All Things Poetic

Silence

So sad that I am still afraid to be myself.
And who am I?
Who is this inside my skin?
Where do these thoughts come from?
Where do they live?
How do I release myself from myself?
How do I let go?
Am I able to let go of the criticism, the pain, the injustice, the secrets?
Am I ready to live in truth?
The soul seems so willing, but the body and mind is so weak.
I ramble, I stop. I pretend to be someone I am not.
Everyday attempt, attempt, attempt. Attempt to be her.
The one.
The one I'm supposed to be.
Destiny. Fate. Truth. I have doubts.
Secrets and lies they continue to plague me. So I push them further.
Back, back. Back behind the facade. The front. The fake.
I want out.
I want out of this nightmare. This half-world.
Is it me? Is it my fault?
Am I keeping her from breaking free? Rising to the surface?
To dream. To love. Do I believe that?
Does she believe that?
Am I worthy of more? Worth.
Again, I pause, I stop.
And still there is no answer.
Silence.

Tiffani C. Powell
Copyright May 2000

**my first poem**

Dysfunctional out of necessity

some words that i had to get out ...

Dysfunctional out of necessity

there is nothing in the book worth writing home about to change stripes when it's easier to choke on them pray for them spit blank words or a one liner with no greeting or signature. bandwidth not well spent such a bother to waste two weeks to dance around a response forced to play the game or move to alaska. woe is me hotline is a joke it's twisted how easy it is to get along without feeling without purpose otherwise to purposely wake up put one foot in front of the other and blame everyone else self service only bitterness not kindness or culpability to pass onto the next offsrping but not this one. there are more lights on upstairs to know better than to engage in parental misguidance ........

more to come. this is just a start

Tiffani C. Powell

lessons learned

Generic Prescription

Self-medication will only get you so far my dear, better get you some right in the head quick before fate passes you by.
Won’t do you no good communing with the Devil marooned on the island of desperate depressions, it never happens to me, my childhood was lacking this and that… heard enough to know that you whacked! Yes, it takes a village to raise a child but sometimes the offer ‘aint so good.
Makeshift living is not worth settling for-topsy-turvy misusing your own life.
Get over yourself cuz you’re one in a million Americans who suffer from anxiety, dry mouth, my daddy didn’t love me and I have issues with rejection.
Time is ticking, sinking fast 10,000 leagues under the weight of the world on your shoulders and brain and even though you grew up inside a circus, three ring and all, there comes a time when you must take on the day.
Please be advised; that is if you can find time within your busy schedule to relax, relate and release past, pent up emotions and delusions of grandeurs, you’ll find there is a whole world out there.
Put the wheels in motion for the stage of the chrysalis. Actually do away with those coping mechanisms and do something. Strip clean and become at peace with this genetic make-up, freak-show so-called life is in your name; sold bought and paid for.
Piecing together this girl’s life comforted by the sound of the cork popping, pills spilling a drunken stupor of promiscuity has gotten old.
Real old.
So ditch the first idea and go with Plan B. Be trigger happy in group therapy. Direct your inner-child to the reference section and fasten your seatbelt for the cleansing ride of your life.
Try something new: Drown yourself in functionality, semi-normalcy and open up the blinds.
The sun is shinning in for a change and today’s a good day to be alive.

Tiffani C. Frost
Copyright 2005

untitled, unfinished...

Here's something I started back in January.  Not sure if I want to continue this one or leave it alone...

I got mad verbs.  My verbiage, literage is literally scheming plans at all times necessary so’s my words stay flavorful.  Do’t get it twisted, I know it’s hard to take my style, my flow I glide upon the page as it were ice.  Princess I am sometimes not worthy but you can bet I’ll spit a new line better than the one before.  A new revolution for this revelation of text that is spoken not read.  I am the latest, the hip, the cool, the new.  Steady and methodical my methodology is psychologically fuckin’ with you ears cuz my words are that good.  You might think me conceded but I concede that my theory is backed up with facts.  Yes, confident, head blown, pen dry from purging.  Shit, my momma taught me to be proud, chest out head up and middle finger to those that dare doubt me.  Yeah my stuff is that good.  My purpose is for real, my delivery original, chock full of spices from the Orient and back to my Grandmothers kitchen.  And have no fear: I am diverse in my rhyme, versatility is dynamic, presentation on point and baked fresh daily for your delight.  There is no need to shop around.  Everything you need for your poetic experience is right here.  Close your eyes, open ears and ready yourself for words worth hearing..............

