started scribbling this poem after beginning a monthly writing session at the wellspring living victory program, a home for girls who have been victims of sex trafficking, exploitation, and abuse. you can check out more info and support the work of wellspring living here: http://www.wellspringliving.org.
for the girls at wellspring
these women
have seen more storms before the age of 16 than I have known in all my years
these girls were forced to be women
responsibility and sexuality and violation forced down their throats and in between their legs
they had no silver spoon
were never spoon fed anything except miniscule amounts of love
one writes
of a dark alley
watching the ravaging of another girl
wishing for superheroes or God to save her
another writes
of her proud Latina heritage
the rhythm of her people dancing in the consonants of her poetry
another writes
of anger pent up, folded, rolled and stuffed
that now must be opened up, examined and freed
I feel inadequate
what do I have to teach these women?
I am a student in their classroom of how to survive
how to not let life beat you down
how to crucify and resurrect
I write and talk with them
a few are bubbly attention-getters
some are quietly ruminating
some listen to and watch me but refuse to talk or scribble
some sleep through the entire session
this is no ordinary classroom
I work with who I can
whisper silent blessings and gratitude over those who albeit quiet are here and alive to tell of it
words and stories
sit in the stomachs of women like these
crawl up their windpipe
tire, fatigue and then rest in the throat
eventually, the weary words make it to the tongue, to ink
and this is the day I hope for these precious ones
a place to be free and unedited
11.13.2011
4.27.2011
poem: letter to the emcee
so it's national poetry month. figured i could at least post one poem before the month runs out. here's one of the newest ones i've written. i wrote this poem at a hip hop show while watching a wack emcee perform. goes to show that wackness can be its own form of inspiration. :)
letter to the emcee
i don't want your
wack rap lines
don't want your tired metaphors and limp analogies
sick of your false manhood and your oversexuality disguised as womanhood
do not want to see your button down unbuttoned three buttons down
do not prefer your short shorts and skirts
showing your breasts, thighs, chest, biceps, doesn't entice me
nor does it make your rhymes have skill
I don't care about your endorsements
about your mixtape download remix
your jesus piece doesn't matter to me
your rented cars and fronted g4 flights bore me
could care less about your record deal, your advance, the units you pushed, the gold platinum you sold
don't care about your crew, your set, your peeps, your hoes
don't want to hear about your sexual exploits
about your tongue's run in with bottles and cans
how much money has changed hands
how much tapping and banging and smashing
about your high class vacations and exclusive hotels
so what?
oh well
i. don't. care.
what i like
what i wanna see you do
is stand on the corner in your own hood
shove one hand into the pocket of your hoodie
place one hand on your chest
pull that hood over your head and ears
and listen to your heart
listen to the streets you came from
tell me a story i've never heard
tell me a story i've heard a thousand times and help me see it through new eyes
break out your spiral notebook
scrawl. scribble. write.
until your hand cramps up
until the sun comes up
until your lunch break is over
until your boss catches you
until all the words in your head rest
so you can catch shuteye for a few hours to wake up and do it all again
rhyme.
while you restock the shelves at walmart
after you put the kids to bed
while your math teacher lectures equations
unspool the lines wound in your head
hold them in your mouth until you can give them a place to play
i don't need you to be pretty or rich or sexy or gangsta or hood
i need you to be an artist
a master of ceremony
who finds the break beat
laying rhymes into it like so much mortar and brick
building verse and chorus with the technique of a sculptor
freestyle
like your family's mouths depended on it
like the beat beats in your chest
like hip hop runs through your capillaries
give me music to listen to
prove to me that keep it real is no cliche
make fresh and dope and cool more meaningful than words marketing companies throw on ads and tshirts
tell me the hook so i can say it after you
so i can raise one hand in the air and keep it there
i'll be waiting for you
with an old set of headphones, a boombox and an mpc
please
for me
just be an emcee.
letter to the emcee
i don't want your
wack rap lines
don't want your tired metaphors and limp analogies
sick of your false manhood and your oversexuality disguised as womanhood
do not want to see your button down unbuttoned three buttons down
do not prefer your short shorts and skirts
showing your breasts, thighs, chest, biceps, doesn't entice me
nor does it make your rhymes have skill
I don't care about your endorsements
about your mixtape download remix
your jesus piece doesn't matter to me
your rented cars and fronted g4 flights bore me
could care less about your record deal, your advance, the units you pushed, the gold platinum you sold
don't care about your crew, your set, your peeps, your hoes
don't want to hear about your sexual exploits
about your tongue's run in with bottles and cans
how much money has changed hands
how much tapping and banging and smashing
about your high class vacations and exclusive hotels
so what?
