Rising Through Love [10/30]

Falling in love is not hard
Rising through love is the struggle
Staying through nights
that appear hopeless
Dismantling walls of pain
from past experiences
Persevering through someone else’s angst
because they are afraid to release
yesteryear’s contradiction
the hesitation left behind
because she was scandalous enough
to fuck yo childhood best friend
and the payback you dished out
by bringing home an outside kid
Naw falling in love is not hard
Rising through it is the struggle
never knowing what love really
looks like cause you’ve never been able
to pick it out of a crowd
nor what it taste like
cause of that bitter herb
left in your mouth
But contrary to the thought
It is not the scars left on the heart
By names like bitch or whore
Favorites like are you stupid
The words you will never be shit
Or you ain’t shit
Or you ain’t gon’ do shit
The names of other women
being called upon in his dreams
while you lay pretending to be asleep
The scent of another man’s cologne
Lingering in the air
when you enter your own damn home
Reaching under the bed
to retrieve the remote
that now lay beside
Someone else’s nasty ass underwear
Naw it ain’t none of that
But if that’s your story
what it is and what it can be
is learning to love all over again
understanding that the other season
had to end in order for you to meet
who was actually intended
as your very best friend
and then maybe
just maybe
you’ll understand
what being in love is
and how rising through love
feels

© Erika Gresham 1/3/10

Wisdom's Mother [5/30]

I want to run in fields
with sunflowers
the size of sequoia trees
Sit back to back
with wisdom’s mother
close my eyes and
see what she sees

Vanish into the
seams of the sky
Laugh hysterically
at my old habits and
adolescent thinking
As others attempt
to slide into her paradise
without first asking

Wondering if my
permission slip
was signed
or forged by
Arrogance
Infidelity
Malice
Deceit
They question me

And although
I’ll admit to wanting
to circumvent
the obstacles
set before me
Dodge the daggers
thrown at me
Ignore the insults
spoken to me

Even appear
without challenges
more intelligent
culturally centered
tolerance proof
and understand how
to love unconditionally

I recognized
without trying
That I eventually
allowed myself to
dream
Become a
clean slate
Open to
another’s journey
Primed for
new understandings
Painted by
an unknown love
And fed by
her creations
I allowed
wisdom’s mother
to teach me

© Erika L. Gresham 12/22/09

48 Hours [4/30]

Forty
Eight
Hours
A fraction of time
Printed boldly in Times New Roman
Streaming on the ticker tape of my mind
Altering my perception at 19
And changing my life
48 hours of contractions
No sedation
Prodded and poked
while running the last lap to
the finish line of gestation
a boy
a girl
a plan
God’s divine hand
Placed in my womb
chiseling the last of his face and

48 hours of nervousness and
hesitation
questioning God
like really?
Are you sure? and
answers coming back
with sharp pains
Then crowning me mother and
presenting me with roses of strength
Bond in a blanket
Placed in my arms
Sleeping peacefully
Making faces while dreaming and

48 hours of me smiling
insanely while sleeping
Never knowing til now
if it be Queen or King
He or she
Just glad my petition
Was granted by He
Just let ‘em be healthy
All ten toes
Ten fingers
a nose and
Eyes like mine
to stop me
From yelling when angry
Cause me to stop flinging words
That may hurt and think
Remind me that this is a part of me
The earth of me
The best of me and
That he
be blessed with the
ability to think
analytically
politically
individually
stand chin high
know his power
but sometimes I wonder
did I pray too hard?
lie too close to the floor?
because He gave me
all I asked and a little more
stubbornness
selfishness
a bit too much arrogance
and the ability to talk back
making me want to strike back
and often times I did
irritated by what looks abnormal
but is standard teenage ego tripping
and as 48 hours introduces itself
to two decades
I still struggle like I did then
struggle with this
man-child’s destiny
his independent thoughts
decisions I may not agree with
but must step back and
not interrupt life’s professors
what often appears
to me as acts to self destruction
inflicting more harm than good
in the name of making his own choices
growing pains that don’t seem to
spawn growth
but it his 48 now
his time to make decisions
his time to begin living
searching
constructing his own visions
that who I once called boy
is now on the hunt
to become man and
I just want him to grow
into his second name
Ashanti
A name that rest at
the head of a community
warriors,
fighters,
providers,
kings
I just want him to
open his eyes and see
but I can only sit back
Allowing the seed
I planted to breathe
and maybe his first
and middle names
shall meet
merge and formulate
the identity of a man
who can step boldly from
his own 48 hours
of alteration
knowing his life
will never be the same

© Erika Gresham 12/21/09

This Day [1/30]

