Heat

And it felt like all there ever was,

was heat.

32 degrees coupled with too wet air,

hot stickiness of flesh it incites

hot throbbing in the tips of my fingers

and the end of my toes

hot sighs with hot breath

as hot air lays sultry kisses on

blistering necks.

Hot rain hits hot pavement and sizzles

And all there ever was,

was heat.

My paradise is now hell.

Sunkissed

The pallor of my skin mocks me.

I miss the sun’s feverish kisses

On my brow until its touch burns.

The pain means I am loved.

Mania

I go like a clockwork toy wound too tight

Frantic and eager but sporadic and hysterical

And I love and I love

And I give and I give

Until like like a well loved toy

My skin is worn thin

And my entrails spill out from the seams.

And the pounding ratatatat tattoo

of my heart whipped into frenzy

is calmed by the panicked coda

of my hyperventilations.

We all have our lows.

No Rest For the Wicked

Inspiration rides the dregs of a late-night caffeine high,
brain bubbles like a percolator on speed,
firing synapses are the prodding pokers that keep me awake,
inciting me to violent turns of phrases,
penpoint picks at an itch long left unscratched.

They say to hide one's light under the bushel is a sin,
and this must be my punishment.
No rest for the wicked.

Knock Knock Jokes, or Writer's Block Haiku

Knock Knock Jokes

(Writer's Block Haiku)

knock knock- who's there? what

do you call a writer who

never writes? a joke.

Diaspora Dysphoria

Look I write something! I'm actually trying to perform this for the One World show my school has every year. I just auditioned it today, so let's hope for the best <3

Still have to work of some of it, but most of it is here.

Diaspora Dysphoria

I am a child of diaspora.

Last name I have no ties to,

First name my mother heard on Sesame Street,

Names give me no solace.

My mama’s mama was a product of love soured

By a nationwide obsession with race and colour:

A story of a baby too brown

For anyone but her mother to love.

A story that comes back ‘round to me when they say,

‘Psst, t’ick sauce wit’ de nice hair.’

They call me dougla.

By the time I outgrew my obsession with bindis and tikas

And my one true dream to be bollywood dancer,

Classmates told me I was too proper to be black.

They call me dougla.

But ever so often I throw around mulatto

And try and forget the oppression behind it.

Two generations later, I have no ties to coco panyol

Other than passing mention.

The only name I have for this,

The only name I have for me,

Is confused.

At home they say, ‘dougla, what yuh mix wit’?’

But here they say black is black.

‘Are you ashamed?’

Am I ashamed?

Not of the blackness

Or the whiteness

Or the Indian-ness

Or the Syrian-ness

Or the whatever-else-it-have-ness.

Just confused.

Because things like race have always baffled me.

Because race implies someone must win.

Because when I look in the mirror

And I see the roundness of my nose,

The curliness of my hair,

The sharpness of my cheeks

And the brownness of my skin,

I am neither ashamed nor confused;

just euphoric.

Death Throes

Morbid fascination

kills me again and again.

These are the death throes

Of our potential.

This is the not the martyrdom

I try to tell myself it is.

It is assisted suicide.

Nor is it the first time-

Reincarnation ad nauseam,

Same me, different yous-

Till nirvana:

A state I cannot reach.

It sickens me,

The way I crave

Your attentions.

Like Tantalus I thirst

And am never satisfied.

You bloom perpetual

While I fade like echoes.

Jeweled fruit that fall

From your lips

Into my ears

Sweet fruit, biting aftertaste,

Like soured wine to the dying man,

Leaves me empty and bitter.

I am killed softly

By the words you never speak.