oh well
i. don't. care.
what i like
what i wanna see you do
is stand on the corner in your own hood
shove one hand into the pocket of your hoodie
place one hand on your chest
pull that hood over your head and ears
and listen to your heart
listen to the streets you came from
tell me a story i've never heard
tell me a story i've heard a thousand times and help me see it through new eyes
break out your spiral notebook
scrawl. scribble. write.
until your hand cramps up
until the sun comes up
until your lunch break is over
until your boss catches you
until all the words in your head rest
so you can catch shuteye for a few hours to wake up and do it all again
rhyme.
while you restock the shelves at walmart
after you put the kids to bed
while your math teacher lectures equations
unspool the lines wound in your head
hold them in your mouth until you can give them a place to play
i don't need you to be pretty or rich or sexy or gangsta or hood
i need you to be an artist
a master of ceremony
who finds the break beat
laying rhymes into it like so much mortar and brick
building verse and chorus with the technique of a sculptor
freestyle
like your family's mouths depended on it
like the beat beats in your chest
like hip hop runs through your capillaries
give me music to listen to
prove to me that keep it real is no cliche
make fresh and dope and cool more meaningful than words marketing companies throw on ads and tshirts
tell me the hook so i can say it after you
so i can raise one hand in the air and keep it there
i'll be waiting for you
with an old set of headphones, a boombox and an mpc
please
for me
just be an emcee.
1.12.2011
The Artist's Dance
*I originally wrote this article for CatalystSpace.com and thought I'd repost it here.
When was the last time you danced? – Cee-lo Green
A couple of years ago I took dance lessons, learned a dance that requires you to simultaneously count steps, feel the music, and follow your partner. Found myself thinking less about the steps as my feet intuitively learned what to do. Then, life got busy. I was too tired, too preoccupied with knocking off my to do list to make time for dancing. By the time I tried the dance again, my feet were clueless, slow going like a child’s brain struggling to remember vocabulary words on the first day of school after a summer spent with water slides and ice cream cones.
The artistic journey is like this for many of us. We wrote, painted, danced, sang, played, until we were spent. Then, responsibility got the best of us. We “grew up” became “responsible.” Too busy for dancing.
Your desire to artistically dance will not go away. The Creator of creativity put it there. The question is will you come back to the dance floor. Will you endure the process of your feet clumsily rediscovering what to do?
All artists fear the same thing. Whether it’s a canvas, page, sheet music, or a blinking cursor, we detest the blank. It’s the time when all these creepy, negative voices start peeling out of the darkness like dancers from the Thriller music video taunting you with all of the reasons why no one is ever going to read, listen to, watch, care about whatever it is you're doing. Sometimes in the humdrum of life, jobs, responsibility, we shy away from being artists, because it forces us to reckon with what we’re not doing with the gifts God gave us.
As much as you fear failing and having no audience but your mom who thinks everything you make is amazing, you want the journey, the stumble, to feel the fear blowing hard against your skin. You want to lean into it and do what’s in your heart. The following are some guideposts to help get those creepy Thriller dancers with their negativity, put in their proper place so you can get your art to dancing again.
Cultivate a Creative Place.
Despite the propaganda pushed by many artists, inspiration is not a spontaneous, effortless experience. Creativity is akin to discipline, a muscle that must be worked and stretched to prevent atrophy. Train your creative brain to know when and how to open up and be creative. I can find a creative space anywhere as long as I have pen, page, and John Coltrane. What are your tools of the trade? Where can you go consistently and often to find your creative place?
Giving way to the art inside you will require solitude. Even Jesus had a place where he withdrew to be with God, alone. Prayer and creativity coexist. In the same way that you can find a solitary place to connect with your Creator, acclimating your soul to opening up to him, you can learn the rhythm of creativity straight from the Creator. Find a place to connect with God and bring your instrument of choice.
Hone your craft. When Solomon was getting ready to build the temple he didn’t just call for people who were passionate about what they did, he called for master artisans (2 Chronicles 2:5-7).
Stay connected with the arts scene.
