just like flames,
it shines in the inner most part of my eyes, and then
i may as well feel it my heart.
this thing called a soul,
it is really real?
just like the scream, that no one responded to.
my youth left me,
just like a breath of air,
to blow out my candles,
just like the scars left on my legs,
just like friends that came and went like
trying to find the words
written on pages.
Well, first off…Black people don’t have birds as pets. That was my first observation of one specific photo from the Kitchen Table Series, as I circumvented the room with some old white lady who has been critiquing art for more than 40 years. We were previewing Carrie Mae Weems: Three Decades…
Still love this!
I don’t remember what was affecting me when this was written :
Sitting here dreaming of the days,
When you will be here,
Loving me, caressing my hair
And taken over my universe.
But, I digress in my state of contemplation.
All I do is think abt possibilities
Of endless moments together.
Do my hair,
Put on my heels,
Hoping you’d call out my name!
Until you come,
I stay in mg chair,
Brush my hair,
And stAre in my current state of
And heaven looks like this…