New Write

‎"Wetness and Sharp Objects"

Blood pouring from veins
Over slick shiny scalpels,
Cum spilling from between her thighs,
Drenching rigid phallic flesh.
They were born to be together.

Just as I penetrate my heart,
Then utilize my blood as ink,
He rode her bareback viciously,
Trying to drown his thoughts.
They were the perfect fit.

A blow torch's flame licks at metal bars,
Melting them down upon their own firmness.
Even a toothbrush was specifically created
To be covered in flowing saliva.
They were made for each other.

In movies, the girl in the shower,
She's always brutally impaled;
It's usually raining heavily
When an axe meets another skull.
They are what get good reviews.

So choose your tool with careful consideration,
For it will be covered with all my saturation.
What part of me do you desire oozing over you?
With feverish curiosity, only satisfaction will do.

We will be beautiful together.

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Yup, I'm back!

When I Went Away

Some thought I was pushed,

Others figured that I fell.

Only those who know me

Knew I jumped into hell.

I wasn’t on some redemption journey

I wasn’t even sure I was ever returning.

All I knew was that I had to go

Had to chase that rabbit through

 the burning hole.

I played with fire and got burned real well

I fought the pain and ignored the smell

Of burning flesh and muscle the same

It all disappeared when I heard my name.

I had always said, “Don’t play with me.

Give me all or nothing for eternity.”

Turns out your version was shorter than mine

I guess you’re a cat who has nine lives.

Something I’ve learned throughout the years

Was not to waste unwanted tears

On ambiguous words that folks take lightly

Like love, forever, yours, always, and almighty.

Don’t think this is a woe-is-me kind of verse

I’m just letting you know while I grab my purse

That I’m leaving under volition that’s mine

Cuz I’ve already given away too much time.

It was never about who was right or wrong

I just didn’t know the fat lady was singing our song.

So I leave among the flames shattered pieces,

Guess I forgot to remind you that I am a phoenix.

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Poetic Melody In Four Movements

Poetic Melody In Four Movements – Crapsey Cinquains, Haiku, Tanka and Senryu

ONE

Between

The lines of fate

And destiny hover

The conscious minds struggling to

Break free.

Hummingbirds seem to

Hover delicately just

Above the flowers.

The pistols and the

Stems make up the pretty scene

As we pretend to

Contemplate the intricate

Nature of nature itself.

Silly little folks

We are, imagining we

Understand nature.

TWO

We will

Often find that

Our natural states can

Be the most uncomfortable

Know you.

Is the natural

State of nakedness really

Who we’re meant to be?

Or are we to strive

For something more spiritual

When we consider

The reflection that returns

Starts when we peek in mirrors?

Mirrors are like the

Abyss that we attempt to

Foolishly embrace.

THREE

Embrace

The look in your

Own eyes to truly see

What lies in wait to devour

Your soul.

Lions roam among

The blades of grass waiting for

Opportunities.

How many of us

Roam through our own dreams in day

And night still searching

For someone else’s soul to

Prey on other than our own?

Such are the minds of

Unscrupulous people who

Obsess over gain.

FOUR

To grasp

True gain and thus

Freedom from bondage of

Society’s weights and measures

Is truth.

What goes up must come

Down, according to the laws

Which nature assigned.

The great balancing

Act is found throughout

All relations and

Whether we embrace them or

Not, they still exist and rule.

But rules were meant to

Be broken, or so we say.

We all seek true life.

Copyright ©2011 Natasha Guy

Here's a link to my review on the Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of a Tribe Called Quest documentary:

Enjoy!

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

She Looks Fine To Me

We all have heard that looks can be deceiving,

But how many of us remember that when conceiving

Judgments that could leave souls damaged or in shreds?

We assume they sleep, but we don’t lie in their beds.

There are folks who know how to polish up well,

They don’t like revealing to all their personal hell.

Seeing may be believing, this I understand, but

Just because you don’t see, doesn’t mean there isn’t a cut.

We say we want the honesty we give, all the while,

Many of us have answered, “I’m fine,” with a smile,

When on the inside our hearts are bleeding and cold,

But we refuse to be real, to answer so bold.

So I choose this platform for all of you to blatantly see

Some of the parts that make me unmistakably me.

Most of you see all of the optimism and a positive stance,

But few of you know the steps I take when I privately dance.

You see, today I spent long hours laying in the bed.

