Filed under: As Seen On Stage
I really do hate love poems.
Seems like every time I bring myself to write some “generalized” line
about some feeling I find to be monumentally divine
I end up telling on myself…
For the past 4 months, I’ve been telling my diary pages “next time” stories to soothe them to sleep..
My fountain pen has been creeping
amidst the smudges and crumpled up company it used to keep,
eaves dropping on the tales it yearns to weep permanent…
Ink blot blood drops mix with salted h20 liquid spots
“Next time, next time”, I lied to their water-marked cheeks.
I remember being 8 years old,
and prematurely obsessed with the version of perfection conformity sold.
Terrified to see a trace of a former thought or idea
in the space reserved above those hashed lines.
I’d find every reason to rip up and start over,
tear up, tear up, shred to bits and buy a new folder
if any blemish had tarnished the varnished pages
I’d work so hard to keep pristine and unfinished,
that is, until I got older and met you.
And you drew a fat red line through everything I’d written thus far,
and asked me to write something meaningful.
Something that would wipe the foundation off these aged cheeks
& reveal the laugh lines of a face thats no longer naive and new
He told me to write something meaningful.
Something like “drowning in the depths of my melodramatic soul” ..
You know - that kind of meaningful.
Write a piece, bring it to life from the paper, give it legs and lungs to breathe for the word’s favor,
Maybe its scarred with remeberance, sticky with adolecense,
& Dripping with sugar coated remnants of your ear candy spittings: meaningful
Sweeter than the exhale after you touch me, your fingerprint trails drizzle hershey kiss drips drops that fall straight to my flip flops and leave intertwined trails back to our candyland of a fantasy: …meaningful
And my vivid dreams of forevers were forever occupied by we
Harvested by my toils with relationship titles and love boils… So intoxicated I toiled with boundary lines and
Against my instinct defined this very distinct something as: Meaningful.
So obviously, I was compelled to write about you.
Compelled to create something that might sting when I spoke it to you.
Might resonate with that part you’ve hidden from anyone who you attempted to get close to…
You, after hearing it, might feel compelled to drop the prefix “I love” and complete the two… Thoughts.
I mean, speaking generally but me plus you equals: Meaningful
And so in the spirit of being true with myself, I feel compelled to admit that…
It all started with you.
This unveiling of unanswered questions… Unraveled and understood by your uncanny ability to see right through me.
You’ve proven to be, meaningful.
You. Unmasked and uninhibited,
Connected the dots, filled all my missing spots between L and O, & At night I’d en-V your thoughts for being the closest things to your mind – and try to find why my life before you felt so empt-E.
You.
Soon became we, and my ink pens and paper had never been so happy.
Super amped, my poetic muse was re-vamped
with these meaningful lyrical stylings
I felt compelled to sing something meaningful to… you.
Make melodies out of these somethings I used to chronically write down, fiedning for the proper staff to place my jumbled notes in.
I just want to be something meaningful… To you.
Something you say you’re proud to come home to, and
mean-it-fully. Mean it fully.
You asked me to write something meaningful…
Filed under: Blasphemous Blurbs
Since Michael Jackson’s death the outpouring of love and support, adulation and adoration, the “shock and awe” has been nearly as unremitting as the constant radio play his music has received. Those moments of shared loss have been human, healing and profoundly powerful. These have been sanguine moments of reflection seasoned with the bitter herbs of profound loss. And yet there is also been a darker, more troubling dimension to Michael’s premature departure to the community of the ancestors: People who did not know him personally, never had a cup of tea with him, sat in a room with him or spent time with him and his family, have seen fit to sit on the other side of the scale of Maat and cast judgment upon him. I should state unequivocally that I am not from the school of “judge not less ye be judged.” But rather I see judgment as an act of discernment, not as an opportunity to express narcissistic disdain. Since his death folks have weighed in and stood in judgment on his romantic choices, his skin color, his racial identity, his financial decisions, his cosmetic alterations, and his use of drugs as form of self medication and his problematic relationship with young boys. All of this before he has had his chance to walk to the light.
