merakivida

[merakivida]

5/7/2020 5:26pm Poetry at Heathrow: Gray seconds are 95% of seconds Especially in an airport Especially in the air Sleek feet pit and pat like clear glass Hair frizzed and pushed up Pickled but not preserved The white bleach I used to love now a stream Of streaks among black Like constituents, like snaps Ok. There are moments when I’m calm and moments when you want to blow a kiss And moments when I decide to be a germaphobe Letting the world of invisible resolution and Roaring roaches back me into an inevitable corner Amiss and beyond the lines

Azia <3

[merakivida]

10/1/17 8:00pm The dedication of youth Teamwork Family that you choose Acceptance Dedication My team Down for my team Down for my brothers Squad Yes I'll Flat iron your hair Buy pizza this time Smoke you out Spend the night For the whole weekend Get mad when you get a bf My commitment issues don't exist with my gang gang gang I breathe heavy black on my 4th black Friends Sisters Always posing for pictures My back doesn't hurt yet after a night out in heels I can scream at 7am Walk home sunlight hitting my cracked lips Raise a hand for unity And peace after a fight And fucking the same guys before we knew each other but lettin the bond remain unbroken Our first loves are our friends Fuck niggas my boy my blood my girl my bitch It all works out huh (Until you are)Alone at last Twenty something not much left to cling to. Lines drawn hard in da proverbial sands of life That windbreaker too thin now without the body heat of the crew We were so strong so bonded so together in a group Posing smiles unaware That open eyed wandering look of youth The ferocity of the real was still unreal Instead Hating your self more than your blame Hating your blame more than your triumph It's a cyclical dollar slice way of life. One piece down on that hunger 2 hours later it's back My head writhes during my dank solo verse Now or never I thought we would be friends forever But nothing Is Forever

a.e.

[merakivida]

[merakivida]

Most of my time is spent in graveyards. Mental graveyards of perfection. Relationships that would never work. Dreams of where I could be. Last words. Potential last words. I won't be going to mom's funeral I've already decided that, I'll take my chances at home. Maybe if I could tell her how much I'd miss her if she died it'd help. I can't move back home but I'm miserable in my waiting. How much longer can I live like this? Smoking weed midday trying to prepare, trying to cope. Sobbing at midnight, pushing love far, futile protective coat.

-a.e

[merakivida]

Who are you, really? You’re not a name your parents chose according to their personal attachments in life You’re not a birth date, or a temporary age, or a simple cluster of billion cells, or even a species You’re a collection of everything you love You’re the books that you stayed up all night long reading since you couldn’t just put them down You’re the songs that you sing along to the radio and surprise yourself by remembering the lyrics perfectly You’re the cities you’ve visited and roamed the streets of and fell in love with You’re the stars that you’ve stood awed by and gazed at unaware of the time passing You’re the quotes that halt you and force you to reread them once, twice, 3 times, a thousand And the paintings you’ve admired from afar You’re the sun rises that you’ve fought sleep at night to witness And the movies you never get tired of watching And the places you’re welcomed at because of how frequently you visit them And the carefree dances you swayed on crowded dance floors You’re the memories you’ve crafted with the people around you And the inside jokes you’ve shared with someone on a boring saturday afternoon And mostly, you’re so full of pieces of the people you love most, and the people who love you back You carry pieces of them in a habit of theirs that you picked on, a word you’ve learnt from them, a song that reminds you strictly of them a story you’ve told a thousand times about that one time where they downright embarrassed you You are everything and anything that you’ve ever loved, So darling you’re really not a single thing - but rather a million

in-satiable-minds  (via wnq-writers)

[merakivida]

10/10/16 Open windows float, swirl and pray when the looking glass alights reflections tint blue and hide behind flash superheroes pull, dart and flit lashes grow long, open and close as we drift towards the only sight in sight flinging our hope across the wide sky across the green steeple The lone tower glows black in the night. I always want to miss you Save every tear for you But I weep candy tears instead at cinemas with hushed matte lips shining through grayscale popcorn hues and salty dementia fill the air as romantic as I claim to be I'm fickle,  and your temp to perm baby blues are 3rd shift only.

a.e.

