What kind of writer are you?
The dark corner with acidic tears
Cracked floorboard ready to collapse
Ghost writer in the booth
What kind of writer are you?

I have been searching for a way out but I haven't changed my route. I am still writing what and feel and the way I know best, through poetry. Although I feel comfortable with this method there is still this part of me reaching to find the perfect line. That line that everyone feels and has said to themselves once upon on a time but it still has a profound effect. A statement that in its simplicity captures a lifetime of wide smiles and heavy frowns. I want to give myself fully to the fruitful world. I don't want to pick from the apple tree but I want to plan coconut trees.
For those of you who are consistent followers of mine, I hope that you continue to follow my work. I am inconsistent and a sporadic busy body but I would like to still stay connected with you. I will try my best to post poems when the shaking of my hand touches the page.
I got  Tumblr and still don't post or keep it up consistently. ha!

I was asked to write a podcast on diversity for my Change, innovation, and Impact course. The issue I choose to write about has recently surfaced through interactions with a close friend. I hope by posting this, a conversation can begin that is truthful and engaging. I will not give you a summary before hand so with that being said, read and comment! 

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When many think of culture they see race and color but for me culture is much more than this. I think that the word diversity expounds upon what it means to exist in union with different forms of people. 

I remember coming to America and there was this preconceived notion about a world called foreign by many Jamaicans. When I arrived I was taken by the sights and lights that blinked in front of my eyes. There were people everywhere and it was so congested. After a few months I began to adjust but I still felt out of place. I can remember the coming of Black history month and I think that the month of February is what always sticks with me when I think about diversity. In Jamaica I have no recollection of Black being a main identifier; upon being present in America I did not see myself as black. I believe that I assumed that being Jamaican encompassed being Black and African- American.

In my later adolescent years I began to realize that there were multiple ways of identifying one’s self. There were Asian-Americans, Native-Americans, and etc. yes, I learned of all this in my schooling but it wasn’t as apparent as the way it was when I arrived in the states. I began to become a form of blackness that I observed in my neighborhood; this was the struggling single parent household and Jordan wearing young women. This way of seeing the world was not one that was allowing me to understand who I was and why I felt so excluded. I was called an Oreo and many assumed that I was assimilating to a white culture. I am in no way putting the blame of my own self expression onto those in my community but highlighting a lack of understanding. My association to Blackness was not based on the immense love I felt for my community but the struggle I examined.  Though this may have not been the right way to identify with those that I looked like, I am now able to look back and see all that different shades of my people. These shades aren’t just limited to race but so many other forms of being. With that being said, all I could see was the assortment of color, not who people were. My mom does not call herself Black, she calls herself Jamaican. It hurts me to know that the men and women who share such a distinct history with me aren’t engaging in storytelling with me. I want to know what it is like to be a Black American and I would like the chance to tell what it is like to be a Jamaican woman in America.

My analysis of self shows a misunderstanding of the world that can keep culture intact but also cause a separation within another. I am in between two hurt cultures trying to find a middle group for love and rehabilitation.

I am a black Jamaican, Maroon, African-American searching for who I am, not based on the color of my skin but my experiences. Please do not judge me, let's speak.

Here to Stay

November has been the last time I have posted something. I have however been finding more truth in my words. I currently attending school in Greensboro, I may or have not have mentioned this before. I have had the chance to hear some amazing poetry. The form of storytelling that slam takes on in the 'Boro, has been very significant in my quest to move from seeing slam as a horrible breakup in one essence. I able to find that middle ground between theatrical and humane. I will soon post some of my new writings and as always, thanks for continuing to read my many tales.

I have seen empty bodies roaming the streets like left over Chef Boyardee
Layers of meat and flesh sliding alongside one another
And no matter how hard I try to prepare the meal there are some parts that stick to the side of the bowl like names on side walks and candle wax in between dripping on fresh flowers because this one is an early death
The smell of tomato sauce escapes me like the first time I saw snow and labor day when the bloc used to resemble home
Flags waiving from street signs ans light post
not a speck of red white, and blue
The beat of our hearts drumming folk songs and correcting our mistakes
We once used drums and campfire silhouettes to deliver obligations
Now we confine one another to metal bars and stack ourselves in the middle passage
We don't know how to be humans and I don't blame you

Don't let the world package you like something microwavable
Your spirit is too vast to be seen through a hole
They still wonder how it is that when thrown into something you don't own you can still burn like fire
Warn the world that your shadow is trying to escape your body to remind your spirit that there is a home hiding in your rib cage
Do not bound your hands across you body when the air in your lungs traps the sound in your voice like a whupping cushion
You are a human
Fighter
Triumph
You are love

Your dark hands release from the pockets of air kept in the corner of the block
Embrace her shoulders standing tall like pillars and drop the pistol 

LOOK OUT FOR THE MIXTAPE!!!

I think this comes close to reflecting my current state of writing

I want to make it through the mazes in my heart w/o hitting a wall

Graffiti my insecurities in the pavement

It should be a crime to not feel beautiful

Like Enough

To doubt

I keep trying to write something perfect

Perfection hides the truth

Suppresses the depression

Living a divided life

I hate it when my feelings don’t reflect my actions

I want to say something without meaning something different

10 things I want to say to a Black woman

Cornel West and Al Sharpton

I agree with Cornel West when he addresses the hesitantion many are hold in terms of challenging Obama because he is Black; however I also agree with Al Sharpton that there is a fear inside many of those people. I see both issues of fear and race as interconnected themes.

The silence in me

There is a stammering silence inside of me
Repeating to itself mistakes with deep breaths of exhaustion
[puh]
There is a separation in my throat and the words are stifling itself
Is the life I have been living my own
Is it one that covers my indiscretions and disappointments

The silence tells me who I am so I choose to speak
I choose to block that heart that beats
The nervous feeling that takes me on a path to freedom
[puh]
I am living through my frustrations
I am forced to confront things
If there are no problems where does my purpose lie

I am often faced with this silence in increments
While I'm running through the woods
[Not for fun]
Rolling my neck in the shower
And the awkward moment that I try saying my prayers and then the worries of the world begin to invade my mind
I think the the light sometimes enters my body

I am silent
The silence is speaking
I am silent