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Previously, someone asked if I worried that some of my pictures would discredit or prevent me from being invited to speak to certain audiences and in certain venues. My response was simple: If I'm rejected or looked over because of my photographs, then that's not the type of space I want to frequent anyway. I am a multifaceted person. A woman of duality. I'm comfortable in my sex and speak candidly about it. And I will not hide any part of the self I've fought long and hard to learn, accept and evolve in to just to be accepted by a certain audience. Take all of me or get nothing. It's just that simple. -Jus A Black-Brown Gurl From No Where Doin Thangs 
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sometimes, I think WOMAN is the closest I will ever get to heaven So, forgive me if I praise her skin drown in the shades of her heart beat sing her blues on every stage like it’s a pulpit How can I not appreciate her war? See scripture at her gates? Woman got lessons They hang on her hips Get stirred into her pots They pop off her lips between profanity and prayer Even her “fucks” are soaked in starlight Dear woman- You supernova shit talking in your glory You are one of the reasons I still believe in God  I love like
dreaming while I'm awake like that first taste of Hip Hop like dope boys love corners that don't love them like school girls hold their first crush like flying in a world of gravity like black girl loves black boy or black girl like the first poem that didn't know it was a poem like I'll make beautiful of these scars I love like I love like I love like I ain't neva been broken I got a collection a collection of still shots in my heart
Moments of breaking and of making Most of them are labled with some version of "not again" or "is it safe here?" Self says I don't know Heart says It's been safe here They were just not safe IN here So, every day Me, Self and Heart collectively decide to continue to love We just keep the still shots as a reminder that it's not safe to let everyone in But, just like heaven, I find it odd that this gate is even necessary Do you know tired?
Ever tasted it after a memory slipped like bile up in your throat? Ever felt it tap you on shoulder and make you crumble? Hell is the way tired convinces you that you are exhausted with living When your reflection betrays you and looks like all the THEM that left and broke you on their way out of the door It is the miscarriage of love and love's stillbirth Tired is victim being accused of playing victim But they don't know tired They don't hear it no matter how loud it screams They only recognize it after you're tired enough to finally leave There is purpose in my next breath
The survival of it The smile and grit behind it The way it sips graveyard whiskey without getting drunk on the death of the grain How it teaches me not to apologize for my living My next breath is the ongoing poem I can't stop writing And I know it will end one day I just hope it's noteworthy enough for someone to remember me I want to hold you like sacred space
Like the prayers of the little girl I used to be before life made miracles seem impossible I want to kiss you like hopeful Like the anything I believed in before humanity taught me how to bleed Can I just be the need you actually want The lover that doesn't turn into a memory of regret I don't want to be a memory, but I want to be a part of them I want to be the someone behind your smile The dancer you share moonlight with Let's make love the stage our hearts will applaud at the climax of forever And we will perform the encore for the rest of our lives She is wasting away Folding into herself Both wrists smiling crimson with the sunrise She whispers goodnight to the darkness To the empty bed that speaks too much of her future But her bones… They won’t be still They creep out of their closets and seep through her skin They tumble into her mouth and tell strangers her secrets She tells them how she crumbles in silence How she cries sometimes at the sight of a new day She is exhausted with the struggle to breathe to live instead of existing to love when it hurts She- A broken levee with her heart gutted like corpse A Y tattooed into her chest She- A love poem without a poet around to write her down so she pours out metaphors in her sleep praying the devil won’t hear them She doesn’t want him as an audience to her life because he is so judgmental to her faults And, sometimes, that makes her second guess her skin Which makes her feel sinful since she is questioning the way God made her But if He wanted her to be different, why didn’t He make her different? Why make her so prone to madness? Why make her so easy to bleed? Why make next breath and desire to live so hard to reach? Why give her dreams that can’t manifest? Most days, it all seems so senseless A relentless voyage to emptiness and mortality And the only time she gets a peek at immortality is through her pen So despite the death that haunts her waking moments, she breathes through ink through page All in an attempt to not let her hopes waste away So she fights through prose, love, madness and glimpses of sanity just to make it through another day in this world of lost souls and humanity It is her best attempt at survival and living #waste #mortality #immortality #yeyodapoet #melanieyeyocarter #anticsofapoet #diaryofadayumpoet |
Author"I am a LIFE REPORTER, but for short, you can simply call me a poet." Archives
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