The Mind's Eye

I am whatever I say I am...just rambling

2008-06-23T22:54:00.002-04:00

Eminem said he is whatever you say he is. Not me. I say I am energetic… lazy…confused…dazed...excited…bored…loveable…hateable…hungry like always…flighty…flirty…creative…dense…proud…scared…nervous…interested and interesting…sexy in my own mind…full of everything and still running on empty…driven…deferred…envisioning and still blind…aware and clueless…hard lover…easy like Sunday morning(not that damn easy though)…tough as nails…soft as cotton…contradicting (kina like what you’re reading)…thinking constantly…remembering my daddy…loving the memories…wishing for more…prayerful…thoughtful…somewhat selfish…concerned…reckless with the pen…nice with the paper…wild and untamed…temperamental…a little conceited but its good for the soul.(much like a smile) …I am happy and sad…slightly obsessively compulsive but not much…scatterbrained…narrow-minded and open-minded simultaneously…patiently impatient (if you understand that)…strong willed… dreamy…possibly a lil bipolar but I aint been diagnosed. (that was a joke) to be continued as progress. But yeah. I AM not finished. lol

Cancer, Politics and Voting

2008-03-01T17:33:00.002-05:00

*The views and opinions of this blog are those solely of the blog owner...ME*

Okay so cancer is running rampant among Americans not just African Americans. My father lost his battle in November of 2007. A coworker lost hers February of this year (2008). What I don't quite understand is why the Democrats and Republicans are able to raise billions of dollars for campaigns for numerous things like taxes...and more taxes and health insurance BUT none of them speak on raising money to fight the cure for cancer. Seems a bit strange to me. Everyone is raising money to fight cancer and find the cure but where is all the money that has previously been raised?

I have always wondered why we never hear of political figures being diagnosed with cancer. I mean, it's just a thought but while reading this if you know of someone, please feel free to let me know because I know of no one.

In all honesty, I do believe the cure for cancer is sitting in some one's lab inside a freezer inside a safe and only certain people have access to it (politics!). But like I said, this is just a personal opinion.

This is just something for you to think about...

If the cure for cancer was made available to the people think of how many doctors would go out of business. How many companies that make chemo and other medicines used to treat and/or help people with cancer would fall through the cracks? The medicines only seem to make patients more and more dependant on them, thus, more money being spent buying them. One drug prevents on thing but the side effects calls for another drug. In the end, a mixture of drugs are being given to patients which in the end is making them sicker and much weaker. But once again, these are just personal opinions.

I doubt if I vote this year. I haven't heard much talk about fighting to save cancer patients' lives during the campaigns so...until I hear something, I'm not voting. Cancer is very serious and I wasn't as conscious about it before as I am now due to my father. I won't vote for Hilary JUST because she's a woman. I won't vote for Obama JUST because he's African American. Give me one willing to fight and save the lives of people suffering from this horrible disease and they'll have my vote.

*The views and opinions of this blog are those solely of the owner...ME*

Thoughts of you

2007-12-05T21:17:00.000-05:00

There are some moments during the day when my mind is flooded with thoughts of you and what would have, could have and might have been. Quite like thoughts of my father. They come of their own will and stay as long as they please without notice or concern for me. There are times when I wish I had never placed that call to you because since I did, my mind is consumed with thoughts of you, me, and us and that night we spent together...Sometimes I really do wish…Then there are those moments when I lick my lips and taste yours instead of my own or when I smile and remember the fact that I’ve shared with you that same smile…Things should have been different…Things could have been different…The aggressiveness of your whisper as I lay beneath you…the motion of your hips…the heat of your breath are all implanted on my brain…yet still a distant memory. Memories do fade…just not those of you. Thoughts of you cooking for me…serving me…makes me smile. These thoughts run rampant and I am helpless to control the urges…I smile for no reason when you enter my mind…My temperature rises with memories of what your bed looks like…or the vision of us riding in your truck…sorta like Ma and Pa Kettle. I laugh at how you wanted to change gears but your arm lay between my legs which made for tricky…and sticky situations. I really do wish…I placed that call with the intent of keeping in touch…and to hear your voice. It’s what I hear at night…your laugh…the timbre…you. I play the “Remember When” game alone…because I remember when I first saw you…sexy. I remember after we first met, we didn’t talk for months…I remember when we spoke again, you had become a father…I remember when I fell…yeah I remember. I still remember when it all came to a halt…I remember…I just wish…you could remember too…

Closer; Goapele's words... thoughts

2007-07-25T18:05:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you just have to let it go
(let it go, let it go)
Leaving all my fears to burn and die
Push them all away so I can move on
Closer to my dreams
Feel it all over my being(my being)
Close your eyes and seek what you believe
The path is long(the path is long)
But I'm moving home to my dreams
(I'll be moving on)

The more I grow as a writer, the more I pay attention to life and things that surround me. Including people. My people, my family and friends. Those who know me know where my passions lie. They don't lie in my place of business, they don't lie in a school standing in front of students. My passions lie inside of books, mine and others. My passions lie inside ink pens and pencils. I write. Writing is what I do, it's what and who I am.