I can not speak for other communities but in the African American community we know better. It stems from an African American high culture—I don’t mean being bougie. It has noting to do with eduation or class standing. What I mean by high culture, is when your mother sent you next door to borrow a cup of sugar for a cake she was baking, and as soon as the cake cooled, the very first slice went to the neighbor who loaned her the cup of sugar. Reciprocity, Respect and Propriety were its pillars. We have always understood that the time to discuss the failings of a person is after they have been sent home, after our mourning has provided the necessary energy to send them on their journey. We have forgotten the best of who we are and who we can be. The evidence of this painful truth lays heavy in the air like summer humidity; as the BET Awards so aptly illustrated. I want to reiterate that I am not opposed to judgment, but I am opposed to blatant hypocrisy. Who among us could withstand the scrutiny of every bad choice we have made since we were nine (9) publicized nationally? Who among us could withstand the constant scrutiny of every “what had happened was..” moment in our lives? Some African Americans have seen fit to talk about his racial identity, all the while lining up in beauty shops around the country to have their natural African hair transformed via lye into a state that resembles the quiet quest for otherness; we create, market and consume music that deals with our women as if they are subhuman; and attack our best possibilities for hope and regeneration with a vitrolic street violence that is cannibalistic. And we would question his racial identity. I forgot African American folks denigrating and disrespecting what is best and beautiful about our blackness is the new Negro authenticity…. or was that the BET Awards…I digress.
Others have noted his change in skin color as a marker of his lack of identification with or open hostility towards blackness. But what of the reality that African Americans make up a 44% market share of the skin lighter industry? Or does it not count if you change your skin color at Walmart rather at the doctors’ office? Folks have discussed his nose, but conveniently overlooked the ways in which they cosmetically altered their bodies with tattoos, reducing their bodies–with all of its melanic force- to little more than unlined notebook paper or walking billboards. Folks have weighed in on his alleged pedophilia as they sip their merlot and listen to R. Kelly’s Chocolate Factory. But then again a Black men urinating on young black girls is not cause for outrage or reduced CD sales—because we all know the price for admission into the race for black women is their soul. When and where I enter, Paula Giddings asked, the answer: Not at iTunes. But the alleged abuse of young white boys rises to the level scandal. You serious.
As subprime mortgage crisis and the ensuing depression have swept centuries of accumulated African American wealth with tsunami force destruction, that combined with all the bad financial choices that African American make daily, we would see fit to offer a pronouncement on Michael Jackson’s largess. We who, with large folly and small savings accounts, donate to WalMart, Target, and the Clubs with violent self disregard would seek to cast judgment on a man who has given over three hundred million dollars in charitable aid over the course of his life. The tax on alcohol sales on the weekends in Clubs could fund Black education…but that drug consumption…that’s for fun…no self medicating there…Michael had a serious problem…yeah, ok. The hypocrisy is not only stunning, it’s sad.
As Africans (voluntary and involuntary immigrants) we live in a society that is not only inimical to African life and liberty, but is hostile to the very idea of our humanity. We all understand this at an intuitive level and each of us calibrates our own calculus of compromise—that is how we survive. Michael for all his wealth and privilege was not immune to these socio-ecological pressures. That his adaptations took on forms that were at times unrecognizable is a function of living under the aegis of global White Supremacy with all of its crippled cultural logic. But it would be a mistake to believe we are any different. As the poet laureate Mike Tyson once said ‘Everybody got a game plan til they get hit.”
Empathy married to humility gives birth to high intelligence. And in times like these with so much facing our people high intelligence coupled with African American high culture is what has gotten us through the many storms before and what will surely get us through this current financial storm. Right now, for a small moment the world is watching and as we—the people who taught the world to read, write, and to BE– have done so many times in the past– let us show the world once again what God looks like in her natural brown skin. And send this brother off right. Maat Kheru, Michael Jackson
Outro,
KP
[Thank you, Brother Adisa, for your wisdom & words]
Filed under: As Seen On Stage
I wore these threads on purpose.
These jeans, like my soul, are torn
their holes are porous.
and the message I send, dare it be morphed by
outer logos or pending 3 minute long frivolous intro’s.
Flashy is no homie and Dolce & Gucci would rather not know me.
And despite the fact that I hail from “The OC”
I’ll be damned if my persona is shaped by the beamers rollin’ on dubs
and the mansions propped up on the sea
coast… THAT way if you believe this fabric is the only thing that makes me
coutured from head to toe,
you must have forgotten, my blood says I’m royalty
I need no materialistic support – simplicity is a must.
Trust – I’ll let my words define my genius
May my African nature leave an ash print on this stage
in the memory of the flaming history-book faces whos stories used to bore thee,
I pray their tales of historical discrepancies make your ears bleed true
and may your ankles now wade in the deep tides of
indifference and color hues…
pigment black but bleed red white & blue
Forced to function in a society that neither affirms nor negates our propriety
May it serve as a constant reminder to you
Our exterior does not characterize us
Trust – our legacy to defend our genius.
