Tag Archives: Karma

To-Get-Her: A Birthday Gift : My Big Sister Shawishi!!!!!

A poem written for my Sister Shawishi Haynes on her birthday 2-20-20114 (I never did forget I just wanted it to be my Shawishi Brand of Perfect. Accept this gift of my best part of me…. Much love and appreaciation.

You may not even remember the day you taught me a way to remember how to spell together….. Well  I do.. It is the single most influential three minutes  of my childhood.

My gift to you

what better than a piece of the best part of me….

With words I can exceed the mundane…

Words are my rain

They cleanse the mental debris moments

Left dark and turbulent

My air fresh promise ripe to inhale

I ingest each thought

Forgiveness, old pain …. each one, pleasant

Just lesson”s learned

those memories are sunshine and cloud-less skies

So here for you I will let my rain pour heavy and loud in your garden of our history

Bring you into the spring of a life, ripe and new

Days marked by the images grasped by my small and child like hands

Along the long corridors of mind where my childhood dwells I walk a mile

There in many different files resides reflective bound copies of your a smile

Your smile, unique,  piercing, extravagant

The perfect singular tribute to you

Your laugh, that laugh lingers,

draws words to it melody, magnetic, hypnotic

Can detect it’s vibration

It can be heard from distant vantage points

It’s a compass, my way to find you

it always finds you youthful,

In a library, college camps, colored paper, your study group

I sit aside my thoughts, “How pretty learning looks when it’s with you

I ask .. “Why is it purple? Your paper? When everyone else has paper white no colorful hue…

A smile appears… It’s for a class.. History Sec 102..

That is how I see that hazy day,.. learning so big and beautiful,

Colorful

You teach me things

I hear those words many times in my walk along our memories

We are in a backseat, the outside surroundings blurred

“I can’t remember” I say

‘Break it down” is your response

“To”I repeat “Get” You say “Her” We say TOGETHER

TO- GET- HER

Simply Beautiful

Every Day from then on, my brain would never let that one word

Scramble or get lost searching

It was filed in front

even today

As I spell together a smile emerges

on how you actually did “Get Me”

Faithful to your power

Loyal to your cacophony of praises

when others want to dismantle your song

All along

You so different from me

Hard to gauge emotionally

Resilient in YOUR ability to set goals and reach them

You, the epitome of what a BIG Sister  should BE

A model to emulate

A directive to refer to

The actuality of successful reality

Trembling fingers, a stomach of butterflies

I offer these broad shoulders

a place to rest your Burdens

It’s my speciality

My spiritual quest

The ability to hear the heart murmurs

Allow them the platform to scream, loud and free

without the pungent smell of perception, reception  interjection and objection

that rarely embrace or comfort

I offer my rain here, now to cleanse the walls  of your heart

erase the faded notes of thoughts unable to be relayed

Remove the residue that stains lips with words unspoken

Left abandoned to let  loved ones who have come

 vomit their words of pain

Leave the messes of their mistakes at your feet

I know many have left them there in need

I should know.. that’s how I have come to be here.

Now that I have arrived

ALLOW ME to show the tremendous power of extended hand to grasp in need

The power of a mother being what she didn’t quite receive

Allow me to show you, your beauty in the reflection of my rainbow

It shines upon you now as I have let this downpour  puddle

here in this heart emotionally able, without any murmurs

Monolithic is a bond between sisters, a club so exclusive

Reaches beyond memories, beyond experiences of now or tomorrow

So if the murmurs create any space in you hollow

I have the room for your downloads

You need to upload those thoughts losts,

Those words unspoken

or maybe somewhere between all you do,

needs left unmet

and being your little sister’s

Every day, extra-ordinary hero

Let’s GET (to-get-her)

share with you my ability to rain my words into the hearts

that touched me

Tell a world about how

in a backseat, a little girl

Unsure and unable to remember, came to be

A woman that gives the gift of words in a box wrapped with

Beginnings…

Happy Birthday dear sister

who didn’t know how together I realized a dream

Of breaking down words I could spell or remember to build them back up to bring us all together

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Filed under a rant of love, destiny, growth, life, love, The World