As I write, I encounter negative vibes on a continuous basis. The conversations usually go something like this...
Them "What is it that you want to do in your life? Where do you see yourself in 5 years?"
Me"I'm a writer. Hopefully in 5 years I'll be an established author with numerous works under by belt. Writing is what I do, it's what I love."
Them "Oh....um...okay. That's cute. But how will you make money?"
Me "I don't write for money. I write because it helps me exhale. It's part of who I am.
Them "Oh well, okay then"

See, shit like that irritates me. But what they don't know is that the more I grow, the more I learn to feed off that negativity. The more negativity that comes my way, the closer I feel to my writing. The closer I get to being where I want to be as a writer. I get closer and closer to my dreams with every bad thought and every nay-sayer that I am faced with. What people understand is that everyone is given a talent/gift from God and what you do with that talent/gift is your gift back to him. If I know there is something in me that can change the world or make people understand me and hopefully understand themselves, why would I not want to put it out there?

In one of my first posts on this blog, I posted about a random email I got from someone that just happened to literally stumble across an article I wrote. That's why I do this. I do this for everyone else more than I do this for myself and definitely more than I do for money. I have been writing for years and haven't received a dime. Why? Because writing is who I am. Granted, the negativity can take its toll on a person and it can definitely make you second guess yourself in the worst way. But at the end of the day, I can't deny what I do. I can't deny who I am. I can't deny me!!!

Back to the topic of this. Closer. Goapele. With all the things that are happening and the people I am meeting, I feel myself and know in my heart that at the end of the day, I am so much closer to my dream than I was the day before. Watch out world, I...Am...Here...!!!

Pseudonyms, Stage Names and Monikers

2007-07-23T19:00:00.000-04:00

Okay so, I have been debating and debating on a stage name. I love my name, Tiyatti Shavona Speight, don't get my wrong, but sometimes I want a name that can define me and what I do or who I am. Something other than my gov't name. So I had narrowed it down. Pensive, which means musingly or dreamily thoughtful. I actually liked that. But...it had only one meaning. You basically knew what it meant once you heard it. So I wanted something that had more than one meaning all in one meaning, if you can understand that.

So I asked around and one person who is absolutely insane (in a good way of course) came up with a few. Some that I just wasn't feeling and mostly ones that she was just throwing off the tope of his head. But she finally came up with one that I was definitely feeling...neXXus. Now, for those of you who don't know what nexus means, it means a casual link or a connection, OR it's the center or focal point. I really like that. What I write and the things I say is the connection between me and the world. Not to mention, I am the focal point. Ha Ha. Now, I chose the two capital X's for a reason. I always had a thing for chromosomes. XX is the chormosome for the female. XY is for the male. ( just a lil lesson for ya!) So I am neXXus, the feminine link to the world. If that makese sense. Okay so when I actually get the damn definition and all that other stuff down, I will definitely rewrite this because I may have lost some people with that. If so...who cares.

Al Sharpton...Hypocrite? Yup!

2007-07-19T00:13:00.000-04:00

Now I am not one to really post on controversial things. Simply because I sometimes like to keep my thoughts to myself. Only because I know they may not be the politically correct thought or feeling. Don Imus...okay so he called them some nappy headed ho's. Now personally, I saw some rough looking pictures of those girls and...well let's just say his "views" didn't go unfounded. I may have kinda sorta saw what he saw but...that's just me. **If you got upset with this comment, this is the reason I don't post about shi*t like this** The man has a right to an opinion.

I personally think Al Sharpton took the whole incident a little too far. I honestly think the girls would have been content with a formal and public apology from Mr. Imus. But as usual Al Sharpton injected himself in the situation and made quite a large deal out of it. In the end, what Mr. Sharpton wanted was granted: Don Imus was FIRED!

