Dripping Faucet. (Old poem I found)

Ms kitchen sink
Miss sinking ship
Miss shipment of sickness

you missed the stop sign this morning.
You miss it every morning.
Too busy undoing yourself
Trying to undo the hurt tied to the sole of those shoes you love so much

Those shoes
Those too tight shoes you had to get so you’d feel new
And that pride
Cuz Nobody can tell you nothing is written on the inside of your skin

cuz your mouth holds lava ready to destroy Towns
Ready to weed out whatever opportunities left to smile

It’s been a while
Miss middle child
Still pinning for love in the between spaces.
Still scratching to that itch
Only ripping the skin
The lonely hasn’t quite yet settled in
Only gets bigger
and bloated over
You say everything just by running
by the clickety clank of broken feet.

Boy it’s loud
Loud like your mamas words and the absence of her
Didn’t quite get over the memories
Boat couldn’t last the sea of nightmare
So you claw away at your root
At the branch
at the very leaf of your joy
trickling down into dust and ash
covering your fingers pointed
outward like a lions roar

Miss long fingers
miss everybody did it to me except me
miss I can’t understand why this room of mine is cold
and why this voice of mine is hoarse
and why this feet of mine is soar…
got all amnesia
forgetting how you walked yourself here
how you slapped the hands reaching for you
how you yelled at the horizon of last night
told it to stop reminding you of what you
are becoming…

a flash back.
a ray of sun dimming out into the stars…
just a figment of your own imagination

Ms imagination
do you realize who you are?
have you stood in yourself yet?
yourself is waiting
has been waiting to embrace you
long since you passed the stop
sign this morning.

Won’t you stop?
Won’t you please stop?
Love is waiting to tell you
God is planning to tell you
that you don’t have to run any longer.
That your dripping faucet
can be fixed…

(c) R W 2012

This is 75% freestyle. I didn’t feel like editing. It sounds raw. yay.

Some things just needed to be vented out…and I was once again caught up in my feelings (what’s new) lmao.

Beat is called Dreamy by J DILLA


you didn’t think I’d ever leave you.
you didn’t think I’d be brave to.
to leave you.

Now I’m walking with the footsteps of a baby
walking in unknown territory
I’ve proved myself true
I’ll do what I gotta do.

I’ve proved myself
surely it’s true
I’ll do what I gotta do

I would…
I would cut my finger off
if my finger chose
to betray the soul
it was supposed to
help protect

I would cut my chest
if my heart decided
it would make my life
a living hell without my consent

I would cut my finger off
if my finger chose
to betray the soul
it was supposed to
help protect

I would cut my chest
if my heart decided
it would make my life
a living hell without consent…

why did you think I couldn’t let you go?
Don’t you know I will always survive
I’m like a…shark
I’ll find the spot wherever I need to

why did you think I couldn’t let you go?
Don’t you know I’m a samurai
I’ll find my way out
no matter what.

(c) R W 2014

Beat is called DOO DOO by J DILLA.


"my dreams are a stale glass
of real on an afternoon
hot with too many past due chances.
too many shoulda coulda’s and woulda’s
too many nights consumed with laughter
too many nights sleeping on couches
dreaming blank the hours away
only to awake to cereal bowls
and cartoons
teaching me how to fall
over myself and not feel the blood flowing from my heart.
teaching me how to not feel anything beyond
the hours my eyes locked into the TV screen like tongues
trying so desperately to explain away the relevance of everything I was too foolish not to pay attention to.

Now I am looking at my hands
and they are asking what i think they are here
asking me if I really believe that what I do
everyday constitutes as doing?
Zombies don’t get awards for being themselves
for mulling along like a monotone hum
strumming along the dry spell of
unused talent.

And ain’t that what I is?

A remnant of my younger self?
Once a balloon oversized and floating on a horizon of ideas
now ritually following the sheep back and forth
from work to home to work to home to work and
and back…making no difference
welling up all the opinion and heart I have for facebook
and twitter posts like they mean something

i long to run my fingers through
every childhood rant
when i told my parents what I’d be
and I believed it
looked into my future and saw myself
not famous
or popular…
just becoming
just being to the fullest extent
what God may have me to be
whether small as a seed or as big
as an oak…
I just want to be.
I just want to get my act together.
I just want to make use of these limbs
I hold my hands up and they look at me
like a stranger…
and they ask
me if I’m ready
to awaken my dreams”

(c) R W 2014

Why We Need Him

We trip on sidewalks
and in sentences
We spill coffee and heartache
We burn fingers and rice and relationships
We are often more claw than kisses
more rip than rub
and we do not know it all.

and even when we do know.
even when our fingernails our clean
and our words are ironed crisp and sweet
like sunday morning…
we cannot be quenched
the tongues of our heart
stick out of our chest like
opposable thumbs
fingering for something
worth the nothing hidden
underneath the crevices
of our thoughts…

worth the moments we
realize that we are not enough
that this is not enough
and nothing is ever enough
ever to bring complete
the walking questions
we are searching
and searching
for God

Even when we do not realize it
and he is evermore here
evermore God
evermore keeping his children
from falling into
the thin empty
we so often
wade in.

(c) 2014 R W

Yes She Still Will (rough draft)

there is a woman
hiding under
the blues of her skin.

she is thinking
that it was her
fault somehow

if she had only
wore what she
was raised her
to wear.

if she had only
drank a little less
that night…

he would not have
given himself permission.

he would not have taken
her pearls in his hooves
like swine

and now she is a jazz
song…lulling back and forth
these questions…

piling all the woman
things of her up and
falling down like babel
every time.

she wonders

if she wears
her best church clothes
covering the legs
her mother told her
could get a man
to marry her

layering sweaters
over her ass so they
couldn’t trap anyone’s

if she no longer wears lipstick
if her hips no longer sway
like moving lips

if she isn’t…

will she no longer need
to worry?
will she be free to
roam the streets
and parks at any hour?
Will it keep her
father, uncle
cousin, friend,
from wanting to
touch her?

Will she no longer
to cross the street
when buzzards of men

or count steps
from the train
holding keys in fist
looking back into the
until she’s home

R W (c) 2014

On Daquan And Other Nigga Things.

we let them call us nigga to our face.
we call us nigga.
pointing at grandma’s slave shoes
laughing at the bloody soil sprouting out of our

all the crawling we do
all the dreams deferred
all the fight we got for this war our brown bodies learn to accept .

we point and laugh at our sores
like they were made just for laughing

and they laugh too.

when we call ourselves good for nothing
when we pick at our skin for being too dark
when we kick ourselves for being too dumb to know nothin
too red lipped and coon and heavy handed and nigger

fixing our mouths round the words like sugar
believing it — protecting it — dancing on our own graves

NIGGERS! we shout
NIGGERS! we call us

and they keel over
mouths wide
gums smacking
tears falling down their face
laughing over us
laughing at us
til the sweat on their brow and teeth
drip and tickle
our black faces as we dance…

and we just too busy dancing
to notice the rain.

R W 2014 (c)