the island {part 1}

{a piece of a work in progress}

The kitchen wasn't clean enough. True, Martine had forgotten to dust the shelves, but she never thought Joseph would notice—when had he ever needed to go up there for anything?

He'd left after dinner, probably to play dominoes with friends. Shaking, she forced herself to stand up and begin the routine of slowly running her hands over her face, assessing the damage.

She started with her forehead—sore, but dry. Her fingers traced her right eye. Ok, but she winced as she touched her left. Another black eye. And her bottom lip was starting to swell. She ran a fingertip across it and ran into a nasty clot forming on the right side. Looking back at the corner she'd fallen into, she noticed red splotches on the tile. Must have been his ring.

She thought about crying, went numb instead. What would be the point? Still, she'd need to wash her face before dealing with the mess Joe had made...



i cannot be contained.
my body twists, turns,
snuggles into hidden spaces,
coiled upon itself for warmth
and safety.

my natural state is silence.

if you hear me,

i cannot be subdued.
instead, i hide in plain sight.

my battles are wisely chosen,
but wisdom
is not weakness.

my voice is a terrible warning. 
my true weapons:

i see you.

i smell you.

i know you:
your soft spots,
your armor.

i know
where to strike.

and i rarely miss.


handle my
see thru
with care



as i drove
the sun kissed my left cheek

smiled sadly.

thought about our ruins
the baby that didn't stay...


the reasons why the season means so much
and so little.

moved on.
pushed through.




to hear myself
over all the noise...



finally, something
to thank you for: you forged my
steel. made me stronger.

lapsed lutheran

i dreamt of taking communion...something i haven't done for over 20 years.

the thumbed cross on my forehead;
chalky wafer steeped in dry wine that stings my nose.

a moment of peace, solidarity, reflection.

i walked out of the sanctuary with a communion wafer filled baggie.

they were all pre-wined and, somehow, puffed up. like cheese curls. 

i munched happily on them as i walked...it all seemed perfectly normal...



even my angels
carry flaming swords. you might
want to watch your step.


sacrifice {part 2}

the visions of the temples returned.

so many men, so many lifetimes.

again and again i was desired...sought after.  sometimes loved.  

the men were both redeemed and redeemers.  no judgment of me, no pretense.  only respect, pleasure.

i was so intertwined with them that solitude became sensual; an opportunity to rest firmly within my own body without calling on the Goddess to heal or consult.  my personal space was more defined, more precious.

the adornments kept me in constant awareness of my movement.  every step mattered, every gesture.

i walked in power.

i was a sacrifice, yes.  but never a martyr.  there was nothing pitiful or sad about my service.

this knowledge, these visions, are empowering and frustrating all at once.  sexuality has been defiled and the spirit of woman stifled.  now, offering my body as community property would be disastrous.   

still, i am not "alone".  my lovers live within me, and they are innumerable.

they hold me in the empty spaces...still praising, still grateful.


sacrifice {part 1}

i am
the holy whore,
redfoot woman.

i can still see the henna;
brass and gold sing as i walk--
ankles, feet, neck and crown
heavy with adornments.

always full
of my own

quenching thirst,
cleansing souls.

i have laid upon the altar,
gave and gave;
conceived children of god
deep within myself
greeting them with fruit and incense
upon conception.

i have always known my place.

now, men fear
rather than respect;

no one teaches them anymore
no one leads them.

...yet they come.
drawn to the old ways
with numbed tongues
and far deeper wounds
than my  hands can heal.

i am qadishtu,
a woman alone in her tent;
snow maiden,
daughter of het heru;
lightning for eyes,
honey for thighs.

nearly alone
this lifetime.

nearly forgotten...

but unable
to fade away.


nanowrimo notes...

well, i gave it a shot.

it's likely the 50K goal will not happen, even with a four day weekend. but i am setting a personal goal of at least 25K by november 30th, which i think is well within reach.

instead of a novel, this may wind up getting cut up into several short stories that i can serialize here.

this exercise has shown me that i am probably not a novel writer.  at minimum, novel writing demands a level of focus that my life does not allow me at the moment.  

in general, i've learned that creative writing winds up sending me down some huge highway: i know where i'm going, but there are so many interesting places to see between here and there, i get distracted. as long as i'm dealing with stretches of road, i'm good.  but some of the exits are just too tempting. opening the flow for one set of ideas brings others along for the ride.  sometimes i never finish the original trip. 

