I can barely breathe.
My chest has been heavy
for weeks upon weeks,
years upon years.
The future weighing
down my optimism.
My patience suffocated
by the need to be real.
Can’t swallow one more
fake time happy pill,
won’t smile for a crowd
of hating fools.
Only person that pulls me back
is my son
- He’s so damn beautiful.
Reminding me
not to give a fuck
about anybody
that’s not present in my circle.
Quieting the rage
I feel when questioned
by fools that play the game.
Like why do they
expect me to be graceful
when they question
my need to be real?!
Only for my child
does this deep breath
come natural.
For him,
I’ll take an extra minute
to contemplate my reaction
and not give in
to what feels
like a rage that I was born with.
Natural as the fire
at the end
of a matchbox stick
when it meets friction.
A feeling of never fitting in,
never drinking the koolaide
laced with bulshit.
Societal expectations
of happiness.
A pill I can’t swallow
because society
along with her fake ass smile
is poison
and my throat won’t open up
for even one drop of water
to help wash down
the games I gotta play
to sit at that table.
All I know is,
the only thing that’s real
is when I hold him.
Through a thousand
thoughts of pain
while my mind
fights every moment of fake,
my son’s laughter
breaks through,
shattering my misery
like cheap glass.
Clearing a space
for me
that just is.
I’m still a matchbox stick
but with him
there’s no friction.
The ropes around my neck
will always be my affliction
but being his mother
saves me from astriction.
Poetry on Paper 