Chosen Mayhem

In this life we meet several crossroads and for almost 60 percent of our in awaken states are at pivotal points of transition. I have been in a stagnant point of career transition and in an evolving emotional transition for the past year of my life and am feeling moments of eruptions bubbling at my core. I have dreamed of writing for most of my life and have been told that to do it is to write daily but mostly would never be a dream realized. I have been mostly inspired in times of overwhelming moments of unrequited love. Or I have been entirely inspired in states of a feeling I have identified as love and I have tired of just loving and have yearned to be loved yet now the most inspired moments have been in moments of intellectual and cerebral states of lackadaisical and lonely activities. But most of all for most of my life I have chosen dramatic Mayhem. In days of normalcy as the world has put it, I have been stagnated by the process of living and therefore have used likely moments to earn money. The jobs have been boring mundane versions of sales and customer service jobs that become catalyst to seek out the Mayhem of the unknown, the worldly unpopular and I had let the inner voice to write die within me but then I found love years ago with a she version of male roles and the dramatic mayhem arose from illicit behaviors and my pen began to move inside of my heart, my mind and then my hand. The stories that have come from titled experience is a contaminated puss of life’s infection and it’s gory and a chosen Mayhem that has labeled me a self destructive problem among my family and friends, yet now the dream to never be realized seems real and the emotional growth stunted years ago is in a growth spurt. The marriage of my heart, soul and mind has bore children of faith and confidence. Yet to be a winner among the eyes of the world I must produce something. Late this evening doing what others find as problematic I have began to think of ways to prosper in this world of calm a new type of productive chosen Mayhem free of negative influences, people and love unrequited. A new active force of myself that allows me this normalcy that world desires of me, a forgiveness of those and a unpolluted day to day magnet to what is good. I want to write and I have been doing so in states of emotional tyranny in states of inspired awe and in states of out of mind highs induced by narcotics, be it the wine from a store, the blow from a party, the grass from a freedom thinker, the speed from the forlorn doctor and I love all those different states of me as much as I hate thinking of rent, bills and days without a man who has chosen a woman for sexual sales over my faithful dedication to he and I am wondering will they applaud my “writers” honesty when my pages are printed or will they baffle their own perceptions of what they thought judgments to the point of hating the me that is revealed the girl who enjoyed her chosen Mayhem. The woman who has found a faith in a God so many use as a weapon instead of a common love supplier dealing his forgiveness as willingly as the neighbor dope man deals his dope. Will the world always see the different as crazy and will I be labeled and filed under that category myself.
I am of the crazed creative clan that feels music when it plays like vibrating touches, notes scaling the skin and words permeating the air inhaled like oxygen. I am a watcher of movies who sees the beauty beyond the words but in the depth of the lessons that love is the true currency in this life. The eyes that see the fear in the dialogue lost to monsters for they are products of true hate of the different and unloved. Jason killing for the desire to be taken to trick or treat yet left to the pain of youth, the freddy burned for his childlike innocence to the point of corrupting dreams yet most see just the killing the blood but care not of why? Walking the reality streets of our everyday world as the high rise building house zombies seeking only more green tinted number denoted pieces of paper for status so why is exhibited and never needs to be investigated. Yet the mayhem they have chosen is acceptable in the eyes of this world and still the homes of this fanatical currency chasers still desire what their why can’t create. Love and companionship. Their stereos blast words of bitter, brave, longing, touching, feeling lyrical prose that darkened hearts have bleed, sweat and cried to have heard while they down sweet darkened spirits, inhale green image provoking trees, inhale chemically crowning white clouds, to quiet the pains of those they pass, to dull the leech like fire of loves emotional and mental pulls. Then they croon, write, paint, create versions of emotions that these others cannot explain yet somehow relate to when see, heard, or even tasted as we starve for their comforts, yet smile more days, cry more days, draw from more faith then they. It was a chosen mayhem to walk among the emotionally dying, be lost to the darkness of misunderstood pain and just ask why? Why are you angry? Why don’t you believe? Why not me? Why did you? Why do I? Many laws with I didn’t comply. Many rules left broken. Yet many souls have called to me to just be heard, asking for my way with words to transcend what in me was broken, to be the gateway, their love the token to pay my way to entry into the minds of the zombies who ask me to chose the mayhem that can be noted acceptable, I wasn’t detectable so I rode alone until they asked me to share that sweet brown spirit or inhale they tree, and there is where the story began to seep free…

Find Me In My Written Word

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