Tashamee Dorsey
My Madness
I am whipped by my madness
I sleep like the dead from the exhaustion of my madness
I fuck up time and again because of my madness
I am broken truly and deeply from my madness
I can’t concentrate to finish anything because of my madness
I push every woman I try to love away with my madness
My life fails to begin because of my madness
My life becomes more and more meaningless because of my madness
My journey feels pointless as I wander around in the dark of my madness
I am tired of my madness
I am tired of no one understanding my madness
I am tired of having no real answers to my madness
I want my madness to disappear but it won’t
I want to feel free of my madness but it is entwined in my dna choking the life out of me like a slow moving undetected cancer
My madness kills
My madness threatens my life with its consequences it is assumed I can control
My madness is draining the life out of me
My madness keeps me at arms length from the world
I live in my madness in a box just outside of reality
I live in my madness even as it drains the air suffocating me with nothingness
I want to be fixed
I want to feel whole
I want to feel like a real person like the meds are supposed to make me feel
I want to be productive and prolific
I want to be focused and driven
I want to be in the parade and not just an observer
I want to know when this phase that has last longer than half my life will be over and I can begin to live for real.
I want I want I want…but my madness wants more and its still winning and I am still seemingly irrevocably damaged.
This needs to get better now. I have no more to give to it. Perhaps I can deprive my madness of its life
Maybe I can choke the life out of my madness killing it
Maybe if I can kill this demon, like a tape worm it will leave my system allowing my body and soul to once again to receive nourishment.
How will I do this, how do I kill it
How do I develop the plan without my madness finding out and trying to thwart my plan
How do I trick my madness while I plan its execution
…Maybe if I pray
Home Skillet
I wanted to write a poem about love. My favorite kind of love.
The I can’t believe you are going to drive there to beg her, but I guess it’s a road trip ‘cause you not goin’ by yourself type love.
The “I know we just met yesterday, but can you come out to play today” type love.
The “No, I will never sleep with you because I know you too damn well” kind of love.
The you get the popcorn and I’ll get the movies and we will leaves those fools alone for the day kind of love.
The 3 months, or 3 years, feels like we just saw each other yesterday kind of love, you know what I mean
The “Don’t tell me nothing else she did, cause you said you were gonna leave that shit a lone, but ok damn this should be a crime, what did she do THIS time” kind of love.
The “Don’t you know how beautiful you are inside girl” kind of love.
See why I love this kind of love.
You know what I mean, the real ride or die chicks, the ones that are still there when the lastest love of your life has turned into just another trick.
The there to set it up and clean it up type chicks.
The “Yo you know she was feeling you” type chicks
The “Let me have a party and I will invite her” type chicks
You know the wing man
the road dog
The Oh my God did you just see that type chick
The I can’t believe you just did that but damn it was cool type chick
the buddy
the ace
The I would never have done that if you weren’t here type chick
The You break up with her yet, are you serious, do you need me to do it type chick
My chica, chiquita and boniqua when necessary a cock block Because ya’ll are always there my crew, my fam, and my folks always my rock.
For those of us over 35 my G, my home boy, home girl and geez I can’t believe I am going to say it, home skillet.
See,I fall in love with my friends instantly, and if you love me back I will have yours til they day we die. ‘Cause I know I’m a lot, believe me I do, but to keep you in my life, for sure I will always try and that is for sure true.
Good Hair
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Fuck you for looking at me and only seeing “Good Hair”
Matter of Fact fuck you for having such an ill defined notion of what it is to be GOOD
Why don’t you ever actually ask me…if I think its good?
Ask me what it felt like to grow up never feeling like my hair was really done!
See my styles always came with a halo making even the tightest ponytails still look a hot mess
Ask me what it felt like to be blamed for my own tender headedness by baby sitters intent on teaching me a lesson with their cruelty
Ask me what summers fell like knowing I can’t get or keep braids in my hair as sweat from the weight of my “Good Hair” suffocate me, or how that same simple sweat can destroy a 50 dollar hairdo in under an hour.
And then maybe you will ask me who my role model for style was supposed to be when my mother went natural before Angela Davis then had a baby with a Puerto Rican with bone straight hair.
Caught between her and him who was gonna teach me?
So next time you fix your mouth to form those stupid ass words consider the other than identity that comes with it and imagine how it felt to never quite believe your mother when she told you “You are what I am”, because the mirror lied.