this is how i wound up with three blogs.



a flame cannot exist
where there is nothing to consume.

that must be why
this feels like starving.



i started to write
but only loneliness came out
so i stopped.


nanowrimo notes...

from the latest pep talk by kristin:

Listen. Learning to write 50,000 words means learning a whole pile of skills, but they're learnable skills, and you learn them by writing. One of those skills is finding your own technique for dealing with all the voices that are constantly telling you, in one way or another, what a bonehead you are and how bad you are at this and how doomed your project is. I'm not saying don't listen to the voices. Go ahead and listen to them— if you try to ignore them, sometimes they only scream louder. I'm only saying, don't believe them— and, most importantly, don't let them decide how you spend your day. Maybe laugh and give them a hug and say to them, "Yes, you're sad and lonely and desperate for my attention, aren't you? Well, thank you for visiting; stay as long as you need to; but, by the way, I think we're going to have to agree to disagree. Because I know I can do this, and, as it happens, you can't stop me. Want to sit with me at my desk while I show you what I mean?"

they sure know what to say...

i am way, way behind by any stretch of the imagination, although i have logged more words than appear on my counter (haven't updated in some time).

ain't like i've got shit going on. so, there will likely be more writing tonight. we'll see what happens.


nanowrimo notes...

um...15K by monday?

i'm not gonna say i can't, but...that's a tall order.

upside: it's only tuesday. if i can keep kicking out content like i did yesterday afternoon/evening, i might just make it.


nanowrimo notes...

nanowrimo is really a challenge...i'm waaay behind where i'm "supposed" to be, but it was very necessary to have a full and fun weekend.

plot is inching along slowly...new possibilities come to mind like flashes of light.

i may do some freewriting today, email it to myself, and add on when i get home...i don't want to lose this idea that's been brewing the last couple of days.


nanowrimo notes...

skipped a day for nanowrimo. got a case of the blues and they really don't fit into the story...

i do have a scene i could finish up that would add at least a couple hundred words. but the story seems to be shifting itself and i'm not quite sure where its headed.

might wind up clocking some marathon hours over the weekend...



i am reading my own scriptures.


this relationship
illuminated my gift
for creation: if
i did not create it, it
did not exist.


let me...

let me
somewhere beautiful



...if there's an island deep in the south pacific where black women's dreams come true.

it's gotta happen somewhere, right?


prayer to oshun

{shared by oyin}

Give birth to the world, River.
Give birth to the world, Running Stream.

We beg to be full, we beg to be full, we beg to be full.

Teach the head, teach the head, teach the head,
Embrace the head of mothers, make them wise again, wise again, wise again.
Teach the tradition to those who do not know.
Open your arms to women that flee to safety.

My mother, I pay respect, I pay respect, I pay respect.

We shout to your ear, mother.
Come continually mother, be patient and understand us.

Teach worthiness as we honor you on the ground.
We honor you on the ground, we honor you on the ground, we honor you on the ground.
Let our deeds of charity habitually pull you.

My mother, house of tradition.
Queen of the mirror, Queen of Dance,
Queen of Abundance, Queen of Joy, Queen of Health.
My wealth arrives, my wealth arrives, my wealth arrives.

Mother arise, Arise inside of us.
Arise inside, arise inside, arise inside.
Teach us to have understanding.
Help us to be revered Ancestors.

We humble ourselves before you.
You, who give effective treatment to children.
You, who give fertility to people and projects.
You, who are Queen of the river.

Osun, come into my house. Osun, come into my house. Osun, come into my house.

Prayer taken from traditional sources including: The Handbook of Yoruba Religious Concepts, by Baba Ifa Karade, Samuel Weiser, Inc., York Beach, ME, 1994 and John Mason, Orin Ori, Yoruba Theological Archministry, Broolyn, NY, 1992.



i have journeyed back to the deep darkness
the blackness of the womb;
inky nothingness of space...

the beginning.

relegated to the Source:
She who loves Her sons
but gives Her daughters Her secrets;
She's implanted them in our
songs we hum as dish-washing soundtracks
knit into sweaters
slide into soup spoons as we stir

whenever we return,
She asks, "who has harmed you?
and where can I find one so foolish?"

because we give thanks when we are far from home
(She's adept at feeding us from great distances;
we are meant to travel far)
but rarely do we return unless broken.

hearing Her voice, we cease being strong--
if we haven't already--
and pour out our hearts to Her;
we linger, enjoying Mama's bosom,
delighting in Her love
until we are ready to travel again.

we always leave bearing gifts
grander than the ones we gave,
smiling sweetly...sometimes still weeping.
but encouraged, strengthened...

and well aware
that our gracious, wondrous Mother
suffers no fools.


trying to remember...

who i was
who i am
my reality
what i want
my visions
where i'm going
what brings me joy
my smile
my desire
my reason for reincarnating

my dreams
my prayers

my voice...