In the book of Acts when Paul was making his case to the people of Athens about how near God was to them, about how they lived, moved, and could find their being in him, he quoted one of their poets. This is an excellent example of why it’s important to know “the poets” or influential voices in the culture where you are living life and sharing Jesus. The only way Paul was able to quote their poets was to listen to them.
Stay current with your arts scene through social networking, blogging, and checking out artistic events in your local city. Try engaging with art that is opposite of the genre you normally work in.
Shine is not a bling reference, nor is this about creating buzz for yourself. This is about shining a Jesus light, the kind of light that never goes out. In a room full of lamps, more light doesn’t so much matter. In a place with only shadow, light rescues. God wants art to introduce all of us to him, in whatever way he chooses to do this.
I love how Paul says it here, “Go out into the world uncorrupted, a breath of fresh air in this squalid and polluted society. Provide people with a glimpse of good living and of the living God. Carry the light-giving Message into the night…” (Phillippians 2:14-16, The Message)
How can you engage more with people who may not believe like you? With other artists and creative people?
At some point this week, find your solitary place and grab a pen, paintbrush, instrument, or piece of choreography. Yes you’ll be clumsy at first. You’ll stumble around until you find your way, but eventually you’ll dance again.
Each of you must take responsibility for doing the creative best you can with your own life. – Paul (Galatians 6:5)
When was the last time you danced? – Cee-lo Green
A couple of years ago I took dance lessons, learned a dance that requires you to simultaneously count steps, feel the music, and follow your partner. Found myself thinking less about the steps as my feet intuitively learned what to do. Then, life got busy. I was too tired, too preoccupied with knocking off my to do list to make time for dancing. By the time I tried the dance again, my feet were clueless, slow going like a child’s brain struggling to remember vocabulary words on the first day of school after a summer spent with water slides and ice cream cones.
The artistic journey is like this for many of us. We wrote, painted, danced, sang, played, until we were spent. Then, responsibility got the best of us. We “grew up” became “responsible.” Too busy for dancing.
Your desire to artistically dance will not go away. The Creator of creativity put it there. The question is will you come back to the dance floor. Will you endure the process of your feet clumsily rediscovering what to do?
All artists fear the same thing. Whether it’s a canvas, page, sheet music, or a blinking cursor, we detest the blank. It’s the time when all these creepy, negative voices start peeling out of the darkness like dancers from the Thriller music video taunting you with all of the reasons why no one is ever going to read, listen to, watch, care about whatever it is you're doing. Sometimes in the humdrum of life, jobs, responsibility, we shy away from being artists, because it forces us to reckon with what we’re not doing with the gifts God gave us.
As much as you fear failing and having no audience but your mom who thinks everything you make is amazing, you want the journey, the stumble, to feel the fear blowing hard against your skin. You want to lean into it and do what’s in your heart. The following are some guideposts to help get those creepy Thriller dancers with their negativity, put in their proper place so you can get your art to dancing again.
Cultivate a Creative Place.
Despite the propaganda pushed by many artists, inspiration is not a spontaneous, effortless experience. Creativity is akin to discipline, a muscle that must be worked and stretched to prevent atrophy. Train your creative brain to know when and how to open up and be creative. I can find a creative space anywhere as long as I have pen, page, and John Coltrane. What are your tools of the trade? Where can you go consistently and often to find your creative place?
Giving way to the art inside you will require solitude. Even Jesus had a place where he withdrew to be with God, alone. Prayer and creativity coexist. In the same way that you can find a solitary place to connect with your Creator, acclimating your soul to opening up to him, you can learn the rhythm of creativity straight from the Creator. Find a place to connect with God and bring your instrument of choice.
Hone your craft. When Solomon was getting ready to build the temple he didn’t just call for people who were passionate about what they did, he called for master artisans (2 Chronicles 2:5-7).
Stay connected with the arts scene.
In the book of Acts when Paul was making his case to the people of Athens about how near God was to them, about how they lived, moved, and could find their being in him, he quoted one of their poets. This is an excellent example of why it’s important to know “the poets” or influential voices in the culture where you are living life and sharing Jesus. The only way Paul was able to quote their poets was to listen to them.
Stay current with your arts scene through social networking, blogging, and checking out artistic events in your local city. Try engaging with art that is opposite of the genre you normally work in.
