My Writings are like fine wine Mommy, You'd be proud, I promise. This is the end of my one sided conversation with you, but only because I've run out of time. There is so much more i wish to speak with you about but i guess I'll tell you more from purgatory. I Love You Mommy, and if we speak no more when I'm gone, I hope i see you again one day. I love you, No really, I do.