{birthed jan. 2006}

he says i'm full lately...
becoming womanly.
i feel
heavy with creativity

my babies
lack physical manifestation--
i bear lyrical children
foster positive living environments for metaphors
carry messages on my hips
diplomatically translated
by my inbetween.

i am
more woman now
no need to roar...
returning to the comfort
of womb whispers
and peacock feathers.

my weapons:
earth tones
and bluejeans.

call me boho if u wanna
i was who i was
when erykah wasn't on the radar yet
and india was stll singin in coffeeshops

...hoppin planets
just for fun
ain't too much in my line of sight
worthy of keeping me grounded.

dreams reflected
in diamond sutras
and wide-ruled notebooks...
don't care if you think
i'm perpetuating bullshit
goddess/empress/queen images
unrealistic pussy powers.

complexity is my birthright.

why perpetuate mediocrity?

i am made in the image of

who are you keeping alive?

i am
more woman now

i am


the longing

what follows is a freewrite/stream of consciousness.

i shared it with some close friends a little over a year ago and just re-discovered it. i am releasing it now, slightly edited, because it is still true; because these holes are still deep, aching and open.

because the release is the only thing that has ever truly soothed my soul.  because there are many days when honesty and transparency are all i have.

because my soul is not satisfied.



you don't have to love me
just love my body
need me
like water
like water
drippin' like water

drink me
there is enough to quench any thirst
you've ever had

tease me
please me
i won't beg
...much more

gimme more
savory kisses 
sweet tongue flicks
turn sentences into stutters
with naughty whispered words

use me
for good or ill

all is fair, here, love

you don't have to love me
don't have to love me
need me
savor me
drink me
like water...



i think of you far more often than i should.

your sweetness, clarity of spirit, intelligence and way with words practically compel me to want you.

you bear the water i swim in...

i don't mean to imply it's a forever thing.
i am not the mother of your children or the apple of your eye.

...and i don't need to be.

what i need is a little of your honey rubbed into my sore spots.
i'll return your favors with deep kisses and fire warmth.

...if you like. 
it's up to you.

i won't push this time.  only wait.


tell mama the truth

no, i'm not warm enough.
and i didn't have enough to eat.

i did brush my teeth
and put on clean underwear
...that's the easy part.

but i don't know where i'm going
and i'm not ok...

yeah, i need the money
no, i won't ask.
i'm enough trouble

don't mean to lie,
i'm just not worth the worry.

you're sweet to ask,
i'll get by.



i love dew rainbows.

dewdrops already look like almost-microscopic universes.

the miracle of the sun's kiss forming dazzling little arrays of color is simply poetic.



i will not call you
and cry
even if i want to apologize.

it will have to wait until i can hold it together
breathe between words
maintain composure.

i refuse to allow you
the smallest glimpse into my pain.
you don't deserve even the intention of comforting me.

is that wrong of me?

i have sacrificed too many dreams and too much love
my selfishness is tied to my survival
now, i can give you nothing

use some of the too much you already have
to soothe your conscience or
ease your lonely nights
...if you need it.

my tears keep me company
an aching heart keeps time when we dance

or, i will be...

notes on a sunset

easter pastel palette sky
pink, violet...hint of peach

solitary moon-pearl
opposite tangerine sun
setting fire to skyscraper glass


seen 2

an indio mother or grandmother with three babies.

two toddlers, a boy and a girl. there's a baby on her back, looking both modern and ancient.

baby's in a new school sling overwrapped with a traditionally tied blanket. baby wearing made slightly more convenient. the blanket makes things less sterile, secures in a different way.

i wonder if the babies will grow up here.

what will they keep of their home?

what will they leave behind?

what will be deliberately forgotten?


seen 1

people can be beautiful in the strangest moments.

there's a woman by the window with striking red hair. curly. the sun is coming through the window, and when she runs her hair through it, it's backlit like a stained glass window.