“Oh, I wish,” was the retort that a couple of my friends said.

But it wasn’t a choice to get rest and relaxation that I’d made,

The room spun when my eyes opened, so in bed I stayed.

You see the pressure inside my head that brings pain,

It’s not visible to outsiders, like a smudge or a stain.

Just because you’ve never heard me complain,

Doesn’t mean when you forget, the pain doesn’t remain.

And I hate to tell people about the tumor growing inside,

Then I get the looks of pity that try to rip away any pride

That I have in my survival and all of the things I can do,

Like living and breathing, writing and editing too.

So I’m writing this here for all the chronically sick,

Those who are living lives none of us would readily pick,

We don’t always think it necessary to let others pry in and see

Just to avoid hearing that old saying, “She looks fine to me.”

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Contact

Can I just…touch you?

I think that if we made contact,

My skin would stop making goosebumps

Just to be a millimeter closer to you.

It’s like my body will do anything

Just to…touch you.

Maybe you’re the cure to my illness.

Maybe you will bring calm to my storm.

Maybe you are the answer to my question.

Maybe you are the satisfaction to my craving.

Maybe you are just what I need in my time of need.

Maybe you are just you.

Maybe I just need to…touch you.

I’m in a hypnotic trance,

Headed towards you with arms outstretched,

Like a zombie hearing that inaudible call

If I could just…touch you…
Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Can You See Me Now?

She said, “Look ma no hands…”

And her mother turned a blind eye downwards

So as not to see the shameful shimmy

Her daughter did down a pole and

Onto the floor of the club for attention.

While everyone in attendance drooled over

And some even seemed to slither towards

The gyrating, vibrating booty bounces

Causing slapping sounds against the linoleum,

The silent sobbing fell on deaf ears.

She called for her Ma to look,

But it was her mother’s mother’s mom

Who took offense and opened her eyes wide

In horror at the misuse of her descendant’s flesh

As it was ogled and grabbed and squeezed by strangers.

Her mother’s mother’s mom remembered the day

When she too was ogled, grabbed and squeezed by strangers

As she stood upon a pedestal in a crowded market.

Her adornments were not gold plated and shiny to distract

From what she would be offering her newest owner.

Her pedestal wasn’t the chosen place and she didn’t want to be watched.

The pedestal assigned to her had been experienced by many before.

It was degrading and she felt ashamed to be put on display

While scantily clothed and forced to show her …“assets” to the crowd.

She couldn’t even remember how to smile while on stage anymore.

And in her grave, she tearfully looked down at her wrists.

They were scarred and marred by the heavy shackles that once bound her.

On one side, what was left could barely be called a hand;

The fingers tangled together and bent at awkward angles.

So called healing from punishment for stealing a biscuit from the dog’s bowl.

The other hand was burned and had become discolored and shiny.

Trying to cook for your master and fish out anything for yourself

At the same time was cruel and unnecessary…unless you wanted to survive.

When she said, “Look Ma, no hands,” she had to be consoled and calmed,

Because it wasn’t seen as an accomplishment back then, but a lament.

Look Ma, no hands.

They’ve been shackled and I cannot use them.

Look Ma, no hands

Allows me to perform like a side show in the circus.

Look Ma, no hands.

Copyright ©2011 Natasha Guy

Guest Blog by Owl on Interracial "Relations"

To find more on this guest blogger, click HERE

Fuck Who You Will:  Owl's Thoughts On The Interracial Discussion

In a lot of ways I am eternally grateful that while I was sticking my roaming penis in various shades of female pudding like a new customer at an ice cream stand, I never felt the urge to justify it. My justification was I wanted to ejaculate or I wanted companionship of the not so obligatory type. And sure, on more than one occasion I would not have been peeved about a committed situation. Of all the regrets that I might wrestle with during my bouts with insomnia, starting a campaign to persuade Black men to sleep, sex, suck, suckle, or other words starting with 's'  to fulfill my need to be accepted for where I place my private limb is not one of them. I suppose the term 'where' is misleading--it is not a 'where,' but a 'whom,' correct?