Contrary to what patriarchy may have taught you to think,
In our world, everything isn’t always glittered down and pink.
Magnified by the lenses you press against our cheeks
We dream of the day when shattered glass ceilings
will satiate our womanly tummies and overflow our womanly drinks
Constantly combative, carrying more weight than you and your brothers had to have
born babies out of wedlock, raised heirs of wealth, much to your shock
While proudly parading the title of “girly”..
Trust – my femininity to defend my genius.
I pay no mind to your kaleidoscope of constraints
swivel left or right in an attempt to align straight.
Convince females like me to walk that straight line
flip through magazines, depressed by the images we find
mind in duress, identity in distress,
the only language we’ve learned to speak is “skinny” so we
SCREAM to settle the paradox,
Emerge proudly size: sexy,
beautiful women unite
assumed correctly,
We won’t fit in your box
Trust – in our presence to define our genius.
And shall you assume the depth of our consciousness
treads in the rifts and scratches of the tunes the DJ’s record player emits
and that our hearts pound to instruments and instrumentals alone…
That melodic beats and rockin’ the flyest kicks is what makes us grown.
We hope you’re reminded that our generation is much more than billboard hit,
fashion filled wit, and an overly played ringtone!
Trust – our imprints to define our genius
Studiously invested in the study of life’s history
To my knowledge, none of your definitions define my developing being
I be not confined by your shackles and hegemonic infantry
I ignite all sparks you set beneath my feet
& absorb this information in the name of a better “we” so..
Trust – my collegiate lexicon to blow your mind, and define my genius.
My aura creamed with this scented lotion
Its aroma bits give off no notion of my
ultra complex persona, just subtle hints
In silence – I construct these rhymes
to entice feeble minds and smile upon
the completion of my cocktail of a mine
tick tick tick time bomb.
Take a deep breath, back up 3 steps & rewind
before you blow up in smoke
& its only your shadow the search parties will find
For you judged the very things that proved to undermine
the saliency of truth.
Injustice…
In..just..ice.
In Just Us we
TRUST.
Filed under: As Seen On Stage
However it begins, it’s gotta be loud
and then it’s gotta get a little bit louder.
Because this is how you write a political poem
and how you deliver it with power.
Mix current events with platitudes of empowerment.
Annunciate and allude to isms and social constructs that undeniably move you.
Wrap up in rhyme or rhyme it up in rap until it sounds true.
And then give ‘em a stare until all the parallels sink in.
A real serious, intense, something or another…
tilt your face to the light, pump your fist for the fight
And somewhere some representative is peeing all over themselves in spasmodic delight.
Remember, no matter how loud you begin,
it’s gotta get a little bit louder.
Because this is how you write a political poem
and how you deliver it with power.
Make fun of politicians,
(it’s easy, especially with Republicans)
Create fatuous juxtapositions of personalities and political philosophies
as if communism were the purist opposite of democracy,
as if economic crisis wasn’t the bastard baby of trickle down theory.
Nice & Loud now, just like you rehearsed it!
Then for shock value, you gotta flip it and reverse it…
Peep this: When I say “Call,”
you all say, “Response.”
Call! Response! Call! Response! Call!
Amazing Grace, how sweet the-
Stop in the middle of a song that everyone knows and loves.
‘Cause no matter what your volume is now,
for quality purposes, it HAS to get louder.
Because this is how you write a political poem
and how you deliver it with power.
There’s no time to waste!
So you have to speed through your words as if your craft was better understood when written with haste
Corruption doesn’t have a curfew,
greed doesn’t give a damn about your bloody color hue.
And the Los Angeles Police Department
is filled with people who wear guns on their hips
carry metal badges pinned over their hearts.
and drip melanin remnants from their slow talkin’ lips
Injustice isn’t injustice it’s just in us as we are just in it.
Have them thinking that your lexicon is sick
Say something that makes people uncomfortable to sit with.
‘Cause everyone knows if you want to get the message accross,
you have to be louder.
Because this is how you write a political poem
and how you deliver it with power.
That’s the only alienation of this alien nation
in which you either fight for freedom
or
resolve to be classified as free and dumb!
Nice, nice & Loud now, for all of the slow ones.
Reiterate your genius for those who missed the last line.
