No Qualms with Who She is

The image of beauty is one that I have trouble to see,

for when it’s presented, it never looks like me.

It’s never the girl who holds her comics in her hands,

yet we idolize and minimize the girl who chooses to dance.

My dark skin and features are presented as less than,

yet those with fair skin is expected to tan.

The image of beauty never looks like me,

but attaining said beauty is impossible to see.

Very few women are treated as they should,

even if they’re from the suburbs or the hood.

My culture are my roots, my experiences the trunks that stands

and my curls and coils are the flowers that flutter in my hands.

As a black woman in this society; I’ve had to learn this:

I have to be a woman with no qualms with who she is.

But I’m not the only woman who needed to know self love;

for women of all races beauty isn’t a one size fits all glove.

From deep complexion to fair or from thick to thin;

women should have no qualms with the beauty within.

Haikus and Poems about Everything and Nothing

I’m completely drained from finals week, which is still going on mind you. The combination of ten to twenty page papers is leaving me tired and stress. But, I still want to upload this week, so I figured I’d challenge myself and write a few poems using the daily prompt, mostly haikus because I’m not as well versed in writing them.

A Course Called Life

An obstacle course,

It’s spiked layout is painful.

Life always is, though.

The Hedgehog’s Dilemma

Strangers stay at bay.

But friends can’t touch the long spikes.

A sad dilemma.

Spiked with “Happiness”

She spikes her drink with a little bit of happiness,

making a drink that guides her to a blurry abyss.

Maybe ‘happiness’ doesn’t quite fit.

She closes her eyes, to forget his wit,

That tussled brown hair, and manipulative smile.

She squints her eyes as the table grows by a mile.

She pours more happiness, the smell so strong.

She feels wetness in her eye, everything feels wrong.

The abandoned ring on the table leaves a heaviness in her heart.

She desperately wants to calm down, but doesn’t know where to start.

The spiked happiness does little to quell her pain,

the stream of tears leaving a bitter stain.

 

 

The Beautiful Thing I Never Heard of

What’s it like, to know something so beautiful?

To see this beauty that twists like silk ,

in a gentle breeze that still takes your breath away?

It’s so beautiful, yet has a name I can’t speak,

for it’s the beautiful thing I never heard of.

I’ve seen glimpses; it’s radiance hard to miss.

I can see how it touches the people around it;

how it caresses those safe in its embrace.

I see a man and a woman wrapped in that beauty;

how they sit oh so close with bright smiles.

I see two women also in that embrace;

fingers- interlocked, the glow of that embrace ever present.

I even see two men in that omniscient embrace;

their radiance mingling with the familiar beauty.

Familiar in denotation, but not familiar to me.

Is this beauty friendship? Is it love?

I don’t know, for I haven’t heard of it.

I can only stare in confusion and another burning emotion.

What’s it like; to be in love?

 

Succulents

Fingers brushed against stark white sheets.

She laid against her bed, letting them tangle with her feet.

Kicking the blankets off, she let her toes touched the floor;

closing her eyes to inhale a scent, one that she adored.

Earth; a smell that didn’t really fit the room’s aesthetic.

With the whites, the polaroids and an aura that was magnetic.

She decorated her room with various amounts of foliage.

There were glass terrariums with Earth’s beautiful image.

She padded her way to her off- white night stand,

brushing against the succulents with the palm of her hand.

The surface of the white pot was in contrast with the inside.

She brushed her fingers the bristled plant and the dirt that tried to hide.

The Earthy residue from the plant stuck to her fingertips.

Looking down at the succulents, a smile tugged at her lips.

 

 

 

The End

Day #30: Write a poem titled “The End” that isn’t about death, a break up or the apocalypse.

The words I have written took me ten years,

through countless setbacks and quite a few tears.

From being overwhelmed, to filled with pride.

From it being my first priority, to pushing it to the side.

For days upon weeks upon months upon years,

I’ve worked to push through all of my fears.

As I type the last few word, I can’t help but smile.

I close the word program and stare at the file.

I see the title of my novel on the screen.

Even though my cheeks hurt, I continue to beam.

After ten long years, it’s finally the end.

I open the email to my agent and press send.

I lean back in my chair, feeling my heart flutter.

After sharing a piece of my heart I can simply mutter,

“It’s over.” That’s true, it is the end.

But I feel nothing but happiness, with a still apparent grin.

My novel is finally done even through all the fanfare

This has been a dream of mine  that I’m so proud to share.

 

Wow, this thirty day challenge has been an amazing journey! I’ve gotten to expand my style, and I’m so happy that I stuck through this! And though I haven’t finished my novel in its entirety, but I have finished the first draft! But I can’t wait til I reach a point where this poem is my reality.

 

 

 

 

Flowers of my Regret

Day #27: Write a poem from the POV of a bride about to say “I do”. Gradually reveal that she is having “cold feet” and regretting this engagement. Throughout your poem, repeat a line that describes the ceremony’s decorative flowers. This can be your first/ last line.

The hydrangeas are a magnificent mix of blue, pink and white.

Along the ceiling and the banisters were my chosen fairy lights

Each ivory decorative curtains allowed gentle sun rays to seep in.

The hall that I began to walk down was long and thin.

My dress clung to me in the most flattering of ways.

My hair fell along my exposed shoulders in full chestnut waves.

I look to my father and can see tears as he tries to keep his composure.

With both of our families staring at me, I feel all of the exposure.

I stare forward again to see the groom- my  husband?

Yes, he’s to be my husband; I even remember the engagement band.

He gave me a band instead of a ring, something that I never objected.

But as I step closer to him and our wedding party, I begin to feel dejected.

I stand in front of him, but his  vows fall on deaf ears.

Vows tumble out of my mouth, and I can feel heavy tears.

He smiles at me sweetly, believing my tears are not sad.

But as my stomach twists and turns, I start to feel bad.

I don’t know how to tell him of this heavy regret and this plight.

My legs are shaking and I think back on the engagement that night.

When he got down on one knee, I felt my heart sink,

from the cheers and the applause I could barely think.

Similar to then, I wanted to turn tail and run.

But all of my viable solutions were reduced to none.

The hydrangeas are a magnificent mix of blue, pink and white.

When he slips the ring on my finger, my throat feels tight.

I don’t know what to do, and my head is painfully swimming.

I force myself to smile as he stares at me, bright eye brimming.

This man, means so much to me, and yet this feeling won’t subside,

and under the exposing glare of everyone present there’s nowhere for me to hide.

The hues of the hydrangeas leave a heaviness in my heart.

I walk down the hall, knowing my life of regrets is about to start.

 

 

 

 

I’ll Get There Someday

Day #22: Write a 150 words of poetic prose in which every other sentence is one word.

 

Each word I write is beauty to me.

Art.

Each new achievement strengthens my craft.

Progress.

I have so much to learn, so much to achieve.

Perseverance.

The words that I write come from my heart.

Love.

Someday, my words will reach others.

Connection.

I want, more than anything, to create stories.

Creativity.

And I want my stories to touch others’ hearts.

Goals.

Being an author is what I really want.

Dreams.

I know that there’s a lot that I need to go through.

Obstacles.

But I know I’ll get there.

Someday.

One day my words, my art, my spirit will be bared to all.

Vulnerable.

But that vulnerability helps open me to others.

Expression.

This art is my connection to you.

Friendship.

I hope as you read my words, you understand my craft.

Together.

I’ll get there someday, and I hope to see you there.

Appreciation.