her shirt is royal purple and accents her coloring.

it occurs to me that scenes like this are what cause men to fall in love.


another introduction...

i am a woman who has always defined herself by the words she's put to innumerable pages.

pens are my scalpels and they spill ink blot guts everywhere. they soak the pages i hide throughout every living space i've ever inhabited--not unlike a schizophrenic leprechaun with an unlimited supply of gold.

i will write until i can no longer breathe.

the idea for this space was conceptualized in the middle of a late night, by a self in the process of nourishing, growing, and blossoming herself into the heavenly creature she was born to be.

that ain't easy to do in this here babylon.
but i'm gonna try anyway.


once upon a time

(birthed 8.2007)

can't figure out how to end this...but i wanted to give it some air and see how it sounded...

my past lives flash before my eyes

standing bare-breasted
in the middle of the serengeti
watching lions and zebras walk by
under an impossibly brilliant blue sky
and knowing precisely
who i am...

it's the memory of a lover long gone
children i don't remember having
habits i pick up for an hour...or a day...

always illuminating
some glimmer of my current self
i think of as useless or

reminding me that
without those selves
i couldn't be who i am
speak the stories i hear
dream the same dreams or
wield the same power...

in my mind...

...there are rooms like this

{original here, via here}


what i know

all my life i've been terrified of lightning...
now i want to run into it
channel the heat and light through my own hands

storms bring visits, visitations, voices
the thunder closes its sonic ranks around me...
protective, loving, teaching

goddesses offer comfort, healing spells
and other sweet things
reminding me to take care of myself and remember love.

beyond the loneliness, fear, emptiness and pain
there is freedom, power and strength in my decisions and my dreams.

i have not failed.

i have reset myself in order to renew.
i have released what does not serve my highest good.

once again,
i have shed my skin.


i don't wanna play...

there were
no innocent games of house;
they always went too far,
invading space and emotion.

it was dodgeball, really.
ducking hands and lips
eager to snatch more of my soul.



hello again...

i saw you today,
but you didn't see me.

it's just as well...

knowing this is an affair of the aura
doesn't ease the ache in my chest
or kill the inclination to bury my face in your neck
and go wherever you're going.

to some part of me,
you are walking honey,
a living offering;

i want you
for my altar
to keep the spirits close.

...your smile can do that, you know.

but that wouldn't be fair,
would it?


venus in chains

venus lies waiting

bound by boredom
cruelty and
an absence of pleasure

begging her daughters
for freedom.


moon time musings

i'm always grateful for my moon cycle, but i'm also grateful when it ends.

while i'm bleeding {and for a short time beforehand}, my body seems to belong to the universe.

when i stop, it becomes mine again.

stopping almost exactly in line with the new moon hopefully means that i have successfully shed the old and am renewing in step with the universal clock.

for that, i am grateful.


the garden

{part 1}

My magic is simple, potent. It's not about nonsensical words and rabbits in hats. It's everyday. I wouldn't know how to live without seeing the way I do. In the blood, I guess.

My breakfast conversations as a child revolved around the night's dreams. We worked through them diligently, like homework. I had to know both, be grounded in two worlds: know the herbs in the garden and spelling; long division and the four directions; geometry and the phases of the moon.

Somehow, my folks were blessedly cursed with remembrance. They killed many of us for what we knew. Many of us forgot in order to survive. It was easier to be ourselves quietly, whispering incantations in babies' ears and reciting singsong chants in the kitchen.

My grandmother silently built her garden. Granny flew to Guinea in dreams and came back with special treats. The colors, “accent” pieces—everything had a meaning. There were veves made of pebbles and specially chosen flowers and herbs—every few steps offered a different scent.

It was years before I recognized the altars in my grandmother’s garden and even longer before I knew they were accurately constructed (for example, the Virgin in the grotto wasn't the Virgin at all, and there was a reason Granny meticulously shaded her face and hands in cafe au lait craft paint). The spirits spoke to her, and she listened. Often she'd wait for a message to repeat as confirmation.

She'd let me work in the sections devoted to my guides. There were some places we could not enter at all. Even my mother knew better. She didn't have to tell visitors, either; they just knew. Strangers would gravitate to particular spots and ignore others.