A Comfortable Quiet

He says there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about you.

There isn’t enough space in this universe to fill with that lie.

But I listened anyway.  Innocently childlike with reservations, I listened.  And your words stained on my soul so much that I don’t know how to wash you out.

Little dirty secrets.

They somehow become louder but not loud enough for you to disappear and so I wait.

Impatiently, frantically, my soul will wait for a comfortable quiet.

 

He says, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about you.

Tormenting, shameful, cruel and hateful role model take me and lead by examples of lies, betrayal and mistrust?  No! No I won’t follow.

But I will have to wait.  My soul will wait for a comfortable quiet.

 

He says, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about you.

The demons, the childhood terrors they plagued me.  Tried to overtake and consume me, please!  Consume me with beauty.

With a conscious dream.  One that I can accept.

My grandmother says, I don’t always understand but I accept it, I don’t always understand it but I accept it, I don’t always understand it but I accept to breathe life into the one that you attempted to steal and from when?

When will the haunting stop? Where will it find me this time?

In the park?  Making love, reading a book, writing a check, stubbing my toe or just simply trying to cross the fucking street?  Until then I’ll wait.

My soul will wait for a comfortable quiet.

 

He says, there is not a day that goes by that I do not think about you.

Day?  Night? Afternoon, brunch, tea and or coffee?  I think.

I think why am I here in this space?  Why were you in my space?

Well, everything happens for a reason.

So explain to me the reasoning for a woman to run from her childhood.

To resent, hate, condemn, loathe and even spit on and denounce your existence if I do…

Will I have to wait any longer? 

Will my soul have to wait any longer for a comfortable quiet?

 

He says, there is not a day that goes by that I do not think about you.

And I wonder.  I wonder if you live in a comfortable quiet.  A place where you’re allowed to look at yourself in the mirror without crumbling from shame and I wonder if you breathe.

I wonder if you breathe in a comfortable quiet or do you gasp for the air of a clean soul because I breathe!

I breathe in 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…the eight years we existed together.

9,10,11,12…I breathe in the years I escaped you.

13,14,15…I breathe in the years I tried to ignore you.

16,17,18,19…I breathe in the years I tried to resent you.

20,21,22,23,24,25…I breathe in the years I tried to condemn you.

and 26?  26 I breathe in…….

 

Tiffani Frost

Copyright 2001

Try This On

Try This On

What you know about what I got?

Don't you know I am that woman?

My revolution as a master scientist of a not-so-good Lesbian with the old college try, always a mover, 100% brown outside and in, colorblind heart chewy-middle.

Girl from Rockville, fighter of good, every now and again was lost in love but supplemented with large doses of poetry.

I used to be all fucked up in the head, inherited that dirty job then beat that stereotype dead.  May have been feline in a past life cuz landing on my feet is elementary, silver lining didn't come cheap.

Just so happens that my husband is white, raised by mom in predominantly black less towns, ran Madonna's records in the ground, cheered it up with the white girls on the football field and yes my Daddy did slack but that don't mean I ain't still black, as I am an investigator of new places, stomping grounds from Lincoln Park to Jack Frost and beyond.

Maybe I was five when I made the choice to conform to so-called normalcy, debated patriotism, attempted vegetarian, dance my ass off if the groove is right.

Contender for best mom award?  Who knows what the future holds.  Womb might expand to accommodate a life who too will be gifted with a loaded pen but not subjected to the Devilish hands of the past of incest, my ancestry runs deep, chains and shackles Kunta Kente?  Maybe.  But that don't concern me. Onlookers of brotha's who claim they can't get a break but I peep potential all day.  Saving graces seems to be to give it to God and get on your mutha-fuckin' feet.

I've abused excuses longer than most, I've lied to lovers I've loved, drank more than my share and til this day say praise the Lord for good therapy!