Now, on to the reason for this post...Al Sharpton wanted Mr. Imus fired for his "racial" slur but I saw a picture of him in JET Magazine laughing and cutting the shit with 50 cent when 50 calls females bitches, ho's, sluts, tramps and any other degrading words toward women. You can't NOT (double negative, I know. It's done purposely) accept what Imus said and socialize with 50 when he's doing the same things and using harsher words. I fail to understand why it is soooo wrong for Mr. Imus, who I am to assume is white, to say words that fail to compare to words 50 uses. Does anyone else ever have that thought?

I just read an article saying that Mr. Sharpton wouldn't object to Mr. Imus getting his job back as a radio personality. Then what the hell was the point in getting him fired? He made a HUGE uproar, accomplished his goal and then when it blows over, he just brushes it off. Personally the whole situation was blown totally out of proportion, Al Sharpton is a complete hypocrite, especially in this situation, and at the end of the day, those girls will still look the same and 50 will continue to call us women whatever the hell he wants to and Al Sharpton will CONTINUE to talk with him as if it is okay. Why is it okay for one and not the other?

Al Sharpton=hypocrisy!

Uhh....Maybe Not

2007-07-08T13:47:00.000-04:00

Okay so I said I was going to post a new piece. But, I actually like it soo much that I'm going to keep it under wraps. I just don't wanna put it out there yet. Call me selfish, and I probably am but...maybe I'll post it later.

Coming Soon...

2007-07-06T11:23:00.000-04:00

Okay so I haven't posted since '06. That doesn't mean I haven't been writing. Just...been using a notebook. But I do have something coming...soon. Title: These Are The Times. So look for it in the next couple of hours or so...

I Wish

2006-10-22T20:44:00.000-04:00

This is basically a part II to Escape Into Me...

I wish...I could go...into myself
be alone with myself and just...exist
I wanna escape into a world un known and...
know what it's like to be completely at peace and...
listen to jazz and sip hot chocolate...
najee or boney playing the melodies of my soul...
Be on the inside looking out at the ways of the world and..
shake my head at the sadness which surrounds me...the hatred which
defines so many

I wish...I could go..into myself and...
figure out who I am and why I am the way I am and...
just...know...me
Let the tranquility on the inside of me take over me and...
break free from the shackles on the outside of me

I wish...I could go...into myself and...
become true to myself...again and..
search for what I want and hunt for what I need and...
find it.

I wish...I could go...into myself and...
turn myself inside out and let the real me show...
let the true me shine...let the world judge the inside of me
the most pure side of me...
let them know the artistic Yaddi...the softest side of Yaddi
Let them see the Yaddi that cries at cartoons and...yearns for that affection
that only one can give.
That Yaddi that strives to be the best at it all and...I just wish...
I could go...into myself

Escape Into Me

2006-09-24T20:37:00.000-04:00

There are days when I wanna run away...escape into myself. My inner thoughts are my most pure and my most honest. The words that come from my mouth don't always depict what lies inside. The daily struggles with work, family, people, society starts to take it's toll after a while. I need a break...a hiatus. I have become a prisoner in my own outside world. I have adapted to the ways that is politically correct and I have in the end, become untrue to myself. I have lost the way to get back to me. Previous posts tell what I wanna do, what I wanna learn and/or understand. But none of them tell you how I have found the way to get back to me. When you wear a rubber glove and get done using it and remove it, it is usually inside out. The part that is closest to your hand is untouched. The outside carries all the grit and grime. I wanna be turned inside out. The inside of me is the cleanest and the most untouched. I just wanna escape into me. Disappear from the outside world if only for a minute. Just to taste what purity is, just to glimpse a safe place where my father isn't sick, a place where I can make 6 figures, a place where I can just...exist. I don't have to do anything if I choose not to. I can just be...me.

In a way I envy wanderers and vagabonds. They walk and wander aimlessly yet most of them are searching for ways to get back to themselves. The people they encounter, the places they visit all brings them closer to the real THEM. They have found their escape route. I wanna escape too. I wanna escape into me. If only for a minute...I wanna escape.

