Monthly Archives: August 2013

The Coldest War

Everyone said life was going to be this hard

However, everyone failed to mention the scars would remain, less obvious than outer appearance.

Daily wearing her heart on her sleeve.

Scabs and keloids protrude from untold her-stories,

 

Belly swollen full of manipulation.

Brain dead,

Unconscious,

Self-conscious —

 

Afraid of self.

 

PAIN

 

A mind is a terrible thing to waste.

Her tongue remedial compared to cat like reflexes.

Her own two sense, something she cant afford.

 

She Wrote.

and so

She Spoke.

 

She becomes family with led and ink.

In-laws of different colors

 

A mind is a terrible thing to waste,

as is her pain,

She Wrote.

 

This lonely child found the comfort in the instruments, the silence, and the trees.

 

All she wrote repeatedly:

 

NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME!

NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME!

NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME!

NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME!!“…

 

Peers read, what appears?

What is perceived?

 

The agony brought a smile upon her face, because shes discovered one of her many talents

Acting.

 

Just Leave Me.

Leave Her Alone.

 

MEANING

Comfort Me.

 

This little girl is on a scavenger hunt.

She tries to abandon the labels, they hold her back.

She searches for someone to foster her creativity.

She longs for someone to adopt her perception.

Her conscience is an Orphan.

 

This lonely child is lost in all the love.

 

Mouth dry as wood.

Eyes shinning bright like dim lights.

These Pinocchio’s snout would grow

if they deny being puppets too.

 

She just wants to be a real woman.

They hear her speak, but no one

LISTENS.

Judgments are passed along,

accompanied by unconditional love.

Under the conditions of seeing thoroughly, only when they chose not to be

BLIND.

 

so confused.

 

Life is hard, for that she was prepared.

They keeping telling her to explain herself.

But no one understands her language.

She tries to translate it, but motha fuckas are impatient.

 

Feeling like a patient, she nursing her thoughts.

Remember, this poor girl is brain dead.

A mind is a terrible thing to waste

 

So.

The shadow unexpectedly appeared

placed the pen to her temple.

imprinted a hand against her heart,

and pressed her mouth onto hers.

 

She inhaled comprehension and took her first gasp of LIFE.

Tasteless.

 

Nervous.

Excited.

She understands her language, she wrote back to her through thoughts, emotions, and intuition.

She spoke.

The first words for a young adult.

“I Love You”

She grew inside her,wisdom, her tears the waters that bloomed this gracious flower.

 

Everyone told her life was going to be this hard.

She thought her shit would come out softer after the bullshit they fed her,

another fallacy sugar coated.

 

She’s screaming at her

Lullabies sweet and low.

Her honesty

Bittersweet.

 

This Woman is a Solider.

The series of this Coldest War.

 

To be continued…

 

-Leighrick

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Mirrored Silouhettes [pt2]

I’m falling back but I don’t feel anyone behind me. Im trying break my fall but I’m breaking every other bone in the process.

 

My mind is trying to process these thoughts, separate the good from the bad.

 

Trying to decipher the tears from the smiles. And the confusion from the laughter.

 

Life’s taking:

the Sweetness out my Satisfaction.

the Dreams out of my Sleep.

 

Its safe to say…

I’m lost. I’m misunderstood.

I don’t know what to do

for myself, but

I continuously do for others.

 

I know what I want.

I yearn for what I need.

I am thankful for what I have…maybe I am selfish,

because…THAT’S STILL NOT ENOUGH.

 

I wish people could just read my mind.

The good and the bad thoughts.

I wish people could just see what I see.

The potential and the fuck ups.

 

I just want to find me.

I am surround with people that adore me.

Yet

I haven’t found me and accepted myself for what I see, acknowledging what I want to be,

Go to sleep.

&&

GET THE FUCK OVER IT…..

because its KILLING ME.

 

-Leighrick

Personal Statement

c/o 2010

I sit at my computer. I allow my conscience to marinate some of my best qualities and passions into my fingers — I begin typing. I enable my mind to go through this vigorous hard-laboring pain of molding my love for basketball into words. It is a love compiled of harsh metaphors and unimaginable personifications. Basketball is my poetry; my words wrap the ball like Spalding. Anything I am able to write on is my canvas, and any court, concrete, wooden or rubber I am able to play on. Half a piece of paper cannot stop me from expressing myself, and half of a court will not stop me from playing to my maximum potential. An empty pen and a flat ball will not dictate my future.

One night I dreamed so close to reality, I almost did not wake up. The announcer was calling out my teammates. Maya Angelou was the point guard, because she threw the most creative behind-the-back passes that ignorance could never capture– a true definition of The Heart of a Woman. At shooting guard appeared Alice Walker because her explanation of living as a black woman in America is perfect. She continues to put up shots. Hatred’s hand tries to contest the shot, only to fail and become the reason her eye has turned The Color Purple. As I gazed toward our locker room door I had to blink twice, because through those doors shone The Beloved power forward, Toni Morrison. She was ready to box-out all who would try to annihilate our chance to score, and to restore our rights as a culture. Right after her came Gwendolyn Brooks, the center, helping rebound our “Black Love” when the direction of the love and respect is unpredictable. She is the backbone and the strength of our team’s pride. I stand integrity as the small forward the smallest punctuation being the biggest part of the sentence. I call a huddle at half-court, and we all place our hands in the middle. Five minds, five hearts, five different personalities defined as one team. We all cross-over to a new chapter in the same book of life. The scoreboard buzzes, and I go to grab a last drink before the game resumes; only the last time I blinked, I opened my eyes only to find I was staring blissfully at my ceiling.

Every poet/author in my dream has taught me to be culturally and self aware. In basketball they say “practice makes perfect”, and in writing perfect practice makes an incredible writer.  So in every practice I allow my writing utensil to dribble my emotions across each page with sentences like quick passes, and every stanza is another quarter I’ve given my all. Each time I step onto the court all troubles seem to cease. The ball is a symbol of life. I know that the ball gets passed around to people and sometimes even plagiarized and mistreated. I understand the players in my life may come and go, some people may pass a way, but the lessons they have taught me are still invaluable.

 

-The Graduate
-Leighrick