Reminds feeble minds that you’re potential political mastermind
(on paper)
Say: I have seen the disintegration of gentrification
and can speak with great articulation
about cosmic constellations, and atomic radiation.
Even though your green ears would prefer I remain lady-like,
hush up, and submit to this eternal damnation that’s bound to come my way since I opened my trap and all ya’ll prayed I’d stop..
but I won’t 
.
‘Cause by the time I get to the end of this poem it won’t matter anymore.
You invited the idea in the minute you opened the door
So just lower your lids & voice, and end by saying:
the same line three times,
the same line three times,
the same line three times.
See now that you’re softer, your whisper speaks volumes
Trust in your words – look at their faces, notice the taste has gone sour
And that, my friends, is how you write a political poem
and how you deliver it with power.
Inspired by Taylor Mali
Filed under: Portfolio
Chapter 1
If ballpoint pen were the most honest utensil, hypothetically speaking, it would bleed truth. Hopefully, if properly exploited, it would stain every canvas it encountered with the memoirs of an ancestral past; the black pools forbidden to seep from lips, thus relegated to flood a writer’s space much like this. An object, which carries more proverbial weight than my last name, this pen has trickled down our lineage, somehow finding its way into my possession. And so the torch has been passed. Before you know, the echoed rocking chair creaks that reverberate off the living room walls will keep time to the tunes of the family fables I’ll re-tell to future generations. Those stories are richer than any aged ink from any ballpoint pen, even a family heirloom. One such treasured tale is a story, after hearing it for 20 years, whose meaning I just recently comprehended. A story weighted down with the burden of complex societal stigmas and color isms: The story of my maternal grandfather and grandmother’s marriage.
David Leroy Hopkins was of chocolate hue. Fortunately, for the maintenance of his psyche, post WWII America viewed him, aesthetically, the same way he viewed himself, a Black man. Like most African Americans of his era, he was forced to function in a society that restricted his freedoms because of his pigmentation, a practice, he foresaw, would never change. At first glance, you would assume Loretta Primas to be of European decent, however, bloodline would prove she was an African American woman who had the ability to “pass” for White. She was the direct beneficiary of generations of strategic weddings and unifications, perfectly planned to ensure that each generation of offspring have a lighter skin color than the previous, in order to uphold the façade, so they’d live a life less burdened than their ancestors. It was expected that this social practice be continued, because, as they saw it, racial stigmas were embedded into society, so theirs would be too.
When David and Loretta’s worlds collided and they fell in love, a rift was created amongst their families. David’s decision to marry and start a life with Loretta was categorized as assimilation, and frowned upon by his family.
“Why would he subject himself to such scrutiny? Was he not comfortable just being in his place?” they pondered.
Much like David’s kin, Loretta’s family viewed her decision to marry a, visibly, Black man as a deliberate attack and blatant disregard for the years of “work” put forth to ensure she have the most comfortable lifestyle a Negro could have.
“Does she not appreciate her privilege? Why would she taint our Primas pedigree?” they would ask.
And so, in the name of preserving and upholding the ideals of love, in its purist form, they wed, and were blessed with 3 beautiful daughters.
Two generations later, this story was first told to me to preface the treatment my parents predicted I’d receive from our community as a result of my “in between” hue. As predicted, beginning at age 5, I was forced to construct an answer to the “What are you?” and “What are you mixed with??” questions. After years of repeating a watered down, simple version of this story, I found it most helpful to adopt the practice of writing my feelings. It was only through the realization of the power of words that I was able to fully comprehend the power and importance of the story I had been told since I was a little girl, and why it was more worthy of oral tradition than ballpoint ink, even the ink of a family heirloom.
Filed under: As Seen On Stage
Yesterday, I told myself we’d be in love in 5 years.
Completely head over heels,
cuddled watching classic coultrain reels,
metamorphasized into one soul, excited to grow old.
Translucently keen, embrionically pristine,
divinely endowed, prancing down the avenue to the tune of our own wedding vows.
We’d be in love.
You’d trace back conversations to yester’s day -
when attention, henceforth, never paid so much mind.
When you hushed my isms behind and lost your footing;
your lips were soft and buzzed trains of criss-crossed tracks
but your eyes tattled long before your mouth could hault your heart from falling..
for me. That would be love.
Never more on time or delayed than the metro,
I’d trust my soul to go with our flow..
nomadically mobile, no matter the weather.