And let us not make this post another means to eradicate the self-loathing that stems from those unable to be firm in their decisions due to social critique. There is a serious, fundamental political reason why the disdain exists. This is not quite one of those topics where the social contempt is completely superficial. This I understood even when I was entertaining and entering my erectile projectile into women of the European persuasion. My reasoning? I wasn't blatantly searching to mount, or have my Self mounted by, white women. Sure, at a point it was exclusive (well, I think 'extended' is actually a more precise word). However, I have also been with (I love that euphemism, 'been with'...laughter) Latino women, Chinese women, and...Well, that's enough of my sexual resume for one blog post. My point here is that I didn't need to conjure up some long winded treatise about human loving or 'color-blind' bullshit to feel comfortable about feeling comfort. I felt not one drop of cognitive dissonance pressuring me to bash Black women for my choices. I didn't at any moment feel any pangs pushing me to pen a piece about my exploits as a Black man boning 'Becky's'...or 'Linda's', or 'Lu's', or 'Maria's', or...I just didn't sense the necessity of expounding at length about something I was doing for the sheer pleasure of my penis without an exact rhyme or reason outside of the exploit it Self. And for the most part, it was never something I planned. It just sort of happened as a consequence of time and place.

Now, yes, I don't subscribe to the narrow view of politics as most. Never have. I understand that every act is a political one. Anything one does can be rendered as a use of power, for or against one's Self. Cool. Duly noted. Many arguments can be raised for my behavior. Yet, none can in my opinion be more convincing than I was just fucking. If any statement about my actions should be made with regard to social or political concerns it should be about my insatiable sexual appetite at that time ('at that time'...more laughter). I wasn't making some grand statement to the world about my humanistic views; I was just fucking who wanted to fuck me within certain proximity. I was not saying to the global community that I loved everyone. Far from it. I was being very specific. I love vagina. Still do.

True indeed, my disposition presently affords me the ability to consider the needs of Black people to see Black people engaged in lustful frolicking if not embracing each other in a more stable romantic being. The image of the Black woman has been forged in the United States in such a way that they are considered 'undesirable.' The culture stemming from the demeaning of the Black woman in the United States has help to create a buffer group. This buffer group was able to be manipulated into furthering the economic stratification based on skin color that we still notice now. There may not be a plausible 'solution' to the internecine 'color wars,' nor would I want to provide reactionaries an excuse to act puerile towards those that do choose to be interracially bonded, but I do desire to at least be of that number who can provide an image of Black men doting Black women to the highest degree within my ability. That's my offering. Yet, even that is my decision, a personal one based on political consideration, but one I will not justify with anything more than I want to be with a Black woman.

Now, in closing, this piece was sparked by a statement by a purportedly Caucasian male that was spread to further audiences by a Black woman who is expressing her insecurities about ‘dating’ (BIG EUPHEMISM there!) white men. As a writer in the age of social media, I fully understand the urge to express every notion and whim that enters our mind. Albeit, that expression does come with a price: your thoughts can be read; that is figurative, and literal. Fuck who you want. It doesn't have to become an attack on my brotherhood. Fuck who you want. It doesn't have to become this organizing of Black women to encourage more of the same belittling and demeaning of a group of men that where created during the worst atrocity known in the human's story. Fuck who you want. If I have sex with a homeless woman, somebody will say something about it. If I have sex with a woman that is three feet tall, somebody will say something about it. If I have sex with the most desirable woman on earth, somebody will say something about it. I promise you this; I will not write a scientific study on why my choice in women should be something that all men opt for to promote our evolutionary existence. Not going to happen. Fuck who want to. I am.  

I Believed

You're the tin man with no heart; you watch with glossy eyes in fascination while my heart flops around like a fish out of water on the tile floor between us. My heart is not hardened against this cruel world and the elements swoop in, mocking it, as if they were vultures toying with a half-dead, almost lifeless carcass.

.

The tears streaming down my face threaten to cry you a river that will rust you solid while you choke and sputter on the salty moisture that you forced out of me without priming the pump. And all this time you stand frozen, not with sympathy or empathy, but with morbid curiosity at the sommersaulting organ at your feet that was once kept safely within my chest.

.

And as my tears mix with my blood to create a rain of terror, I fix my eyes on the funhouse mirror that told me you were just a man who needed love and the only word that bubbles to the surface is... "Liar."

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Deceptive Strength


And I cry out in sorrow at your sweet kisses,

Because they steal my heartbeats every time our lips meet.

And your hands, as they glide over my frame,

They suck out my marrow, leaving my bones weakened as if

Osteoporosis had eaten through each and every one of them.

Weak for you. And your breath eases through the holes

Like blood through blocked capillaries and moray eels through coral,

Pretending to fill the crevices and give strength to the structure.