Shine is not a bling reference, nor is this about creating buzz for yourself. This is about shining a Jesus light, the kind of light that never goes out. In a room full of lamps, more light doesn’t so much matter. In a place with only shadow, light rescues. God wants art to introduce all of us to him, in whatever way he chooses to do this.
I love how Paul says it here, “Go out into the world uncorrupted, a breath of fresh air in this squalid and polluted society. Provide people with a glimpse of good living and of the living God. Carry the light-giving Message into the night…” (Phillippians 2:14-16, The Message)
How can you engage more with people who may not believe like you? With other artists and creative people?
At some point this week, find your solitary place and grab a pen, paintbrush, instrument, or piece of choreography. Yes you’ll be clumsy at first. You’ll stumble around until you find your way, but eventually you’ll dance again.
Each of you must take responsibility for doing the creative best you can with your own life. – Paul (Galatians 6:5)
11.27.2010
Christmas Poem Script Available for Download!
Some of you have asked if I have poems based on holiday themes. I don't have a poem for every holiday but I do have one for Christmas. The script is available for download as well as an mp3. I hope this is helpful especially for those of you planning services and events. Let me know how it goes!
AMENA BROWN - CHRISTMAS POEM SCRIPT
AMENA BROWN - CHRISTMAS POEM DOWNLOAD
AMENA BROWN - CHRISTMAS POEM SCRIPT
AMENA BROWN - CHRISTMAS POEM DOWNLOAD
5.09.2010
Poem: God Bless Mom
happy mother's day to my wonderful mom, jeanne brown. thank you for your constant love, support, and encouragement. your determination, dedication and love for God inspires me! i love you!
God Bless Mom
My mother read books to the swollen stomach that would become me
Read about what to expect when you’re expecting
About disciples, apostles, prophets, sinners and saints
Until her semi-colon burst
Sending amniotic vowels and consonants to splitting apart
The time between my sentences grew less than five minutes apart
My paragraph had arrived
Her margins stretched ten sonometers wide
So quickly that there would be no time for epidural or explanation
She must breathe, push, labor count to ten
And then count ten fingers and ten toes
Traced her fingers along the lines of
Little ears little nose little mouth little eyes
From the light of touch lamp on nightstand
She read me golden books
Sat me down in peter’s chair
Kicked me rhymes from the berenstein bears
We put our hands together and said our prayers
That God would bless teddy ruxpin
Barbie and ken
That God would bless Sydney, my one-eyed stuffed animal koala bear best friend
That God would bless daddy and grandma,
Right before mom showed me where the wild things are
She read to me until I was reading her to sleep
Words given to me by the number 5 and the letter a on sesame street
And Oh the places I would go
With Sam, green eggs and ham in tow
Searching for golden tickets in Roald Dahl’s prose
I wanted to float on giant peaches with James
Read Beverly Cleary, Ramona and Beezus until I was Amena the Brave
I never went through that stage of slipping my little girl feet into my mom’s heels to play dress up
I just wanted to read her library when I grew up
Hoping I could be one of Mufaro’s beautiful daughters
Maybe one day, turn the pages of Tar Baby
She took me to find my roots in the handshake of Alex Haley
Taught me to love the stale paper scent of the library
To treasure books, cards, and stationary
Years later she joins me at kitchen table,
Talking womanhood over the scent of earl gray tea
Taking in all the mystery, life’s and Walter Mosley’s
Trading Baldwin and Baraka
Singing Songs of Solomon
Exchanging journals, wisdom and pens
She reminds me with skillful subtlety that sometimes this is where the sidewalk ends
That many storylines come to an end only for better ones to begin
Life is a page-turner and you should write your own plot twists
Words are written to be read even if the only reader is you
Many will call themselves writers, but there’s only one Author who knows the end from the beginning
Sometimes the hardest and best thing you’ll ever do in your life is trust him
Never forget to pay close attention to your character
Remember that people are characters, they come and go but never discount them
People are characters and your story won’t happen without them
There is light in the attic, at the end of tunnels, and in her eyes
So, tonight before I shut off nightstand light
I’ll pray for God to bless mom and I’ll read myself to sleep
4.12.2010
Poem: Roots & Wings
in follow-up to "chocolate mista" and in celebration of national poetry month, here is the poem "roots & wings" that chronicles my first time performing my own poetry in public. the video footage is from my performance of "roots and wings" live at java monkey coffeehouse in decatur, ga in 2008 and is also featured on the live at java monkey cd. enjoy. :)
Roots & Wings
I didn’t mean to do it