And as we’d wade in the tides of our bond,
we’d let our toes be washed by the irony of the double entendre we’d conjoured up…
The District – with your intrinsically fortuitous structures,
seeping of aged character, wise beyond our years,
and your whisper winds that tickle my ears with tales of possibilities.
Fortunate fables of if – then’s & maybe’s..
If only time would stop in this place,
then maybe we’d cohabitate the same space & be moving at the same pace.
We’d win this love race… in 5 years,
you’re going to love me just like I love you.
Just like I had found my fit.
Even if just for a moment.
Just like yesterday, we’d be in love.
Filed under: As Seen On Stage
I remember when we used to match up our palms
it was our “sister sealing” of sorts…
And throughout all of our childhood qualms
friends who sailed in and out of our ports
Humbled, we were, at our longevity within.
like our shadows, our prints followed suit:
even our life-lines were twins.
from bedtime stories to saturday morning specials,
our elementary worries seemed to never leave
those thick black lines you coaxed me to never stay in and
I impressed upon you would define… us.
Every tune you giggled with glee,
I gladly “haha”ed its melodic harmony..
a chorus we were to sing our porus souls to rest.
and yes, alas, we grew up to fast -
but there you were, right there to hold my hand..
such a burdoned soul never failed to understand.
not a whisper on behalf of my deep dark secrets -
nare hesitation or asked questions to account for where the in between years went, seldom lived with the least amount of regrets.
neither of us had the answer key,
as to why hell swept through and mangled this ones self esteem.
perhaps maybe a cheat sheet would have prevented a repeat
of the tale Momma engraved in our memory…
single, black female, sexually abused, emotionally discrete, and intillectually obsolete.
nonetheless, our memories seemed to suggest that
whatever I lacked you took it in stride -
my prayer sister by my side.
Tough enough to get through it.
A unit.
A 2-bit.
And maybe I’m guilty for being the worry wart -
a little bit.
Its just, when our carbon copies were filled with
mismatched scuffles and discolored water prints
and they scanned the persona I’d grown to love as you
and proved the story you spewed to be illegit I paniced.
Somehow not calmed by your routine smile, wink, & nonchalant “don’t trip”.
No reply but a kiss on the cheek.
It became clear our beautiful blemishes
could no longer be portrayed as mild and meek.
SO in a moment of desperation, I ran outside to see if our shadows had come home. Wary, had I known the dusk now owned the last of your familiar curves.
In an attempt to calm my nerves my hands grew a conscience
and tried to find your fingertips to hold -
Time (& you) had outgrown our mold.
And now I fear its this cognizance that will get old.
Perhaps,maybe now, I should bottle up your shadow to hold..
For I’ve heard life-lines grow short when palms are weathered and cold.
Filed under: As Seen On Stage
I reside in far too many places.
Relied on the kisses of too many lipless faces.
Collected more widgets and doo-hicky thingies
Morphed my storage area to cram all of my love letters
they co-signed & I wrote to me.
echoed caves and empty heart-shapes know my name.
And my claim to fame is this gaping space
If only I was so simple to have left Hansel & Gretel droppings to trace.
So you could save face and join the humpty dumpty search party
paste me back together,
and credit your contribution to the “Left Behind” race.
all these little pieces have lost their place in line
and in turn, amidst the quintessence floating around in my mind,
I’m still plagued by this vacancy, my symptoms temporarily benign.
so in essence, little pieces are left behind, thus I flood this writers space.
Little pieces.. little pieces..
I’m a mosaic of little pieces.
Each individually sealed and time stamped
and if you would be so kind help me find them a home
I know our records are behind, but
I promise to keep that in mind
when I decide if I’ll collect the piece I leant to you
After all that happened in summer’s June
I would hate, for those issues to spring up and fall amongst the pile
of little pieces that I must sift through.
Have you seen the one that’s shaped like you?
I suppose maybe some fluff quickie filler
or that crafty elmers glue might do
but that space just isn’t the same without your face.
Like a fool I’ve reserved that place, still.. buffed out your embossed name
so it shines like new
amidst the hoge-poge collage of pieces I’ve yet to sift through.
Cause, see, here’s the problem:
None of them fit.
And I wish I could just stop searching
But my pride won’t let me quit.
Little pieces… Little pieces..
I’m an assortment of other people’s pieces
for since I can recall I’ve generously given out my own
And now that I’m grow – ing their absence is disheartening.
its becoming increasingly hard to clog these gaps from leaking.