[merakivida]

Do you ever think about all the lives you could have had? Or could be content to have? Going to grad school with the boy you met at your restaurant with brown eyes and long brown hair. He’s moody; in a band. The ways and consistency with which I fall in love; that’s the only dependency which I can count on in life. Or maybe the older Italian divorcee that always sits at table 23. Again, those brown eyes, his Converse, his ease and relative aversion to excitement. Maybe the way he repeats the words you say in his accent. City boy, from Rome. Where would you live? What ways would you waste away your youth with him? The sex might last for a good 5-8 more years. You’d be mid-thirties, feeling stuck but living in a perpetual Italian visual romance. City on fire. Your soul doesn’t blow with excitement when the summer wind hits you in Rome. The colosseum would still be breathtaking if your breath weren’t already taken by cigarettes and forgotten dreams. Wanting to move back to the states but feeling the discontentment when you see your friends in BMWs and you’re still riding around in Camaro classic. All your luxurious sensibility could afford. How grim! Who’s to say you wouldn’t be a famous writer and cinematographer. After all, he’s a cinematographer. Why do you always think the worst of your talents? You pull stories out of air, but your work ethic is somewhere between slothful and elephant on a blue sky savannah day. Your love of breezes and beaches can’t seem to translate into produced work. You can’t seem to revise, only vomit. What kind of woman are you? Optimistic still; I can’t tell if it’s foolish or determined. I can’t tell if it’s half-assed or courageous to keep trying again. If the formula is so simple, why do so many fail? The same obstacles that have always existed exist. There’s always someone younger. This obsession with youth. Forget about it. There’s always someone lighter. This obtuse, focus on colorism. Forget about it. There’s always someone louder, more braggadocios, more grandiose. This constant comparison. Forget about it. Point out the one thing that never fades, and hang to it. What is it? Even photographs of photographs fade, lose pixels over time as newer pixels are added, become dated, like 80s living rooms and leotards with big hair. You can be the star of one galaxy, or you can outshine them all for a blink of a second that turns into a light year, it’s all simple it’s all up to you. You read an article today, about wasting talent. Your fear is the McDonald’s double cheeseburger immune to age, time, condition, sitting in a doctor’s office for 20 years, sitting in your stomach acid 4.5 months later preserved as ever. Don’t be toxic to yourself. Just breathe. Breathe and float in the saltwater at Miami Beach. Remember the feeling of the sun on your face, stinging contrast against the warm ocean and all the time you spent alone, wandering to and from home, tropical gyal, chopped hair, coconut songs bouncing off your lips and wafting through the space around your being as those stilty legs carry you from adventure to journey and back home again in time for Lost.

a.e. 

[merakivida]

It’s your flaws I want to taste. Your crooked mouth. The way you smell after being out all day. Your knees, so eager to bend to whatever song is playing in your head. Your chest, as it rises and falls and rises and falls on the carpeted ground. Your sometimes smooth chin. Your pimpled politeness. Your tangled hair. Your good morning, every morning. I don’t want to be able to run my fingers through you easily. It is no fun writing about perfections. I want to talk about you. Flawed. Crooked. Endlessly interesting. You.

Lora Mathis, Black Coffee (via wnq-writers)

[merakivida]

i wanted to be a smart girl but didn’t have what it takes to be a smart girl, didn’t know not to talk to boys like we were friends. didn’t know boys didn’t want to be friends. no no, this isn’t about sex. this is about intellectual property, which is somehow never in reference to my heart. i get it, my heart is fucking incompetent, unintelligible. the ideas i have are only as good as i am, which means that they are noble and kind, but lack depth right? b said so, when he told me i was his intellectual companion. it felt like a compliment then. love was just a compliment then and i wanted to be held the way my books are held, which means not at all. and i got that. b never touched me and when i tell this story, i have to make that clear: he never touched me, only looked, only with his camera. said that he wanted me to tell him about my underwear. please, don’t misinterpret this. this isn’t about sex. i’m relieved. b was fucking other girls and i was flying out of the country. i was in another country and he was asking me if i was still his good girl, you know, good like a pop song. even then, i knew he would never love me. what does it matter what i knew when, i’m not a smart girl. no smart girls don’t beg anyone for anything don’t go hungry for no one. you know i keep thinking about the night when i wore my black dress, my hoop earrings. he hated me then. and i should have told him that my father was dead, that there wasn’t a man alive on earth who could stop me or keep me. besides, my father would never, it’s not his fault. i wouldn’t give up being beautiful for anything. i wouldn’t ask the goddess to take this away from me. it’s my fault. i’m not smart enough to know when to quit, which is a sign of weakness, of obsession. i cried at the thought of us not being friends. couldn’t imagine a universe without his insistence, his slow-melting cruelty: the things i have done in the name of someone else. that was four years ago. a smart girl would have predicted change, would have had hope. i am not a smart girl. sometimes i miss him. sometimes i think just, stupid girl things.

