DFA Writes

Earth, the outcast January 4, 2007

He sits….sulking and hulking…casting and throwing his black and grey shadow like stones into pearly white ripples of the universe.

He ducks and dodges silver sunsets and golden moonlights with fist full of oxymorons.

His blue oceans are full to the shores with swollen hubris, and his green land is thick with smug brown pride.

he blows clouds up and out like thin smoke and they float through empty heaven into the sun’s face.

He is bold, boastful, loud, outspoken, demanding, and maddening.

He remains unwelcomed into the social clubs of the milky way galaxy.

He taunts and teases comets and shooting stars and he shoots birds at the other planets.

“Shut up Mars, Mercury, Venus, Uranus, Pluto, Neptune, Saturn,you ,too Jupiter!” he yells .

He spins and turns and it seems that the whole universe revolves around him…

He sits sunrise and sunset, dawn and dusk, season to season, and year to year, poking fun at outer space…

Meet Earth, the outcast.

I’m From Three Years in My Past November 15, 2006

I was an empty glass mason jar sitting in a cold bare cupboard until Mama and Daddy came along one day and plucked me out from a dream that dangled, danced, and sparkled in their heads. They placed that dream in the jar, poked holes in the lid for air, and placed it in the window sill of the raggedy shotgun shack in
Kansas for the sun to shine in so I could grow. I come from a dream. I come from a hope, a desire, a passion, and heartache. I come from a desolate community surrounded on all 4 sides by gray dirt and I was determined to be more colorful than that dust. I planned on being bigger than sliced bread, I planned to break out on that dirt road and make my own way. That was the last I ever saw of
Junction City, Kansas. I was only three months old then.

I come from a long line of struggles, have-nots, and never-had-nothings. Every man and woman was expected to make his own way off dinner scraps and empty bellies. When one got out of the mud, it was up to you to pull everyone else out. You weren’t allowed the privilege of basking in your own success because everyone else needed a piece.

I come from shared beds, shoes, and clothes. I come from evenings when my sister and I would return home from school to a house with no lights and no water, or we’d have no heat because money was tight. I come from P.B. and J. sandwiches for dinner, rainy days when the roof leaked into buckets scattered throughout the house. I come from trips on the city bus to Goodwill for other people’s handouts and walks up the block to the grocery store when we found spare change beneath threadbare couch cushions.

I come from the walk of life where children do not have mothers and fathers, the place where children are raised by grandmothers. My parents weren’t dead, just never around. My father was a military man who was always overseas fighting pointless wars. My mother was going to school out of town and she figured my sister and I could be someone else’s burden for a while…Try three years.

I spent three years of my life feeling like a ward of the state. I lived with my grandmother and about ten other people, sometimes more or less, in a house that was barely big enough for the mice that dozed in the walls. My grandmother took us all in and she cherished this tarnished collection of unwanted children, drug addicts, schizophrenics, retards, and abominations before God and she loved us. She made jailbirds feel like blue jays and damaged goods felt like gems. She couldn’t afford to give us much, but she gave us all she had. Love was all that mattered and it made up for the unfortunate condition of my environment.

I come from the three years I spent growing up with filth, roaches, and sinks full of dirty dishes. I come from three years of sleeping on the living room sofa underneath my winter jacket on nights when I was too tired to ransack the house for clean blankets. I come from three years of crying myself to sleep at night. I come from three years of being ashamed of the dirt backyard and the front yard overgrown with weeds. I come from three years of bumming rides home from school after practices, performances, club meetings, and plays. I would get dropped off around the block because I would rather walk than let someone see the hellhole that I was forced to call my own.

I come from three years of fake smiles and daydreams of a happy home. Three years of imagining my old worn out tennis shoes were trendy and my clothes, outdated and fading, were not the outward manifestation of the inner Nyheisha Williams. I come from three years that ultimately made me a stronger black woman. I come from three years that built character and instilled values. I come from three years of learning that my self worth wasn’t measured by the clothing on my back, shoes on my soles, or where I laid my head at night, but was in fact measured by the respect I had for myself, my ability to still maintain my dignity through times of hardship, and learning to love myself, no matter how much I truly ached on the inside.