But it's all just a smoke screen, an elaborate illusion, to disguise

The weak creature who you make me out to be.



Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Tanka Poems!

So Tanka poems are syllabic in nature, following the 5,7,5,7,7 form. Here are some of the ones that I liked =) Enjoy!

1. Don’t sit back dreaming

Of lost youth and imagined

Glory and lose sight of

The very tangible things

Which present themselves right now.

2. Blue collars with guns

And tasers may confuse where

They lie, but their words

Are always placed carefully

So they don’t upset the “law”.

3. Children shot and folks

Go missing, but they were born

With toe tags and stamped

With expiration dates when

They were born with melanin.

4. With an ancestry

That looks akin to a chess

Board, the presence of

Nonconformity is bred

Like horses in a stable.

Copyright ©2011 Natasha Guy

Still National Poetry Month!

I'm still writing folks, but I prefer ink and paper to typing, so my journal is getting lots of face time! I DID type up one of my longer pieces earlier though. I'm really diggin it. I combined 6 line stanzas consisting of 3 couplets with didactic, Crapsey and reverse cinquains respectively. As far as I know this isn't a specific style, but I REALLY loved how it turned out. This may be one of my favorite pieces this month...even though the couplets rhyme. If any of you have spoken to me about poetry, one of the first things I say is that my rhyming stuff sounds too forced. This one kinda flowed and I liked it. Hope you enjoy:

Bricks And Mortar

Like Sandra Bullock standing in front of a boy asking to be loved,
I'm staring at the wall trying to find a soft spot in a stony glove. 
And yeah, sure, when I toss the ball it comes back, but see
I'm smart enough to know that doesn't mean the wall is playing catch with me. 
I claim I'm not delusional, because I know the wall's not playing games.
Yet I stand here confessing that I'm still waiting for it to say my name. 

Wall
Strong, tall
Standing, deflecting, unmoving
Always there for me.
Stability. 

I come daily to throw the ball your way as if you will sprout arms. 
I smile at those who look on as I gush about your many charms. 
Some try to dissuade me from being so naïve and simple
In return, I point out the place where I always lean looks like a dimple.
Others display the pity smile; they pat my shoulder and move on. 
Eventually though, they all tire of hearing the same old song. 

My wall
The cornerstone
Of my world that's so bland.
It's always there for me; just stands. 
My rock.

I've bounced the ball towards it so much, pieces start to fall. 
I put the chips into my pocket; better rubble than nothing at all.
But the bits of wall just aren't enough material for me. 
I can't mold the response I want from stone chards so raggedy. 
I've stopped coming with the ball, tired of never getting real play;
Instead I bring my pillow and sleep; my night becomes my day. 

Even
In the darkness I can feel you
Close to me so rigid.
So strong but I'm 
Still cold. 

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Quatrains!

Ok. Quatrains are NOT my fave at all! Vivan las cinquains! Anyway...here's the quatrain from today *shrug* in the abab pattern.

You’re something like a puzzle piece

I’m still trying to figure out your place.

Once I do, it’ll be like the perfect crease

Or the delicate design on pink panties in lace.

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Poems for 4/4,4/5 and today. Still stuck on Cinquains.

"Marathon"
Slid down
in exhaustion.
But my heart kept going
like it had on track shoes and was
winning.

"Baking" (mirror)
I made
your fave cookies
yesterday and wanted
to break down and add tears to the
batter.
Bittersweet desserts don't really
measure up though,
you know?


The place
I've always considered our spot
is where you first told a
stranger that I
said yes.
"She Does" (reverse)

The birds
chirping the day away make me
wish for the rain that will
cleanse my soul of
regret.
"Noise" (reverse)


Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Crapsey Cinquains from 4/3!

“Frustration”

Arms, legs.

Entangled in

Divine sexual fusion

And then you realize it’s a dream.

Wake up.

“Twirl”

Dance with

me. Wild with all

caution thrown to the wind

that propels the rain around us.

Just Dance.

“Experience”

Concrete

jungles scratch up

innocent knees when they meet

each other. Innocence lost to the

real life.

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Didactic Cinquains from 4/2!

Love

Immortal, Beautiful

Supporting, Embracing, Helping

A never ending story.

Bond

Sexuality

Personal, Defining

Homo-, Hetero-, Trans-

Classifications that mean nothing. 