Yena Sharma Purmasir, “just a pretty face” (via fly-underground)

Oo girl me feels yah

[merakivida]

9/10/16 11:52PM (5:52AM London Time) Let’s get it over with end it on my end so I can stop pretending what does and doesn’t hurt. That that shakiness starting at my throat   with the grand finale sending vibrations through my breastbone can be contained and controlled. the coulds and could-be’s—like the verb could got married and hyphenated their future just in case— are what hurt the most. Purposely biting my lip trying to remember if I always feel like this mid-cyclical bleeding remembering how soft your thick red hair is your tiny straight teeth, the two front ones come down just a bit further like baby rabbits or Kirsten Dunst’s. wondering if you’re really just a piece of shit who holds girls at an arms length and maybe just gave me herpes —yeah I’m that reckless right now and I don’t care I just see your pale skin glowing in the dark snuggle against you and sleep, dream about the way you breathe when I kiss your neck, your hands grazing my ass and my breasts so lightly I kinda lose it, I’ve lost it what kind of love is this that I’m always falling in? it’s so safe, so physically perfect, 6’5, two long middle toes almost the same length amazingly high arches, soft soft soft touch, clipped nails I breathe; you breathe still remember sitting next to you on a bench your pupils always tiny dots in a sea of ice blue sitting on top of you on my couch our lips meet slowly the first time we kissed I couldn’t stop laughing your lips stained red, mine blue holding your hand, the lamp glow cleansing you and now I’m free these memories are here, but you are not, and I am somewhere in between.

a.e.

I don’t regret nothin man, not now. But writing always make it easier to let go.

[merakivida]

9/13/16 8:37PM There are approximately two ways to say goodbye “I love you” & “silence”. What is this obsession with boys? And love and things completely impossibly unattainable? Why can’t I write happy poems? About Leeder’s face when he eats bread and butter How he skips to get ice cream? And talks me through bike locks? About all the lavender flowers in London by my house? About lying down in the woods with no shirt on by the canal and smoking cigarettes in the dark? I am a reclusive, non-showering, sick of being nice chatty girl with no chatrooms too much secret pornhub masturbate 3 times a day then fuck a guy I met in the park no it’s not gross, it’s what happens in the 3 or 4 days before my period I don’t like my whorish activities but why can’t we talk about them about how empty I prefer to feel about how I wish I could just shut up and tell you you’re beautiful then shut up again I want to rearrange your hair forever then punch you for leaving well punch you for not wanting me to leave but not saying so I don’t like taking responsibility right now I just want to blame because life is unfair for putting two people from two different places together but there’s a 34 year old Spanish man who wants me to visit him his English makes me angry but I like his smile he tells me shit like, “you’re so young” & “you need to forgive your parents” I haven’t even talked about my parents I don’t like soul readers I don’t like people that are too honest with me about my faults I don’t like secrets but I have tons I don’t like pushy people I don’t like when people talk too much I’m not a therapist What’s a nice way to say shut up? I’m sorry I talk over you. I’m sorry you lied I’m sorry I can see you’re a liar on the first date now I’m biting my nails and wishing you just face fucked me from the start why did you have to kiss me so nice and rub my back so nice and hold my hand so nice and kiss me so nice? There’s slow deaths then there’s this I hope everyone does think I’m a whore I hope my mom does know I do drugs I hope this poem makes some girl out there realize, we’re supposed to be broken for a bit we’re supposed to rely on things outside ourselves when we say no, we deprive the pain of a home and it attacks our ring fingers and skin and hair and we cease to be Cleopatra and begin to be Audrey at the end dry, morose, rapidly dividing from every base bae we meet.