African American History

2006-08-27T19:56:00.000-04:00

I remember being in high school, which was only a few years ago and learning basically nothing about my culture. Everything I ever learned about African Americans was basically watered down.(i.e Rosa Parks refused to give up here seat and it was a major change in the Civil Rights movement) Comments like that basically tell me nothing about Rosa Parks or who she was as a person. I basically learned that she was tired (WTH?) For a long time my focus was on African American lit. was reading a romance novel published by BET (Arabesque). Not to discredit BET or its authors, but I never really learned any history. Which saddened me. I wanted to learn but was never taught. So in the end, I am teaching myself. I went to the bookstore a few days ago and basically perched myself on the floor in front of the African American History section. People climbing over me and constantly saying excuse me but I wasn't moving. I was totally fascinated by the things that I didn't know and the people who I never heard of. There are so many people who contributed to the abolition of slavery, were involved in the Civil Rights movement and who just helped shaped America in general. I often wonder why schools never have a class totally focused on African American History. I took US History 1 and US History 2. There were only a few AA's mentioned in either course. Why? The school I attended was well over 60% black. So for us to not be taught anything about who we were and who got us to where we were was sad. I wanted to learn and I'm sure other's did too. There were some blacks in my history class. Most slept, others skipped (and I don't say this to make us sound bad or...) but the didn't find it interesting in the least. Which was understood. They couldn't relate to the people they were learning about in any way;race, actions, or struggle. And I honestly believe that if they had learned about people like them, alot of the sleeping and the skipping would have ceased.(IMO)

In the end, I bought a book. Dreams From My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance by Barack Obama. I just started it so i'm not quite sure as to how it is. But I'll be sure to post that. Next will be Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave & Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. Which is an autobiography where Douglass describes himself as a man who became a slave and later, a slave who became a man. I'm getting there people...all in due time.

Society

2006-04-07T20:44:00.000-04:00

She's sittin' in a corner, in a circle
tryna find the right angle
But she can't
She's on the edge of a mental cliff
and her feet begin to dangle
the world around her looks bleak
and her future dull
And I didn't help much as I just
issued another blow to her skull
Who Am I?
I am that thing that exists but
not to the touch
And for some reason, people like her
don't like me much.
I mean, just because I made her world unfair
don't mean I do it to others.
I am the one who don't make it easy for
unwed mothers.
The one who put the stigma on her brothers
The same one who said she'll never be good
for nothing
Even in her old age still settlin' for a job
barely payin minimum wage
Who Am I?
I am the shackles on her feet when
she wants to dance
The wind in her face when she wants to take
a chance
I am the one who takes her degree and rips it
to shreds
tell her that its just not in our range and never
lets her get ahead
I am the one she fights constantly to beat
the one who sees in her eyes the constant defeat
But I am also the one who makes her strive to be the best
the one who makes her push her worries in the back of her mind
yet never lets her rest.
"Nobody knows the trouble I see, nobody knows but me"
She sings daily as she fights the world
as she fights me. And Who Am I? I am Society.

Yahoo Groups

2006-01-11T17:17:00.000-05:00

See, I belong to quite a few writing groups. Some, I find very interesting. Then there are the ones that just irritate me. Now, I understand all the people in the group basically have the same goal-to bring something different and new to the writing world or to at least make a difference, therefore, there is a bond between the people. BUT, what I hate about some of them is that, nothing that goes on in the group relates to writing. WTH? If it's a writing group, why not talk about writing? Seems reasonable to me. I just fail to see why people are having discussions on this person's latest conquest or this person's new beau. Pointless! Unless, all these are plots and/or topics to a new story. If not, why not just call the group "A group of writers who never discuss writing but instead discuss everything not related to writing"? I think that would be fair. At least people wouldn't be misled. JMO on the subject.

For The Love of....WRITING Pt.2

2005-12-10T19:11:00.000-05:00

The previos post, For The Love of Writing, was a letter written to me about an article I had written. For the life of me, I couldn't find the article to post. But I found it...finally. So here goes.

The Purpose

For a while I have been IMing people. Most of them are aspiring writers like me. Tonight I came to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe I am in a different league than some of them. Not because of the figure of my bonus or because of the record of my annual sales. I am in a different league because…I truly love what I am attempting to do. I thrive for what I do. I don’t do it because I want to see my name in print or because I can’t wait to sign my John Hancock to the back of that advance check. I do it because it makes me who I am. For as long as I can remember I have always had a way of getting people to understand. Getting them to understand that they aren’t alone in the struggle. Someone understands them and what they go through. It’s a way of connecting with them through my words.

I had a conversation tonight with one of my closest friends. For the first time since I have been writing, I felt like someone felt about writing the way I did. My viewpoints and statements on the state of writing were agreed upon. We spoke on the lack of knowledge of some authors, the lack of respect for the craft of literature, the lack of knowledge on what they write about. There are a great many writers who are making six figure salaries, but that’s their purpose; those six figures. What about writing because you want to reach a person on the opposite side of the world in another time zone. What about wanting someone to relate to and to touch. No one writes to be heard anymore. Like my friend said, “Anyone can write a story. It’s what’s in that story that makes it memorable.” We as authors have the power to change the way things are done, the way feelings are felt and the way situations are handled. No one understands or has a purpose.

