Sent into the furnace of despair, poured out into the flame of proving. Placed under a burden that seems impossible to bear. Wrought by the hammer of tribulation, and tested by faith alone. Made pure as silver or fine gold, a vessel worthy of the masters hand. Polished until you are radiant and ready to be filled with the holy spirit. Only those tried by fire will be worthy of service to the lord.

Sweeter than the song of a nightingale 
Gentler than the whisper of a spring wind
Quieter than the murmur of  summer  grass 
Softer than the symphony of hyacinths 

Hypnotic like the splash of blue seas
Tinkling like a stream that flows 
Mesmerizing like the cadence of rain 
Enchanting like the hush  of snow 

Like the faint breath of a scarlet dawn 
The rustle of clouds on a turquoise high 
A duet of  night and an ivory moon
A Capella of  stars in the sky

A hymn, a chant, a choir of angels 
Singing  on a rainbow of time 
Celestial is the serenade of love  
A tune and a note divine.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that if the phrase “adding insult to injury” had a feeling,
that would be it.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it sounds like “hands up, don’t shoot,” like “i can’t breathe,”
like blood hitting a pavement that seems as though it was built
to catch those droplets.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it tastes like skittles and arizona tea,
four years old but still carrying the fresh sting of a wound just opened.
i imagine that it tastes 
like history repeating itself,
like seeing your son or daughter recycled each week
on every news report, on every tv station.
each time it is a different body, 
but it is always the same hand pulling the trigger,
the same black blood being spilled,
the same cries left unheard;
we shout “black lives matter”
and yet, still,
they cut them too short.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it looks like a web of lies too thick to cut through — 
every strand another weapon that he did or did not have,
another order that he did or did not follow,
another sin that he did or did not commit;
the only black they care about
is the color of the ink they use
to draw your angel-headed boy
a set of horns.
i imagine that it looks like evidence hidden,
like sparknotes-type skim-throughs labeled “thorough investigations,”
like another unindicted officer walking freely atop the cries of those 
who charged into a battle they knew they would, but hoped they would not, lose.
a battle they have fought too many times before.
i imagine that it looks
like an empty chair at the dinner table,
like cold-blooded ****** disguised as justice
with the help of a blue hat and a badge.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but if you listen closely enough,
you can hear it
in every cautious goodbye she says to her children whenever they leave the house,
or in the silence that those goodbyes used to fill.

can you hear it?
you will have to push past the shouts
of the big bold letters that they want you to believe.

somewhere,
somewhere in there,
a black mother’s heart is crying.
it is a gentle, hushed cry 
that the world does not want to hear.

but the tears are still just as wet.

(a.m.)

Spending a month in a hospital teaches you a lot about people.
The doctor that told me to shave my head or she wouldn't treat me,
The nurses that spent forever chatting to me
And giving me supportive advice about how my illness doesn't define me.
The woman who was given a terminal cancer sentence
And chose not to pay attention to it and defied it anyway.
How she sat next to me on my bed,
Told me that all suffering is valid,
And just because I'm not dying, doesn't mean I don't get to complain.
How she complains more about her skin problems
Than she ever complained about her cancer,
And that's OK, because pain rarely follows rules.
I never even learned her name,
But she gave me the words I hold most closely to me
On those days when I want to fall asleep and never wake up.
I'm allowed to scream and shout and rage against the pain
And the unfairness of it happening to me.
I just have to make sure I know where the line is
Between giving my darkness a voice and pitying myself.

Rilke is wrong
Life isn't right
There is too much pain
Too much hurt
Not enough light

The darkness consumes
It cannot be beat
One must just stand all alone
Shaking from head down to feet

He has to fight the outside
To improve the within
The bleakness is heavy
His strength is wearing thin

How much longer can he fight
To feel goodness and warmth
When wrong seems so easy
Cold, evil winds blow in from the north

Chilled to the bone
From a murderous gust
He digs deep in his brain
To remember to trust

Memories spring to life
The blackness fades to grey
His face smiles a bit
And suddenly, it is not such a horrible day

His soul begins to warm
He envisions a time
When someone picked him up so high
His spirit continues to climb

All darkness is gone now
The gloomy shadow has passed
Sunshine has replaced it
Out it has been cast

It is not finished forever
This he surely knows
But next time he will be ready
To stand firm until over it blows

Life may not be right
But perhaps it's not wrong
He realizes this now
And right now
He is immeasurably strong

Deep in the night the cry of a swallow,
   Under the stars he flew,
Keen as pain was his call to follow
   Over the world to you.

Love in my heart is a cry forever
   Lost as the swallow’s flight,
Seeking for you and never, never
   Stilled by the stars at night.

i should have never left home.
i should have never left the roof, the suffocation
and just stayed to die under blankets,
lest i die out in fresh air and spring.
i wish i could look you in the eye
and laugh with you, hold your hand,
let it sweat.
but i would have much rather died at home.
from here there are blinders on my eyes,
my windows and i measure my worth in
how many times you come over to just say *"hey",
(you lose points if you bring someone with you.)
another shadow cast in this already dark room,
i'd much rather die here, selfishly, with you pleading
for me to talk to you. then again, you never have.
i'll rather rot in this room, deluded and empty,
alive for now, but i'm waiting. i'll hold my own hand,
sweat it out, pretend it's yours.
i pretend to know what you'd kiss like, with your hands
against my cheek. i'll never know. (maybe i should leave--)
i should have never left home.
i'll relax here and wait for nothing to happen,
and for you to never kiss me at all.