The church women were intrigued and repelled at the same time. Some became significantly less sanctified after spending an hour or two in Granny’s garden. The change was quiet, nothing dramatic. It just seemed that, over several weeks, they felt less and less of the Spirit in the sanctuary and started building their own gardens. Some spent more hours in the kitchen, giving away wondrous dinners, cakes or pies. Sometimes it was knitting or sewing. Some came back to the garden—same spot—for more inspiration. Others only needed one afternoon. Some found magical men and went away. Others dreamed of Nigeria. Or Benin. More went south—Louisiana, Miami. They'd heard there was more of that garden there.

The church women talked about 'em, then cajoled, then pleaded the Blood. Some went back to church, albeit a little less devoted. Most, if they'd truly been touched by the flowers, never did.

Granny was on the “sick and shut in” list at the church, even though she was neither. The women showed up a few times a month, always in pairs, like good missionaries. They would ask Granny about donating to the church or try to cajole her into attending Sunday’s service. She'd listen politely, chat, sometimes offering fresh herbs or teas she’d made. She'd grown up with most of them and genuinely liked a few.

Every now and then, one of the pair—typically someone she merely tolerated—would want to “take tea in the garden”. That’s when I waited to see which one would be the “inbetweener”—too sanctified to admit she was drawn to the garden, but too nosy to stay away. The inbetweener’s companion would invariably exhibit one extreme or another: excitement, or horror.

When the question came, Granny knew when to say no, when to hint about her space “changing” folks, and when to joyfully lead the way. If she gave the hint, that's when the inbetweener would persist and—except in the most extreme situations—the three women would go outside.

Immediately, one or both women would remark on the beauty of it all, simultaneously noticing the lack of a crucifix, Jesus statue, or “Footprints” plaque.

The inbetweener mused, “You know, they have some lovely Psalms etched in stones. Don't you think a cross would work over by those mums? Lord, You should rest among Your creation. Hm.” All the while, she peered over her glasses, searching for some proof of hoodoo—bloodstains, dolls or something. She'd have seen it all around if she'd known anything about real magic instead of accepting the nonsense she'd been fed.

Meanwhile, an excited companion wandered off, unbeknownst to the inbetweener. Granny noticed and kept the inbetweener busy, imploring the garden to lead the companion where she needed to go. Inevitably, the more respectful visitor returned with some question about a plant or an object she'd seen (sometimes actual, other times a vision). Granny smiled, offering an explanation and making a mental note to give her a cutting, poultice, tea, or phone call.

If the companion was horrified, she’d stick close to the inbetweener, totally thrown off by the magic, but seeing and feeling more than she was willing to say. The inbetweener continued to suggest more inane improvements for the glory of the Lord while her poor partner already sensed some ungodly purpose in motion. Granny told me later that these were the people who remembered but tried so desperately to forget that they clung to the Bible, hoping their visions and dreams would disappear. Many went crazy trying to shut their gifts out.

Sometimes the scared ones returned, alone, unable to deter the dreams. Others refused to ever come back, Christian duty be damned.

The inbetweeners traded gossip, told lies about what they'd seen, and declared the place unholy, but they also kept coming back, grinning wider each time and unwittingly pushing more women away from the Lamb and into the arms of the Goddess.

I'm sure Papa Legba was working them, laughing the whole time—content with letting them believe they were drenched in the blood of Jesus instead of a chicken's.


control freak

posted over at the bliss project

i am not always
a good girl.

sometimes letting go
means letting you have your way.

…my way.

gimme real cuffs
metal + skin
no frilly satin or plush animal print.
i want the chill of the steel
to compete with the heat in your hands.

no, i don’t mind a scrape or two.
…you’ll kiss them away later

if you must free my hands,
at least give me a few swats for the trouble
…open handed. like you mean it.
make my ass sound like lightning cracking the sky

(crops are so impersonal
and i’m not in it for the welts)

a little sting; a kind caress


then…enter. fully.
cooing, coaxing
never insulting, crass.

this isn’t about humiliation.

i want
to engender gratitude
for this manifestation
of my trust.

bring me to blissful exhaustion
and i will use every tool at my disposal
to reward you



with everything i know,
and everything i've done,
it is still difficult to let go.

i can see free-me standing at the back of my mind,
but i don't know if i want to walk towards her
or run away.

i fear she will swallow my lover whole...
incinerate him somehow.

i cover my mouth with pillows when she arrives,
fearing the neighbors' wrath
(or running into them in the morning...)

i can rein her in by carefully navigating the release;
breathe my way out of
unsightly convulsions and spasms
as needed.