Langston Hughes, Richard Wright, and Maya Angelou all wrote to make a statement, to heal and to touch their audience. During the Harlem Renaissance, authors wrote on the sate of the black community, where it was, where it’s been and their hopes for where it was going. They portrayed a message in everything they did and sought out to do. Where is that? Why don’t we as authors make that same effort to teach and help? Langston Hughes wrote Cross, a poem where his white father died in the big house and his black mother died in the shack. He question where he will die since he is neither white nor black. Richard Wright wrote Black Boy, his autobiography on growing up during the days of racial tension and his life due to his father’s abandonment and his mother’s illness. Maya Angelou wrote And Still I Rise, her message letting the world know that nothing will break her spirits. They did all this for a reason. To convey a message.

Writing is an art. A craft. Painters paint, not because they like paintbrushes but because what they paint makes a difference. Each painting has a meaning. Why can’t books? Why can’t authors write because what they write will touch someone? Or write because someone will realize they aren’t alone in this thing we call a world. Every person deserves a confidant, a friend. I say; where ink touches paper, attempt to touch a person. Make that effort to comfort, appease or uplift. The writers before us did. What’s our reason? What’s our purpose?

W.I.P (Work in Print) FINALLY!!

2005-12-01T20:01:00.000-05:00

Finally! I have something to show for all my hard work and late nights. A Christmas anthology, Santa's Sweets, featuring myself and many other talented authors will be in print December 14th. I, of course used a pseudonym. But mine is entitled "This Christmas" Please pick up your copy and support my effort as well as that of the other contributors.

6 Degrees of Separation

2005-10-21T21:00:00.000-04:00

6 Degrees of Separation

Ever sit and watch the planes, trains, and automobiles go by? Ever wonder where they're headed and who the passengers are? Well...I do...

The people in this story are all different. Different thoughts, different emotions. Yet, they're all connected to each other in some form.

The lady sits quietly on Greyhound bus number 297 from Raleigh to Norfolk. Her mind in shambles and her nerves frayed. She looks over at her child, her innocent sweet child. She was only a baby, too young to know the pain inflicted on her mother. It was time she did what needed to be done. The sweater she wore, covered her battle scars. Her husband had beaten her for months. It started 6 months ago out of nowhere. Now it was time to stop. She sighed and looked out the window at the plane overhead.

"I hate airplanes," the old man grumbled. He lifted his asthma inhaler to his mouth before taking a deep breath. He held his breath for a few seconds and let it out slowly. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and sighed. His life was at it's end. The doctor had given him 6 months to live and that was 5 months ago. Cancer was his killer. Slowly but surely. In the meantime, he needed to take care of a few loose ends. He needed to see his long lost son. "Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing in about thirty minutes in Charleston South Carolina. At the sound of the bell, please fasten your seatbelts." His nurse turned her head, looking down at his seatbelt.

The nurse fastened her seatbelt and sat back. She closed her eyes, fighting back tears. Her younger sister had been killed almost 7 months before and the killer still hadnt been found. The only clue was a vague description of a dark haired, brown-eyed man. That could be anyone. Sighing, she looked down at the ground, the view obstructed due to the clouds. Still she wondered if the killer was out there...somewhere.

The train stopped in Charleston, South Carolina. The dark haired, brown-eyed man stepped off the train. The am/fm headseat graced his head. He listened to the news. The woman killed in the park's family was pleading for help. He smiled broadly. He would get away. His wife was in his hands. She did what he wanted and if not, well...she knew what would happen. When and if he returned to Raleigh, things would go back to normal. The news would have calmed down and his wife would be obedient once again. He threats to leave him were just that...threats. He stood on the ground and looked at the lin of cars waiting at the tracks.

"Damn, the Amtrak. This will take all day." the sergeant sat quietly in his car. The news played on the radio. He shook his head listening to the pleas of the slain woman's family. The news had been on pins and needles to get a lead in this story. So had the police force. He sat back his eyes open but seeing nothing. A break in the case would be just what he needed before he retired. Just one break. He watched as the passengers unloaded. One man stepped off the train with a huge smile on his face. The headset he wore must have been giving him good news. "Wish everyone could carry a smile like that. He looked in his rearview mirror, a black car with tinted windows was behind him.