I mean they sold me out
As soon he asked were there any poets in the house
I was the one who got fingerpointed
Pushed and shoved to the center of a carpet stage
A tiny bookstore, Montgomery, Alabama
It was called Roots and Wings
I was probably standing somewhere between Nikki Giovanni’s love poems and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
I think I recalled Nathan McCall, because it definitely made me wanna holla
When I looked out at the 50 some odd of my classmates faces staring back at me
While I nervously tried my photographic memory
Trying to recall the words on a page I’d written over and over again
But never imagined I’d say out loud in front of anyone
I couldn’t believe that anybody was on the edge of their seat listening to me
I was only seventeen
Somewhere I found the courage and it carried me line for line until the end
And after all the hugs and smiles from friends
I was still shaking
That’s when I knew this was real
That words have wings
That they are kind of like birds but mostly like children
Who you groom and raise
You hope you’ve shaped them well
That a sky that has no limits will receive them
That someday somebody will take them home
Call them their own
That they will find a place to belong
I came from a line where righteousness ran through the blood like sugar and rolling stone daddies
And maybe the people who were pushing me had been here long before my classmates
Maybe my grandparents and their preacher sisters and brothers were pushing me too
They fed me parables and I acquired a taste for truth
They stood behind pulpits and I stand behind this mic
Just like them I have to get on my knees and hum prayers when words don’t suffice
Sing the hymns that can’t be found in hymnbooks
Learn to lean on everlasting arms and hold fast to the words that only God can write on hearts
These hands never knew picking cotton
But the hands that did knew how to spin stories
Knew how to sew quilts of memory so I could read my family history in a stitch
Every time my grandmother speaks I realize that words have roots
That they are kind of like trees but mostly like seeds
Who you groom and raise
You hope you plant them well
That fertile ground will receive them
That they will find a place to stand and stretch their meaning
That someday somebody will take them home
Call them their own
That they will find a place to belong
Words keep teaching me to dream
Keep reminding me that God listens when I sing
That’s how I know this is real
And I am still shaking.
Roots & Wings
I didn’t mean to do it
I mean they sold me out
As soon he asked were there any poets in the house
I was the one who got fingerpointed
Pushed and shoved to the center of a carpet stage
A tiny bookstore, Montgomery, Alabama
It was called Roots and Wings
I was probably standing somewhere between Nikki Giovanni’s love poems and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
I think I recalled Nathan McCall, because it definitely made me wanna holla
When I looked out at the 50 some odd of my classmates faces staring back at me
While I nervously tried my photographic memory
Trying to recall the words on a page I’d written over and over again
But never imagined I’d say out loud in front of anyone
I couldn’t believe that anybody was on the edge of their seat listening to me
I was only seventeen
Somewhere I found the courage and it carried me line for line until the end
And after all the hugs and smiles from friends
I was still shaking
That’s when I knew this was real
That words have wings
That they are kind of like birds but mostly like children
Who you groom and raise
You hope you’ve shaped them well
That a sky that has no limits will receive them
That someday somebody will take them home
Call them their own
That they will find a place to belong
I came from a line where righteousness ran through the blood like sugar and rolling stone daddies
And maybe the people who were pushing me had been here long before my classmates
Maybe my grandparents and their preacher sisters and brothers were pushing me too
They fed me parables and I acquired a taste for truth
They stood behind pulpits and I stand behind this mic
Just like them I have to get on my knees and hum prayers when words don’t suffice
Sing the hymns that can’t be found in hymnbooks
Learn to lean on everlasting arms and hold fast to the words that only God can write on hearts
These hands never knew picking cotton
But the hands that did knew how to spin stories
Knew how to sew quilts of memory so I could read my family history in a stitch
Every time my grandmother speaks I realize that words have roots
That they are kind of like trees but mostly like seeds
Who you groom and raise
You hope you plant them well
That fertile ground will receive them
That they will find a place to stand and stretch their meaning
That someday somebody will take them home
Call them their own
That they will find a place to belong
Words keep teaching me to dream
Keep reminding me that God listens when I sing
That’s how I know this is real
And I am still shaking.
