1/30: We Have Forgotten

She wants to be a model and fashion designer,
but is unable to define her value…

He dreams of having his own rock band,
then awakens to the reality
that he cannot play the guitar… yet…

someone should give this boy a pick
to pluck himself off of strings
that stifle creativity
and teach this girl her worth…

have we forgotten our childhood?

playing hide and seek with best friends
and making our mothers set an extra plate for invisible ones

yes

back then it was acceptable to talk to yourself…

but
at some point
we are told thumb-sucking
and make believe
must stop

so comfort is jerked from our mouths
and covered with hot sauce
to keep us from suckling

but old habits die hard

and some addicts put lips to body parts of strangers
instead of to ends of pipes

searching for that same comfort

pretending that it's enjoyment
instead of suffering

oh

how I envy little Doras who are free to explore the limitless boundaries of imagination…

those little boys in blue
looking for clues
still taking the time to
"think... think… thi-i-ink…”

they are kaleidoscope representations of what we used to be

free

to examine color
texture
authority
and sexuality

we have grown up too quickly

with beanstalk expectations
when our seeds of faith
were never properly planted

vine-like insecurities spread tangled webs
that bare bitter fruit
left to sit
like family secrets
and we are drunk off of judgment…

we take two steps forward
just to land on our backs
with legs spread
bracing for self-esteem to enter…

splintered family trees
with rotten roots

fields overrun with weeds

we fertilize our communities
instead of actually tending to the garden…

it in no wonder why some men saw the opportunity to do right
and just left
babies to be raised by women who barely have enough strength left

nodding heads to 50 cent's hood anthem:
"have a baby by me, baby"
be a “baby momma”…

instead of
“raise a family with me, baby”
“I'm gonna be better than my father…”

see, the first step is admitting that there's a problem…

but we are so busy complaining about our situation

too complacent to buck a system that stigmatizes therapy
because they know
mental slavery is far more effective

than any cell

in any jail

or any shackle

on any plantation

so we speak in secrecy…

hiding coded messages of tears and frustration within lines of poetry…

praying that when we hit the stage… you’ll listen…

because this space is where we dig up buried treasure long forgotten in the sandboxes
of our spirits…

hand me a shovel…

help me uncover the person waiting
beneath layers of labels
that have shoved me inside of a box…

and when I am naked…

stripped down to the core of humanity…

that's when things can begin to change…

"that's when we can move"...