a.e.

bleeding my soul dry with these truths today doe

[merakivida]

12/23/2015 8:59AM Oop oop, I need to write more when I’m high Instead of having memories lingering onwards after like *Bloop* Pastel blue. Walls. *Bloop* Mirrors *Bloop* Fighting to stay awake with deep breaths and blinks and kind bars while the party rages onwards around me. Okay, okay, at first I thought Trent’s friends were tools. Then one sits down on the couch and shakes my hand with his broken hand Smiles. I’m lounging in a fur coat. I’m taking selfies with sirredavid in the bg in that cheap college mirror from target Everything is pastel blue Music bangs on I trip out to ad libs backed by 80s music My heart is beating out of my chest I’m thinking maybe I don’t like him as much as I thought I’m thinking I never get to be alone I’m thinking what is alone? Alone is: When you’re high and beating yourself up for wasting time, I’m thinking how fast can I write the first season of a web series based off of my fear of sleeping with girls, My constant desire to self-medicate My aversion to working hours My slowly triumphant fear What happens, when life loses its luster? Do you find more luster? Do you find more sparkle Do you start drinking everyday at 25, and magically appear again at 35 with life less hazy I dreamt last night, that I was supposed to take a train, with my son, right after giving birth, but I left him at the hospital, and on the in-between, I didn’t tell anyone, because I was ashamed. My joy at his return was unmatched disbelief, but the sickening guilt in the pit of my stomach was still there in the morning. I can’t say sorry enough, I can only wish I was the commoner who had to try at lucid dreaming I only wish I couldn’t remember the exact shade of red his hair was His little face, doll-like, the way I was so happy to be going home with him. Distraction. Distraction makes you forget what matters most. Distraction fuels cycles of boyz, to men, to sin. I forget more often than I forgive, Problems turn into clusterfucks And on the snowiest day of the year, being alone should be a happy thing, instead of a desperate dash.

a.e.

swore I already posted this maybe nottt

[merakivida]

2/7/2016 11:38PM Wine drunk Just came Doing thot shit at brunch WTF does any of this mean? I’m dying to quit my job Model full time Sleep beside a tall non descript, generically good looking always down to eat the pussy motherfucker Okay. My sister sent me a picture of her two gorgeous tan amazing mixed kids not amazing because they’re mixed amazing because my nephew has remembered everyone who’s wronged him since he could walk my niece has two big dimples and no hair and she’s fatter than Chris Farley but when she smiles flowers bloom and explode and her gums shine pinker than rosewater I’m trying to decide, whether that’s my life too Interracial Should I just dive in headfirst? I’m not sure it is, but no black man has been able to tame his headstrong insecurities long enough to be the non descript docile, direction taking pussy eating mutherfucker my cold, hard, untrusting ass needs at 3am You can tell me your secrets but your lies are too obvious For me I can’t fake it forever so now I’m alone remembering the last time you pulled me close I know you’re scared So am I It’s hard when you do everything wrong out of habit that when you do something right your whole soul stands on end and sirens blare and you pulse with fear at the thought of love because love might be forever and forever isn’t long enough for your heart to stop stinging

a.e.

[merakivida]

9.2.16 4:49PM Men make my skin crawl They instantly spring their intents male hand on a back, a knee, a chin Dropping constant, blaring hints of what they want, and how and when So self possessed, so confident, Half a tooth, half a conscience. Men, make my skin crawl. Watch their faces as the deed grows near Just before the throes appear Face twisted as they seek selfish desires Fulfilling their dreams, rising higher and higher Barely a lick, over your clit Yet over and over your throat touches dick. Chatty chatty batty boys Play it cool, play with toys In the end they sink back in to cars or roles or weed or gin Life’s just too real for genuine men After! Such actors, such performances they require Oh my! You’ve blessed me Distressed me possibly impressed me The shadow from their faces receded to their brows, receded to their jawlines, disguised as stubble That scratches what it touches, so its character still shows.

a.e. 

[merakivida]

Don’t focus where you been focus where you trynna go.

GLC (via merakivida)

[merakivida]

Desmona shot by Wade Rhoden

[merakivida]

Don't focus where you been focus where you trynna go.

GLC