Preference.

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

It's National Poetry Month!

So I'm gonna try doing 30 in 30. I'll write daily, although I may not post them all. Just depends on how much I feel like breathing that day *wink* So I owe you two already! Here's one...tried a new form: the Sestina. It flowed a lil more easily than I thought it would. For now, it's untitled.

Sestina #1

I wasn’t told that my heart would get freezer burn

While waiting in line with your other obligations.

I should have vacuum sealed it before surrendering

To more broken promises that I’d never heard before.

But it happens; another casualty of unbalanced Love.

Love is one of the greatest gifts that is constantly rejected.

It’s not like I have never been or will never again be rejected.

But coming from someone you Love, it tends to burn.

Just a bit more than from someone whom you never offered Love.

The sting of being waitlisted with a string of obligations

While watching your Love’s future move on without you like before

The two of you were one, forces a sort of surrendering.

When emotions flash, the last thing you want to be is surrendering.

Hurt turns to anger and you lash out, making everyone feel rejected.

When inside it’s all a trembling mess yearning for before.

When the feeling was a refreshing wave, instead of a searing burn.

But this is the process once relationships become obligations.

The relationship is no longer Love.

It is a daunting task, to maintain Immortal Love.

Some fight it tooth and nail, while others find peace in surrendering.

Too many times it is embraced, just to be set aside later with other obligations.

Putting it on a list to be checked off daily makes it feel rejected.

Once that happens, go ahead and set it on fire, let it burn.

And truth be told; it will never be what it was before.

It can be better than or worse than, but never just like before.

That is the pure nature of Immortal Love.

It changes and develops fires and chills; both causing a burn.

But the scars are testimony to your surrendering.

Sometimes it’s worth risking being rejected,

Giving in to the fight against becoming one of the obligations.

However, some situations still shove you into the list of obligations.

If you don’t resist the grouping, you lose what you had before.

Then comes the resentment associated with being rejected.

Once it enters the scene, it can choke out most Love.

At that moment, you may find yourself surrendering

To Immortal Love and it’s eternal burn.

If you become one of the rejected and wind up on the list of obligations,

And you no longer feel the burn that was once there before,

Just remember that Immortal Love requires a lot of surrendering.

Copyright ©2011 Natasha Guy

Scholarships!

I made this list a while ago for a couple of my college bound friends seeking scholarships and grants! Click away!!!

http://www.fastweb.com/
http://www.jackierobinson.org/
http://www.uncf.org/forstudents/scholarship.asp
http://www.scholarships.com/scholarship-search.aspx (tailored search)
http://apps.collegeboard.com/cbsearch_ss/welcome.jsp (tailored search)
http://www.kaarme.com/find_scholarships

With these sites, you have to dig a little, but you can find what you need off the beaten path:
http://www.studentscholarshipsearch.com/
http://www.scholarsite.com/
http://www.freschinfo.com/search.cfm
http://scholarships.collegetoolkit.com/Scholarship/Main.aspx

Another New Author!!

Hi all! I'd like to you consider an author friend of mine for your next purchase ^_^ below are the details and a short bio. If you haven't purchased mine yet, go ahead and click the link for both of our books! Support the lil guys before they get big =) Thanks in advance!

Pronouns

By

 JoVonna Rodriguez

Pronouns categorizes life through writing, which is often separated by visions and experience. Pronouns is a collection of poetry and prose describing every aspect of the human existence in relation to emotions, and highlighting every struggle and success. Pronouns is something everyone can feel.

Based on the principle that all life stories can be interchangeable, Pronouns explores each avenue, situation, and event. It starts off with a personal chapter introducing the author’s inspirations to write and poems that describe her life. Pronouns explores a different theme in each chapter, based on the definition of a pronoun: She, Him, Us, Them, and We.

Pronouns is a showcase of passion, covering an array of issues including abuse, sex, artistry, incarceration, love, political activism, sex, community collectiveness, youth, nature, and truth. It pays homage to Shatoya Currie (Girl X), 2009 Taser related deaths, incarcerated men, and our community. 

About the Author

JoVonna Rodriguez is a vessel for words and emotions. She is a native New Yorker who now resides in Atlanta, Georgia since graduating from Emory University. She is AmeriCorps alum whose commitment to service is now bridged with being a life long educator. She makes sure to incorporate creative and innovative ways of learning how to love reading and writing in her classroom. JoVonna is releasing her first book of poetry and prose entitled, Pronouns. For more on JoVonna Rodriguez and Pronouns check her out at: www.joskidiesel.com, @JoskiDiesel or joskidiesel@yahoo.com. 