I’ve wasted far too many tears
On seeds that don’t believe
Caressing memories
And yet I’m trying to scoop them up
Bury them in my bosom
Carry them in my sleeves
Preparing for yet another forecast of rain

But I can’t
And I try
But I can’t
Remembering how to cry is foreign
So I watch as tears crawl downwards
Between my fingers in search of another
To welcome them home
Cause I don’t anymore

For I can only see
the orange-crimson haze
Peeking from the earth’s edge
Patting the ground dry
Absorbing my anxiety
Wrestling with my storms
Holding them at bay
And telling me
To hurry
Run away
Walk on by
Walk on by the past
Open your eyes to this day

© Erika Gresham 12/18/09

Not Your Platform

I will not be your platform

love unreciprocated

always offering a listening ear

a shoulder to lean on

a word of inspiration

favors rarely ever returned

as emotions fill the room

leaving me with feelings of confusion

to hang in the rafters

all simply because

you are going through again....

I will not be your platform

you will not burden me

weigh me down

wiggling your way back

into the recesses of my mind

infiltrating my thoughts

penetrating my heart

scratching up my rotation

leaving gaps in my flow

creating a repetitive rhythm

that attempts to drives me insane

all because you think you got it together again....

I will not be your platform

for you to perform a tap dance on

like a I'm the latest showtune on Broadway

or offer me illusions like David Blaine on a neighborhood street corner in the Bronx

often mystical, never seen before

levitations of reality

floating on love's misery

with a slight of hand ruining my future

You see, this game that you normally run on me

use to be seen through impaired eyes

unable to conceptualize

how I got here and why

later only to cry myself to sleep at

torn to pieces inside 

because you wanted to try us again.......

I will not be your platform

for your tricked out lines

to practice daredevil stunts

pumped by selfish adrenaline

revving my emotions

drag racing over my heart

because you now believe

you are ready to love me

unconditionally

chanting that

"we can conquer the world together baby" melody

that I’ve heard somewhere before

because it’s really your usual number

with a slightly new title and tune

but the message is exactly the same

because bottom line

some shit just won't ever change

No, baby I will not be your platform

because I have my own agenda

I’ve written my own screenplay

I plan to make my own waves

I plan to have my own say

I plan to do my own thang

I plan to toss that old reality

and walk into my original destiny

I plan to love unconditionally

I plan to enjoy love’s reciprocity

I plan to do those things you wouldn’t

I plan to take those roads you couldn’t

I plan to climb those mountains we dreamed of

I plan to cross those valleys we spoke of

and I apologize if you thought

there was an open door policy

because no,

you sir are not written

into this chapter of my life

so could you please be ohh so kind 

and get ya ass off my stage

DrkTearz © 2006/Revision 2009

 

Follow Me...

follow me.......
as we realize that the world
never is as large as we think
because souls collide
and reality shrinks in
trapping those that chose to walk
dared not run to chase ambitious goals
and now sit
humming in unison
hymns of shattered dreams
hopes never sustaining breath
because instant gratification was sought
and patience was cast aside

follow me........
as we watch the wishful
dashing around searching
for a hint of promised glory
only stumbling upon shards
of glass once joined and half filled
skeptical of those that now dream
reevaluating their pass of life’s challenges
wishing they would have adorned the gloves
and put up a good fight instead
of tossing in the towel

follow me....
as we study the gambler
who accepts challenges boldly
collecting wisdom from those that
went before him and triumphed
waiting for the perfect hand
carefully deciding what to retain
and what to cast away
awaiting his opportunity to call game
and collect on life’s perseverance

follow me...
as the orchestrator prepares
his grand finale displaying
the performance of a lifetime
one that withstood the pressure
of emulating selfish success
by restructuring morals
to astonish the young with
images of lust and words of
anger, rage, riches, status

follow me....
as I introduce you
to the solo dancer
who chose to set her on
tempo, strutting to the beat
of a different drum
one filled with idealistic visions of
love, success, contributions
to this land, to her family
visions of a child
later realized and understood
that though movements and steps
may change with life’s music
the choice to lead or to guide
sets the tone for a life fulfilled

© 2006 Erika G.

Memories of Spring 1990

Today, my son entered his 19th year of life and although this prose was done as a writing exercise a few years ago, it brings a smile to my face each time I read it. So now I'm sharing it with you.



As I watch him, lying there, sleeping so peacefully, I wonder did God intend to give him to me? At night, I go to his crib and stare at him intently crying in silence not really knowing what’s in store for us. Now, here I am over a month later once again questioning God’s intent for me. I mean look at his tiny little hands and feet. He’s so fragile. I’m still afraid to hold him.