"That's him right there. Look at him smiling. Do it." The window rolled down, and before anyone knew it, the man with the headphones fell to the ground. A gaping hole in his throat, blood pouring out as well as his life. "That's for my sister sucker. Never hit a woman."

Nocturnal Emissions

2005-10-09T21:42:00.000-04:00

Subconscious thoughts invading peaceful nights
Flashes of passion and bliss playing behind closed lids
Unconsciousness possessed by fumes of love invading the nostrils
filling me with thoughts of what was and is to come
Subliminal messages during the comatose state of nights promised and fulfilled
Orgasm after orgasm, shiver after shiver, release after release tell the story of nights ago
All in one evening, one peaceful night interrupted…

Black King

2005-09-22T19:09:00.000-04:00

Tall
Strong
Powerful
BLACK
One day I saw a black king and he saw me
Not understanding the connection
I kept on my way
Timidly looking back
Watching him watch me.
One day he saw a black queen and…
Our souls touched, our paths crossed
Still, keeping on my way.
Felt a pull so strong,
A force so powerful.
Breath stolen
Heart pattering.
Turned and there he was
Still, watching me now watching him
He smiled and I got warm
He spoke and I remained silent.
“Good evening” is what he said
But I heard. “Let me take care of you”
He continued to speak to me routinely
But I continued to hear
“Let me comfort you”
“Bear my children.”
“Be opposite me on my throne”
“I’ll be your knight, and you my damsel”
His words like lava, oozing through me.
His movements so fluid, hypnotizing me
Still, captivated by this God. His eyes so like honey
Peering into my soul.
He sees the scars and he whispers “I’ll be the balm to bring
Peace and calm…to your soul”
He holds out his hand for mine
His eyes flicker for a moment…unsure if I’m sure
And I am.
Because one day I saw a black king. And he saw me
Together we walked, him talking. Me listening
Our souls feeling the pull of the energy that ties us together…
Makes us one.
I listen…and watch. As his eyes dance with unspoken affirmations
Wanting to be the sun to my moon
The sand to my ocean
He’ll be my better half. The right to my wrong
The joy to my pain
I’ll be his girl Friday from Sunday to Saturday
His everyday, around the way girl.
His dashiki wearing, turban wrapping, dread lock having
Reggae and apala vibin’ basket on my head bearing fruit queen
If that’s what he wants
And we’ll walk in the fields of Africa
Watching the victims of as I die slowly
slowly fade away and thankful for us...together
one...my king his queen
Chewing cane and procreating
Wondering what our heirs will be like
Jahzara our blessed princess
Jahari, young strong and powerful king to be
All this in the midst of walk when..
I saw my black king. And he saw me

Copyright by Tiyatti Speight 2005

Okay. Now I'm back...Again

2005-08-20T22:15:00.000-04:00

Man. Wiping out and restoring computers isn't at all good on the nerves. But I am back...for the nth time. Either way, the good thing is that while I was getting my stuff together, I didn't have access to the internet. Now some would ask, "Why would that be a good thing?" It's like this. I get on the computer, load messenger, or a chat room and I am focused on that. So my writing will be put aside to answer questions and gossip. But since I didn't have internet connection, I was able to write. I am one chapter away from finishing my novel. And I wrote one of the final poems for the novel. And here it is

Dear God,

Pardon me for my sins
Alots going on and...
I don't know where to begin
I know for the answers I must come to you
I need your helping hand to guide me through
Life's throwing me curve balls and I'm striking out
I need your added strength to keep me from lashing out
You know my tribulations and you know my trials
I'm turning this over to you, let you handle it for a while

I don't come to you often, so you know I'm in need
But I have faith in you, true faith indeed
Faith that you'll help me with the utmost finesse and care
Question you? No. I wouldn't dare.
I'm a product of your creation...a miniscule entity in your giant nation
Watch over me Lord and show me the way.
We'll talk again soon, for tomorrow is another day
But I'm signing off and I'll wait for your sign
Telling me that everything is handled and I am free to live my life...by design.

Who knows

2005-07-13T17:49:00.000-04:00

I have no idea where this poem came from. I don't know why I wrote it. The subject is in no way directly related to me. Although it is something that happens daily and sad to say, will continue to happen daily. Women and kids are raped continiously with nothing done. No words to be expressed. My words can never do justice and will never adequately convey the feelings of the victims. But still I try.