Life's Realities

You know the secrets that lie between my folds….and my ears.

And when someone asked what makes me smile,

All I could think was, “His hand touching my chin.”

Because, as I’ve said before, I find you in everything me.

And my biggest disappointment, yet most important realization to date 

Has been that I will have some of my best moments, without you,

But they won’t be my best until I share them with you

And you tell me how proud you are and how much you love me.

Then all the previous moments that built up to that moment 

Will start outshining the moment that I’m telling you about,

Because without those times when you built me up and pushed me on

When you encouraged me and told me that you had no doubts about me…

I would not be where I am now, without you believing in me.

Not saying that I wouldn’t be great, just that I wouldn’t be here.

And the more that we go on together, pushing and pulling, simultaneous and not,

I find that the secret is: not trying to figure out the secret, because it’s different for everyone.

I can’t compare us to them, and she to me, and you to he, because they are not we.

But can I get a tiny glimpse of my fantasies mixed within our reality?

While no one ever has time for the in between things that mix and bind

Our yesteryear to forevermore; someone has to make the connections.

So while you make time to make the plans and constantly go hard in the paint

For the future that I dare to dream about and you strive your hardest to create,

I won’t take for granted the times that we share within each other’s hearts and presence

If you try to remember not to take for granted how I stitch together the seams between them.

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Writing myself out of a funk

I stole some sunshine last week. I put it in my back pocket and forgot about it. Then my sister tried to borrow my jeans. She said they didn’t fit her like they should, shrugged them off and left them hanging on my newel post. And there they sat until laundry day. Which is when I ran out of jeans to wear, except for those. I threw them on with my oldest shirt and when I got to the front door with my hands full of dirty laundry and Tide detergent I just stared. I stared out at the mud puddles pooling around my retro sport car’s tires that needed replacing, the dark clouds hiding bumpy oak roots that would trip me, and the rain that would turn my candy curled locks into a fro. Then, as if by magic, I remembered the little piece of sunshine that still sat in my back pocket for such a day as this. I reached in deep and pulled out a candid picture of just your smile. Then all I saw were rainbows <3

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

So I watched For Colored Girls

If you loved it, you prolly won't like my take in this poem. But I could care less. I watched and this is what bubbled up at the end. That movie...smh...well you'll see my opinion.

To Whom It May Concern

I see my shattered reflection in the same mirror that I punched yesterday

‘Cause I couldn’t stand the sight of my own soul

And closing my eyes was still a mirror

Because the back of my eyelids still screamed that it was me.

Then you turned around and shoved the same thing back down my throat.

In a movie, no less, that was supposed to be entertainment;

Yet it was really a chronicle of abuse with no end to the torment.

Not even a helpline number at the end to refer me to any hand at all.

You cannot tell me that you made it to inform other people,

Or that you wanted me to see myself on the screen

And come to some kind of realization of the mistakes that I continually make.

The folks in the community are the main ones that watched it.

My sister and I, we KNOW the issues.

Who wants to see themselves on screen with no solution and left in the same mess?

No hope of return or redemption or even a ladder to where you are;

Just a flashlight shone down from your mighty pedestals above.

So if you want to make a movie that will MOVE folks,

Then go ahead and lead the way to somewhere better.

Let us visit your promise land and taste the grapes not born from wrath.

Don’t just pan over the same path we’ve all tread!

Because I, we, she are all too familiar with

How we keep returning to the shattered mirror day after day

And it’s still there staring back at me…

Broken and shattered but not torn down, not replaced.

And it still functions,

But not in the way that it’s supposed to.

But I can still do my make up if I lean to the side and twist my face up

To fit in the largest piece of the cracked glass that STILL reflects my brokenness.

So with all due respect to your blood bought stardom and honors,

Don’t sit on your high horse and point at my issues

As if when you come home, you don’t come in the community bathroom behind me

And squint and tilt your head until you find the piece of mirror that makes you look best!

Because in the limelight you may prance like the finest Arabian show horse,

But back in the stables, you still pull the same cart that you

Hitched to the little sister who had to portray a whore in your movie

Just to see the underside of your pedestals.

Copyright ©2011 Natasha Guy