Psalms 91

This Morning…

This Morning I awoke from a Dream, petrified.

I was sitting in a pew, and was whisked away blindfolded.

This Morning…

This Morning I awoke from that Dream, petrified.

I rose from my slumber, exhausted, confused, and intimidated.

Trying to leave my bed, but it has turned into a swamp.

Drenched in emotions and adrenaline, I drown.

This Afternoon…

This Afternoon I awoke, and gave truth to the meaning :

“Sleep is the cousin of Death”

I took the leap of faith out of my bed, praying that these wooden floors wouldn’t turn to quick sand.

I calm myself.

I make myself breakfast for the first time in weeks,

because my brain was suffering from malnutrition.

Not your cliche Food for thought,

but more like the last taste of food before an execution.

I ate.

Today I woke up with a foreign feeling.

It seemed as though God was making a Long Distance phone call to me,

and some how it got intercepted and misinterpreted,

I disconnected myself for all communication, and left the phone off the hook.

Figuring if I silence all my problems, these alien feelings will go back to their homeland of seclusion,

and leave me the hell alone.


My dream became real.

This feelings blinded me with the mirror of my reflection, and like a stork,

they carried me in their mouths and delivered me to the doorsteps of my conflict.

The issues that birthed this misguided monstrosity,

looked down on me,

but like a baby I couldn’t comprehend why I have been apprehended from my tranquility,

a place in which I call home.

While present in physicality, yet idle in mind —

The television was no longer poising my mind, but replenishing my conscience.

On this journey to meet the problems that created me,

I discover understanding.

Something so simple as washing the dishes,

gave knowledge that the things most overlooked consume the biggest life lessons.

I stand up and stop kneeling down to these mistakes.

I need to regain balance; as the stork was delivering me back to my dormant mind,

it dropped in me a body of water.

This afternoon….

I awoke leaning up against a wall,

drenched in water, I was cleansing myself of low self-esteem.

As I cleansed my self with a black soaped dove, I felt purity again,

as regret stormed down the drain.


The towel, like my love ones soaked up any disbelief of their love for me.

I am clean.

I rest.

For tonight…


The sun is my kiss goodnight.

The birds are my lullaby.

I thought I shut all doors and windows,

but stealthier than the I air breathe,

Insomnia crept up on me and suffocated my pillow with my thoughts.

Wrapped with a blanket of restlessness,

The birds continually ease my soul in to slumber,

and as I fade, the Sun gently kisses my forehead,

My deprivation tucks me in, and I sleep…like a baby,

Until a couple of hours pass, and I wake up again

I look out the window, and the Sun has been screaming —

I am trying to restore the balance in my life; however right now,

Sleep is not Kin to me; therefore, we’ve become unfamiliar faces.

I just wish these thought clouds of anticipation would precipitate patience.


I cannot just sit around under this umbrella, and wait for dreams to come true.


I will reacquaint myself with sleep,

extract love from my dreams,

and deliver myself success

Beautiful Struggle.

Because the truth is, it doesn’t really matter who I used to be.

Its all about who Ive become. 

Next time I will be sure to put my phone on vibrate.


Killer Instinct

Love letter from the pen

This is self imprisonment

Murder she wrote

She was given life sentences.

The sentence of her life,

She was in a search for words,

Definitely changing the definition of a…

Poets Ambition.

She said

Fuck It

Plead Guilty


Executed Her Feelings.

This is Murder She Wrote.

Her Autobiography printed along the walls of

Death Row.


Darkness her twisted fantasy.

Phantoms of her Poetic Bloodline

Graced her Nightmares.

Reliving the replacement of her virginity

The first time she held the lead in her palms,

And burned pages pages and pages,


all that shown in the dim light of the burning paper

Were Psalms.

Murder She Wrote

She longed to relive that moment.

Because if nostalgia granted time travel,

She wouldn’t have put the steel down.

She would allow herself to get blasted,

With all hope of becoming impregnated.

So that she could give birth to an Iron Man,

Because Sheroes are seldom.

Unable to rewrite her-story, nor his

instead she put her life into

scripting the future of another.

The child inside of her.

Whom when born,

Was put on the scale of justice

Which ego made an imbalance

and was soon pronounced

Still Born,

because nobody took the time to listen.

Murder They Wrote.


She roams the hollow halls of Death Row,


She herself is prison.

Handcuffed, Paper cut, and Influenced.

Little light shines in these 4 chambers.

Her soul has lost mates and cells.

There is only room for one,

One Mad Poet.

Loneliness left to tease her muses,

Amused by the thought of Freedom,

She executes laughter and embellished insanity.

With her silver bladed tongue,

She belittled the value of silence,

Pain to her was now a penny,


Murder She Spoke

She rose,

Looked in her fragmented mirror,

Into her pupils and asked,

Who Taught You to Hate Yourself?