Taken
stolen
beaten
screamed at
scarred for life
yeah raped. when the most sacred thing of your possession
is snatched away from you
virgin
sealed
untouched
innocent
purity...a rarity
but no more. no longer literally pure. no longer untouched.
bruised
scared
afraid and alone
no one knows the pain
no one understands the pain
words alone aint adequate
wishing and praying it was over. just take me out of it
no one hears my cries
im the victim
victimizer looks in my eyes
relishing in my pain
wallowing in my fear
he sees and he hears...and he smiles
steadily going deeper
more forceful than before
praying it'll be over soon
hoping it wont happen again
then he stops and...im holding my breath...
he stands up and...i lay still but...i know there's more
im wishing he was gone and...he's hopin i keep quiet
"don't tell your mother" he says
he walks away and...i roll over and
he shuts the door and...i begin to cry
and then it's dark

Center Stage

2005-06-16T22:31:00.000-04:00

Strings plucked...sounds of joy, sorror and pain emanating from the spirit within...
Unknown forces forcing me to play harder, pluck harder; creating melodies from another world...
Sounds depicting true emotions fill the room, move the spirit, touch the soul...And yet, I need more. More force, more melodies just...more...Vocals take over, speaking in sync with the chords...Putting voice to the silent words of the strings...
Painting visuals of the hearts desires...Creating rhythm on top of rhythm...And yet, I need more...Words continue from the mouth, sounds from the fingers...feelings amplified as the night goes on...

Vocals cease...And the chords are alone, crying out for an ear, for somewhere to rest, someone to listen...More strumming, more plucking, more picking...
Tears of confusion, bliss, and more pain are released as the night moves ahead...Melodies intensify as the spirit moves within...Releasing a ball of energy filled with spiritual awakening...Wordlessly communicating to the people the magnitude of its power and who controls it...Forces float around the room, holding all in attendance captive...Eyes wide with uncertainty, hearts hammering, nerves frayed until the last chord of the final melody in this spiritual symphony is played...Breathe...

*Picture copyrighted by Obscure Magazine.

The Smallest Things Pt. 2

2005-06-14T14:22:00.000-04:00

Yeah okay. Now as you remember from the last post, the synopsis was just...something. Now when people read this "something", I was told it sounded too cliche. Someone said it sounded too much like the typical black romance novel. So of course I tried to figure out a way to make it mine. To make it stand out. I know what makes it different and what makes it stand out, but the readers dont. So, I added a little more. It's funny though because in the past few days, I've read some looonnggg synopsis. So mine is alot shorter than the ones I've recently read. Either way, here we go again...

Abandoned by her father and ditched by her ex boyfriend, Passion DeWitt steers clear of love and decides to cleanse her soul by reciting poetry. She meets Devin Jones, owner of Poets' Corner, and her decision to stay away from love is tested. Devin is spellbound by her emotional display. He speaks the right words and finally breaks down her barriers. Through poetic form, a relationship blossoms. All is well with the two until a family secret sends Devin fleeing and Passions ex boyfriend returns with his ex-mobster friend in tow to claim what he thinks is rightfully his. Will Passion and Devin fight for their love or will their poetic words all be in vain?

There goes it...

The Smallest Things

2005-05-30T00:39:00.000-04:00

They say the smallest things leave lasting impressions, the smallest things matters most. In this case, the smallest things catches a readers eye and gives the writers migraines. That's right, the synopsis. You know, that little small paragraph on the back of the book. The paragraph that draws you in. Yeah that. The synopsis. Now, I'm on chapter 14 of my novel and I've been avoiding writing one like it has the plague. But I did it. It took me a while to do it. Along with the help of a few friends, I think I have it. Emphasis on "I think." So here goes...something

Abandoned by her father and ditched by her ex boyfriend, Passion DeWitt steers clear of love and decides to cleanse her soul by reciting poetry. She meets Devin Jones, owner of Poets' Corner, and her decision to stay away from love is tested. Devin is spellbound by her emotional display. He speaks the right words and finally breaks down her barriers. All is well with the two until a family secret sends Devin fleeing and Passion's ex boyfriend comes back to claim what he believes is rightfully his. Will Passion and Devin fight for their love or will their poetic words all be in vain?

Back In Business

2005-05-06T15:34:00.000-04:00

Viruses, trojan horses, and all the other terms for little things that continue to wreak havoc on the lives of innocent people. These things will drive a sane person to go crazy. After months and months of writing, finding my flow and wallowing in the fact that I was nearly done with my first novel, what happend? Virus! I had just started chapter 10. Was enjoying myself, bring life to my characters. Now me being a little on the dense side at times, just opened the program and started typing. Just happened to leave for a moment and save it to my hard drive and turned off the pc. Came back later to continue and the computer wouldn't even come on. Hurt? More like crushed.
So for a while, I had to force myself to write. With that being said, I finally finished the chapter that I lost. I was so happy. Chapter 10 is out of the way. I wrote a poem for that chapter. Well the poem goes along with a scene in it. Anyway, here goes...