After those three years passed my mother returned and I hated her. I hated her for all the shame, embarrassment, suffering, and all the things I was forced to miss out on. I hated her because I never really had a mother to love me. When my father returned, I hated him, too. I hated him for being around for about half my life, since serving his country was more important than family. I hated him because he still felt as if he had the right to call himself my father.

I’m from a world where you never have enough attention, where you never have that male or female influence. I walked blindly in and out off abusive relationships, transitioning from rape victim to punching bag in search one person to love me. I’m from a place where women don’t know how they deserve to be treated, the place where chivalry died years before and real men don’t exist. You accept whatever it is that comes your way and never ask for more and only expect less.

I come from a hole where my grandmother, my one defender and sole protector, was taken away in an ambulance and never took another breath. The hole where I watched piece by piece as the house she filled with her dreams, a lifetime full of possessions, and my childhood was taken away and dismantled in a yard sale and tax write-offs at Goodwill.

I come from a broken past, crumbling dreams, a dysfunctional family, hand-me-downs, heartbreaks, hardships, loss, and disappointments. This is my history and I’m proud of it and I am strengthened by it. It has helped me define myself as a woman and allowed me to discover my ability to endure whatever fate tosses in my direction with my head held high, my shoulders poised, and the dignity and grace of beautiful black woman. This is my story thus far, a path full of rocks, weeds, thunderstorms, and tears …but I’m writing my own happy ending. It’s not important where I come from, it where I am headed that matters. It all started with an empty glass mason jar and a dream.

Writer’s Rock November 9, 2006

I remember days/ when my words would/ splash out like/ cold black ink and/ scar and stain a page /of white paper/ in blind fury/ and I’d find myself/ in the presence of a masterpiece…

But as I find out more /about myself/ I find that I’ve hit this/ writer’s block/ this writer’s rock/ that’s stopped/ the flow of my verses/ and left me uninspired/and tired /of this obligation/ I call writing…

What once came naturally to me/ is now foreign and forced/ I have to rape my mind/ and snatch ideas, thoughts, and metaphors/ to spit across these empty cream colored sheets/ in my notebook…

I lost the gift/ I watched it leave/felt nothing as it cascaded off the edge of that cliff/ I like to call my junior year/ and thinking back/I wonder if writing was ever my calling in the first place…

My heart just ain’t in it/ my mind just won’t dream it/ my fingers won’t create it/ those feelings just aren’t there/ and if they even still exist/ they’re buried deep/dying/and I really don’t care/ if I ever find them again..

I have a muse/and a reason/and a thousand other things I want to write about/ but for now/ I can’t find the words/ and I don’t care if I ever do…

I can’t force myself/ to write anymore/ can’t force myself to give life to poems/ that weren’t meant to be seen/as blue ink on paper/ I ain’t gonna keep tryin/ to break down this writer’s rock/ because if these words/ wanna come out/ they’ll set themselves free…

3 Ballerinas November 9, 2006

3 ballerinas with bodies like slow curving lines/ stiff backs/ and rigid pointed feet like daggers/ stabbing and piercing/ the floor boards/ dainty like beautiful porcelain dolls/ we are talented/ we are ….murderers/ floating around gracefully on our toes/ so light/ so refreshing/ but inside/ our minds are stone /and our hearts/ are carved from ice…

We give ourselves to dance/ we give our souls to art/ we are assassins / of masterpieces/

Dashing and scarring/ floors with our soles/ we are a force to be reckoned with/ we move together/ we kill in triplets/ 3 Ballerinas…

We dance to deliver fear/ ominous figurines/ gliding to and fro/ heads cocked towards the heavens like guns/ bodies arched like we’ve got knives stuck in our backs/ but we are the ones dealing the blows/ we captivate your mind/ and steal your soul/ cloud your senses/pollute your thoughts/gorge on your fantasies/ replacing them with nightmares/of life without the stage/ life without the rhythm/ life without the music/ life…. with out…….. the murder…

3 ballerinas dancing in a line/ poisoning you with my motions/ blackening your pure white soul/ with each step/ we are thieves/ we are dancers/we are assassins/ we are artists…

3 ballerinas/ let my mold your emotions/ to the music of my toes/ you are my victim/ you are my possession/ I’ll steal your life / as I dance across the stage/ hypnotize you / with the movement of my Pointe shoes/ give me your eyes/ and I’ll give you/ your death/ Watch me/ I’m a ballerina…