...although i can't help speaking in her (ancient, varied) tongues
or keep the past lives from flashing before my eyes.

she laughs, morphs;
enjoys remembering.

sometimes she brings the water,
expanding me ocean-wide
or turns the bed into a river.
i pray he either doesn't notice
or knows how to swim.

she should not be chained
or relegated to corners.

i'd like to let her run completely wild
unlock all the doors
throw open the windows
leave the gate open...

but i'm afraid.

are you?


bag lady

saw you with a crisp $20 at the newsstand
the day after i handed you some change
a day when i barely had $20 to spare.
maybe one of the downtown big shots was feeling generous.
maybe you're running game.

gave a lady with a baby $5 once
don't know if she was on something
or just plain unright in the head
but that baby shouldn't have had to suffer
for whatever mama was going thru
at least not that day.

if it looks like i'm ignoring you
it's only because if i stop to see your story
i'll drown in your water
i keep as much change in my pocket as i can
say a prayer as i pass
hoping that you remain safe
and see another day
so you can help somebody else

i'm chanting down the system
or the partner
or the parent
or the corporation
that put you on the street
and working towards their destruction in the ways i know how

but no, i never truly ignore you
you have my face
and i ain't got no money socked away, either.


lady isis, she of a thousand names

tonight i found myself in a church, praying*

and mama mary appears.
our queen isis, sans child,
draped in beauty and light;
not concerned about praying rosaries or arbitrary sin,
but standing as an example of pure devotion and the power of magick
radiating compassion for all.

she wonders why her true name is not known
why we refuse the truth that when she is called upon
so is the goddess
so is the womb
so is the source

but, having been summoned, she only sighs
part sadness, part sweetness.

she smiles slightly at me as if to say,
"i know there are some of you out there...thank you."
and prays for us, as the prayer goes...

pitying our forgetfulness
even as she holds us in her loving arms...

*i often dream of worshipping in veiled churches...euro plaster patterns covering hieroglyphs, blood sacrifices and veves...i spy the walls peeling as the preacher preaches...

retrograde blues

i dream
in a cruelly empty house
haunted by memories of lovers long gone...

my warrior has returned,
yet i still want the others...

impossibly brown skins
shaded with mahogany, copper, or chocolate
soft lips
gifted hands
ocean deep kisses
cologne and pheromone induced swoons

loving at sunrise
or sunset;
surrounded by spring buds
or summer flowers...
drowning in moonlight,
sweating in noontime sun
delighting in the treasure chest each brought to my door...

i have such a greedy heart...


...in remembrance of me.

in this day
in this time
on this plane of existence
it can be easy to forget who you are.

if you are not rich
if you are not attracted to the "right" gender
if you are not male
if you are not able bodied
if you are not white
...or even if you are
you do not always remember yourself.

i don't always remember myself.

one word, one glance, one gesture can erase the learning i've acquired over the years, negate my life experience and the gleam in my lovers' eyes.

i can, momentarily, become stupid, nappy headed black girl before i reclaim my rightful space as intelligent, naturally-minded woman.

in the inconvenience of having to bleed outside my moon lodge, i can see my keeper as a burden instead of a blessing.

not to mention all the stories, voices, visions and machinations i have to stop dead in their tracks in the course of a day.

it happens to all of us.

my reasons, my intentions, my goals and my dreams are often twisted and misinterpreted to my face, turned into caricatures of themselves by those too simple to understand them.

i do not always use your scholastic aptitude approved words because my ancestors knew that if you could explain the movement of the planets to a child, you could raise a nation that would last for centuries. obfuscation often proves nothing but intellectual selfishness.

i don't have to speak the english that was beaten into my ancestors' backs or rolled off their split tongues unless i'm speaking to their former masters. on my time, i choose the rhythms my mouth intuits. that's what i have left of the languages that have been lost.

my sight is far and wide, as it should be. i am not naive, soft, weak, confused or insane because i can communicate with the unseen realm. on the contrary, you who you refuse to vibrate in harmony with all your relations are the unbalanced ones.

i do not have to shout my recollection.
you do not have to believe me or live in my reality for me to know what is real.

you cannot shut me up
because you cannot stop my body from moving
because you cannot steal my smile
because you cannot still my hands
because you cannot stop my tears
because you cannot sell my mind
because you cannot keep me from my lover
because you cannot eat my spirit.

no matter what you say or do, i will remember.
and so will my people.