The more things change, the more
they stay the same
The sand at the water's edge constantly getting washed away
And eroded. Yet day after day...it's there
It's there feeling the pain and confusion
of all who confides in it. Of all who decides
to let the water be the ear of comfort...
of all who lives
Today I give it my pain. Wash away the hurt and the
pain.
Cleanse my soul and make me whole again.

For the Love of...WRITING!!!

2005-04-24T22:48:00.000-04:00

Day after day I question my sanity. "Why do I write?" "What is my reason?" And day after day the answers are the same. "Because you are a voice in this world." "Because it's in your blood." "Because you need to make a difference." "Because you love it." At 21 years old, I am pretty certain about my love for things and my distaste for others. Writing. Writing. Writing. I never considered myself a writer. Only a person with thoughts, ideas, words and feelings. Never a writer. Only someone with an imagination. But never a writer. I sat and had a discussion one day on why people write. What is their purpose. What drives them to want to tell a story. And alot of the answers kept coming back to money. But I had to take a minute and ask myself if it was about money. If I sat in front of this computer everyday for hours at a time for money. If I dealt with cramping hands, an aching back and every other ailment stemming from this computer chair for money. NO! And I knew it was the truth because for years I've been dealing with the same ailments, from this chair of course, and never thought about publishing anything.
Either way, the conversation eventually led to an article titled: The Purpose of Writing. It explored the writers before my time, and possibly before yours. Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, Nikki Giovanni and more. But it mainly focused on why they wrote and what the message was for them. I posted this article on Romance Central in the summer of 2004. I never received one reply. And my faith started to lapse. My muse decided to go south of the border and my patience ran thin. I basically gave up. Out of the blue I get an email. The subject titled: You article on Romance Central. I'm thinking someone is telling me that after so long and no replies that it was being removed. But I was wrong. And this is what the letter said...

I just read your article on the purpose of writing. I wanted to tell you how much it touched me, and I trust that you are well on your way to realizing your dream.
The last paragraph brought a snatch of music to my head. I just read Maya Angelou's "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings" and I think that you are absolutely right about the uplifting message she's sending. Throughout the memoir, I became more and more awed by her ability to move forward with things, instead of surrendering to what many would have guess her fate to be. If that's your goal in writing, I salute you.
The pain, the indiginity, I really think thats a big part of writing those powerful pieces. In short, I think you acheived your goal. You stated your mission and reached over to a small housing project in Kentucky. The real reason I quit writing is because I felt I had nothing to say. You really made me realize that if others can endure slaver, oppression, prejudice, and assault, surely I can escape a simple trap of my own design.
Thank you.

Now, as you can imagine, I was truly surprised by this. I posted that article more for myself than anything. And to have touched someone I've never spoken to or even heard of touched me. My muse came back, slowly but surely and my faith in myself became a little higher. I held my head a little higher. In short, me touching her touched me. For the love of...Writing

Feminism

2005-04-23T22:53:00.000-04:00

Feminism. The movement, the growth, the empowerment of women. Women are often defined by physical characteristics. Only on a small scale and by a small amount are women defined by other graces. Such as...knowledge. The ability to raise a family alone. The ability to carry the burdens of an army and still continue her crusade. Still continue to rise above the derogatory and demeaning ways of the world and walk with her head held high. In a sense a woman is poetry. Usually on the outside being worded and reworded into what society think she may be or should be. But never who she really is.

I am poetry...lyrically inclined...lyrically free...to touch the inner spirit...express the inner me
Fluidly flowing through the veins of my listeners and my watchers...I am poetry as my eyes rhyme with my nose and my nose with my mouth...intricately creating the stanza known as my face...I am poetry as my mind enlightens yours...broadens your horizons...changes opinions...I am poetry as you get lost in my metaphors and similes and my words for beautiful haiku...and the poetically illiterate bashfully says "bless you"... unaware of the strength of my voice...the power of my knowledge...I am poetry...redefined on a daily basis to fit the needs of your mouth...to fit your stereotypical definition of...poetry...from the opening line that holds your attention...to the last word that allows that sigh of relief...I am me...I am woman...I am poetry