4.05.2010
Poem: Chocolate Mista
it's national poetry month! last year i tried writing a poem a day...i only made it to day 7. lol this year i'm posting some of my favorite poetry quotes on facebook and i'm posting the work of some of my favorite poets on twitter. i am also digging some poems out of the archives and thought it would be fitting to start with this one. i'll be posting a difference archive once a week this month so check back for more shenanigans. :)
"chocolate mista" is the first performance poem i ever wrote. i was seventeen and had probably recently watched love jones. lol i performed this piece for the first time during spring break of my senior year in high school in a bookstore called roots & wings. wrote a poem about that too so maybe i'll post that one later this month also. :D haven't performed this piece since college so i figured it can now see the light of day. here goes... ;)
Chocolate Mista
The crowd is alive and thrives
On the sound that is music to our ears and water to our souls.
My eyes scanned panoramically and danced dynamically
At the sight of so many chocolate faces.
I whirled and twirled
Like a childhood ballerina to the music that is wind to my wings
And I bumped into him.
The Nubian prince I dreamed of,
The chocolate mista. I have seen love
Come and go for some,
But his eyes and my eyes
They met like the sun and the moon exchanging high fives
Just before it is the moon's time to shine.
My, my, could his beauty and mine
Have intertwined
Like held hands!
But I looked away.
Avoiding the vision that just encompassed me
By looking too deep
Into the chocolate eyes
Of this chocolate mista
As chocolate mist
Began to fall over the heads of all of us.
God would solve for us,
The mystery of this man
With a plan
To understand me.
Not just romance me but have some truth to his game.
He caught my eyes like a wild butterfly held captive in the hand,
And like the band
The terms that flowed from his lips mingled and hobnobbed to become one voice comprised of all the parts of life
As he said...Hello.
What could my reply be but the same?
And names exchanged
Made conversation easy.
It pleased me
That he was not intimidated by my dark skin
Nor the soft angel within.
We could stand in the midst of the mist,
And if an honest answer is like being kissed
He kissed me gently each time he said a word.
I thought of so many things to say but lost my nerve.
My heartbeat could not be heard
Above the rejoicing of the people around us.
They may have clowned us,
But the mist drowned us
In a tingling feeling that can only be described as dejavu.
Where were you, Boo?
In all my lonely moments and the happy ones,
So I could share your smile,
But my style
Is much too chill for that.
So, I strolled through the crowd as the fall of the mist ended,
Befriended
By this chocolate mista
Who complemented this dark sista
Nicely.
"chocolate mista" is the first performance poem i ever wrote. i was seventeen and had probably recently watched love jones. lol i performed this piece for the first time during spring break of my senior year in high school in a bookstore called roots & wings. wrote a poem about that too so maybe i'll post that one later this month also. :D haven't performed this piece since college so i figured it can now see the light of day. here goes... ;)
Chocolate Mista
The crowd is alive and thrives
On the sound that is music to our ears and water to our souls.
My eyes scanned panoramically and danced dynamically
At the sight of so many chocolate faces.
I whirled and twirled
Like a childhood ballerina to the music that is wind to my wings
And I bumped into him.
The Nubian prince I dreamed of,
The chocolate mista. I have seen love
Come and go for some,
But his eyes and my eyes
They met like the sun and the moon exchanging high fives
Just before it is the moon's time to shine.
My, my, could his beauty and mine
Have intertwined
Like held hands!
But I looked away.
Avoiding the vision that just encompassed me
By looking too deep
Into the chocolate eyes
Of this chocolate mista
As chocolate mist
Began to fall over the heads of all of us.
God would solve for us,
The mystery of this man
With a plan
To understand me.
Not just romance me but have some truth to his game.
He caught my eyes like a wild butterfly held captive in the hand,
And like the band
The terms that flowed from his lips mingled and hobnobbed to become one voice comprised of all the parts of life
As he said...Hello.
What could my reply be but the same?
And names exchanged
Made conversation easy.
It pleased me
That he was not intimidated by my dark skin
Nor the soft angel within.
We could stand in the midst of the mist,
And if an honest answer is like being kissed
He kissed me gently each time he said a word.
I thought of so many things to say but lost my nerve.
My heartbeat could not be heard
Above the rejoicing of the people around us.
They may have clowned us,
But the mist drowned us
In a tingling feeling that can only be described as dejavu.
Where were you, Boo?
In all my lonely moments and the happy ones,
So I could share your smile,
But my style
Is much too chill for that.
So, I strolled through the crowd as the fall of the mist ended,
Befriended
By this chocolate mista
Who complemented this dark sista
Nicely.
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