As he sleeps, he looks like he’s smiling. I wonder what’s on your mind, little warrior. Are you thinking about your future the way I am? I wonder daily where he will fall in this world built on greed and envy. Will he grow to be someone admired by the world? Or just the local street thugs? Will he grow to become a strong man, husband, and father? Or just another man following in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps not knowing how to be a father himself?

How will I know what to do? Will I be able to comfort him with the trials he will face in his life? Counsel him through pain and loss? Will I be able to teach him how to ride a bike, throw a football, drive a car? Can I actually teach him how a real man treats a real woman? Look at my little warrior, Dominique Ashanti, sleeping without a care in the world. I stand next to his crib hoping I will be able to handle the task set before me. And at that moment, on a rainy day in March 1990, the Lord saw fit to tell me "Erika, you and this child I’ve given you, will be just fine".

Written March 2006 by Erika G.

careLESS

Sometimes I wish I didn't give a damn
I wish I could walk like I have nowhere to go
Then my journey wouldn't seem so hard
My emotions wouldn't collide with my rationale
My sanity would override my sentiments
Feelings that were once complex
yearning freedom of expression and acceptance
rejoice in tranquility and simplicity
the breeding grounds for confusion
washed away by quiet complacency

Because I would no longer stop to worry
where it is that I should be
or what direction is the best route for me
I can stop caring
dry my eyes and stop crying
no longer feeling the urge
to pause to write
because really I won't have the time
to give a damn
 
Erika G. 11/07

My Tears Are Bittersweet

What do tears taste like?
A question presented that now I ponder
can it actually be defined?
I wonder
is there another response
not resembling the salt of the ocean’s water?
or through nightly studies of my own tastings
will I ever be supplied with a definitive answer?
For I realize though
we may discover some similarities
your perception may not be likened to my reality
and to this we will probably disagree
but be mindful
even twin flames destined
to live happily ever after
are given conditional guarantees
So I doubt that your tears taste like mine
Nor mine like yours
for you may have tears of honey
all that is good and pleasing to savor
but mine
my tears are both bitter and sweet
containing the aftertaste of love
as uncertainties above my head loom
a mixture of emotions
that on the tip of my tongue
have left questions heightened
by my own delectable senses
of what it is that I have actually consumed
So my tears
are bittersweet
 
 
What do tears taste like?
Sometimes my tears taste like
memories of two that were blessed
united as one
producing an intoxicating feeling
like the finest of liquors
for our love was suppose to conquer all
no time for anger or sadness
crossing over obstacles hand in hand
vowing a promise to always be
and like Lauryn and D’Angelo
"Nothing else really mattered"
but we learned that
it did
because around my feet lay
the pieces of our hopes and dreams shattered
like a vintage mirror that lay in disarray
damn near impossible to replace
and so the sweet became bitter
and memories were hard to remember
made hazy by shadows of doubt and fear
that maybe we were to never have been here
trying to take matters into our own hands
never stopping to consider where we were going
or how this may all eventually end
only knowing that he loved me more than any other man
and I loved him beyond what I myself could comprehend
So my tears
are bittersweet
 
 
What do tears taste like?
Sometimes my tears taste like
the first time we met
the warmth of that first smile
and ease of our first conversation
his silliness and confidence
that was neither cocky nor arrogant
but quickly garnered my attention
just a man being what a man should be
for we both had high hopes and ambitions
a person to whom I could simply relate
exchange thoughts, share doctrines and appreciate
and one day something happened to me inside
that I had never experienced in this here life
it was during one of our first few times together
I found myself envisioning the words "I do"
and becoming this man’s wife forever
and I did
kind of
of course now I only see him in my dreams
and I awake thinking about his embrace
the way he kissed my neck as he held onto me
visions I have tried unsuccessfully to erase
I sit remembering now what I couldn’t then
as things changed and our laughter was hushed
by silence that spoke so loudly that noone could hear
or feel hearts being torn apart as hours faded into days
and days introduced themselves to weeks of monotony
living in a state of denial and routine pleasantries
dismissing that nothing was truly wrong
or just deciding maybe its me
but just as a wound left unclean becomes infected
lack of hope
or was it lack of faith
or was it just lack of-
left us both feeling neglected
So my tears
are bittersweet
 
What do tears taste like?
My tears taste like
memories of what could have been
watching our boys as they become men
and visions of our love forming a healthy baby girl
watching her grow into a beautiful young lady
something which we never quite created
and with the sweetness of berries
and the bitterness of a plum that
has yet to ripen
I am left
with a mixture of good and bad
some happy
others sad
tears that are at times pleasant and sour
like a pasture covered with wild flowers
something that I would not partake
so an assumption for anyone else
I am not qualified to make
but I have tasted my own tears
and they are both
bitter and sweet

Erika G. © 11/2006