I’ve only got 2 hands and my feet have got to remain kicking.
Heaven forbid I give up and succumb to this feeling..
I might lose my most treasured part of my being -
This hoge-poge assorted mosaic collection of priceless space fillers
called pieces.. my little pieces.
Filed under: As Seen On Stage
This is the day that gave way to this scent of atonement,
the moment, the hour, this powerful stint,
reminiscent, the minute, this second would mend it
should bend it, light spectrums display my color at last.
And as I flipped through my memory
reviewed the lessons daddy taught to me
all the ink on the pages,
how history portrayed us,
I’ve come to the conclusion this juncture forever alters that display &
Today… I will cry.
tears more vibrant than red and blue..
tear-droplets of diplomatic dew.
Tears that run down chocolate cheeks and leave clear non-partisan lines
that Sojourn’s Truth drew, its our turn to break through.
Today my tears will be tears of JOY..of accomplishment.
That indestructible line we were forced to walk behind,
I will cry today, because my fingerprint helped to dent it.
And the price that was paid so this road could be paved
For the first time in my life I believe it was time well spent.
Today, my tears will fill footprints of ancestors past
trace paths, flow over ignorance
transcend political diligence
and soak deep, obstructing the ways in which
we’ve learned to become complacent in
this moment, this hour, this minute, this second
of this day and today… I will cry.
To purge my uni-color toxins,
Rain out prejudiced bush doctrines
Embrace the place reserved for me in society.
and float in this baptismal pool
its finally cool… to be Black and be Black.
Mascara life-lines, sprint away from diamond eyes
Today, I will cry, my heart laden with pride
And when status-quo offers up a tissue
I’ll reply “no-no” the flow will subside.
Please know that despite this victory,
count on me to proudly display the scars on my side.
May they scream and convert all societal stigmas to hide.
For my tears, although bright and loud,
Sometimes reside to silent strides on bus rides.
And maybe if I cry enough,
it’ll push state divisiveness to be replaced by collective will.
Or maybe just a few ducts full can transform cynicism to real trust.
And in the spirit of lust, repetitive headlines of this exclamatory victory
tend to love me ’till the wheels fall of and all of my hinges rust.
These tears have a mind of their own,
And damn it, since I’m grown,
Today, I’m going to cry.
But don’t be proud of me, for I am only clenching a part of what is MINE.
So I’d advise you clench your part, too.
We owe this to all those whose names we speak and shadows we mirror.
Whose big shoes we flop around in, playing hide and seek games
insisting the victor be a martyr and all participants shall fear her.
And whether society signs this moment’s permission slip,
Know that these tears are also for those whose legacies we tend (minus the pre) to omit.
So maybe future generations might reflect on this water print
place their finger tips on the edge of it
and relive this this moment, and the minute, to the second, of the hour
of the day when I cried.
Filed under: As Seen On Stage
I love Me enough for the both of us
trust, its just my Big thing.
In spite of your judgmental nature
and piercing words that define your stature
A Big coping-mechanism of sorts is to blame..
Something to best explain why
your face contorts when I stand before you.
B I G
Maybe its my size that intimidates you
My extreme curves and chocolate thighs
make you look twice and
think your thoughts through.
Have you hypothesizing what it’d feel like
to be inside of my Big, hypnotizing
mind & things ..
seems like you’ve got some Big explaining to do
I’m far different from the image depicted
on the silver screen
A sliver of society’s magazine pin-up wet dream
Seems its proved to be problematic
You write my name with only what your eyes have seen
Automatic-ally
B I G
And even though its not my job
to fill all your potholes & shit
I guess you assumed
all my excess thick would do the trick..
But Big intellect is not wearable, honey.
Try that on for size.
The irony of a Big girl possessing more
swag than you do is unbearable..
I know, it can’t be true.
And when my Big mouth met your open ears,
I know the depth of my Big vocabulary
was too much for you to handle.
You play pretend like my Big presence
doesn’t make you uncomfortable.
Like this room isn’t big enough for
me, you & your chauvinistic ego
Little do you know, relationships they come, they go
But I still remain here.. Proudly
B I G
I despise the way you look at me
as if your stare isn’t see-thru,
But I know your story so well,
I could recite it back to you.
If I had a nickel for every time
I ran over a superficial fuck like you,
I’d have collected enough dimes
to fill up the space occupied by this
one-of-a-kind behind, combined
with enough residual to change your
cadaverous mind
into appreciating Big beauty..
Soak it up.
