And the Flood Begins....

As the beginning of the following piece will suggest, I've been pouring poems from every orifice of my soul this week. When I'm flooded with emotions or none at all, my work seems to always take an extreme route. Either I'm staring at a stack of untouched and neglected journals, or they seem to circle me on my queen size bed while I fill each one of prose that matches its purpose.

The love poem journal.
The struggle journal.
The Erica-Stop-Procrastinating journal.
The this-ish-is-never-leaving-my-room journal.

No what matter the piece is derived from, negative or positive, I am thankful for the force that pushes my pen.

Angry? Hurt? Happy? Ecstatic?

PEN IT.

Sullen inspiration is better than no inspiration at all.

Here are two poems from the stanza plethora I experienced this week.

Poem 1: Invisibility

I'm just so full of poems today
small seams breaking apart
tangible words spilling
everywhere for the world to see

on paper

But I can't pull out my own stitching
unless urged by blue lines and red margins

Can't find the loopholes
that spill phrases
to get people to like you,
in person

Instead of choking and sputtering them at random
saying all the wrong things

Everyone else is capable of pulling,
threading,
rendering me loose
with their stares
questions,
noticing....

two gaped front teeth
stomach
long legs trying to maintain a clumsy balance

flaws

see, I know what they are
just not efficient in God's patchwork
been trying to fix them
with a hand that only wants to write

we're all tailor made
hopefully like mittens
keeping the faith that there's some identical soul
lost and found
with the rest of winter's worries

summer is almost here
and like the rest of the girls headed for sand and sunshine
I'm looking for the right fabric to wear
preferably twenty pounds lighter
a vibrant brown
with perfect seams
that everyone will see

including me.

Poem 2: Mirage

You're just different
boasting your hybrid perfection
bookworm and big heart

how dare you come here without permission?

there hasn't been a day
where i don't dream of a utopia
speaking freely
of
Huey
Asante
Shakur
Danticat
vulnerability
and all the other brown I've become acquainted with

sisters are tired of confronting question marked faces
bewildered
intelligence askew

I've been searching
for a paper cut
roam the bookshelves
smoothie and latte
picnic
museum
learning new things and upholding them like God
kind of brother

and here you go...
fitting the mold
sporting your melanin
being close enough, I can breathe you
and taste your possibility

I'm starving.

-riv-
Smocker Deuce