Now PhD. I don't got and if you check my cabinet you'll find that I'm fresh out of pot but plenty of bottles of good lovin'.  Made some bad choices, took too much criticism to heart but kept my eyes on the prize, a worker-bee of watch yo-self before you get got cuz the man don't exist in my world.  Those that want more get it done-question, argue and explore all possibilities beyond the capabilities of both hands.

I dress to impress maybe 62% of the time, fly in my sleep and if my husband's feeling generous he'll give me some good lovin' on the creep at night or day I am deep enough to make a point, be somebody to someone I don't even know, configure my thoughts daily to make sure this mind grows.

Entertainer on stage I choreograph words that include Miles, Nina, Ani, Jill, Alvin Ailey, Maya, Langston and my Grandmother.  Those that send me to write, dance and weep, shut me up and put me in my seat to reflect who I am and where I'm going.

I am more that what is seen.

I exist.

Try it on me.

Copyright 2005

Tiffani C. Powell

STOP

*You'll find this poem on my CD "On Her Own"

STOP-

I want to stop writing.  I want to stop writing.  I want to stop writing about pain.  I want to stop writing about my childhood.  I want to stop writing about him.  I want to stop writing about my dysfunction.  I want to stop writing about feeling low.  I want to stop writing about my fears.  I want to stop writing about how confused and dusted and busted my soul is.  I want to stop writing about why me?

I want to write about choice.  I want to write about love.  I want to write about the good that is inside of me.  I want to write about the gift of life my mother gave me.  I want to write about the special place I go when I dance.  I want to write about how poetry saved my life.  I want to write about how blessed I am to be a child of GOD. I want to write about something, anything, away from, far beyond and different than they eight years I sufferred.  I want to write new words...it's about time.

Copyright 2001

Tiffani C. Frost

So You Think You Bad?

Well, well, well, what you up to now?  Oh I'm sorry, did I interrupt your flow, your game, your hide and go cheat?  No Baby don't mind me.  Please proceed to kick that, hit that ball out the park and into my lap so I can wake the fuck up and see your misrepresentation of a partner gone flat.

I don't trust you as far as I can throw you and Lord knows I can't throw.  Shit I'm not gonna lie.  You was crafty and for a minute I regurgitated every word, every trick, swindle and rouse I allowed you to force feed down my heart which was stuck to you and what I thought was good love.  But you're addicted to that one, two, maybe five deadly sins 1, 2 steppin' around the truth, lies and let's go to the videotape.

Oh yes.  It's documented how you said this, then did that.  Expressin' love and how you got my back when you really had her up against the wall actin' like you was all that.

It was your world I lived in.  I believed I belonged.  Inhabiting your planet, taking on your dogma, learning your style as law.

Now I look like a fool to stay.  Losin' sleep sleeping with the enemy who imitates the life of someone else by day performing dirty pretty things by  night.

Trust.  These are lessons learned and never repeated.  Cuz like Erykah, "I'm cleva" and I'll show you how I roll.

Solomente.  Uno.  Me subtracted from you, times two plus somebody else's lover cuz that's how you do it.

Don't tell me you still salty cuz I found me the right stuff?  Let us not forget you was the one face to porcelain not one month after you was mackin' with what's-her-face at the club.

Yeah I know about that too.  But no need to worry boo I'm all set.  I've checked out of your hotel for good. No refund please.  Keep the check.

Copyright 2005

Tiffani C. Frost

The Chaos That Exists Here

when the dawn rises from within the grand splendor of ridicules, sweetly spoken words burried in mind from before unconfortably numb was a theme; scenario, norm, an unsightly haze musty habit choking childhood under the bed where only the largest star can rescue from parental loveless stormy episodes outside doors. black abyss no hall-light shattered every breath, heartbeat shaking the knowledge that once exsited that eight year olds: skip, play, fall, beatdown, crack night falls upon horses running wild escaping the ground, the fault which quakes vacuum-like action blow in, scream out role model! lungs exhale be patient twenty years before grooves are filled but what's in a name? not shakespeare writ wonderment large enough to stake this claim. bubbles bursting, blown over be sure the net captures in time patience overgrown for the keeper is kept ridding pink banana seats streamers fly in winds only angels can see. london streets district lights red promote one mans' desired destiny where hands lead fate by choice choosing the ultimate sin. tiny smiles broken, wishes of amnesia don't amount to the mysteries of a car salesman gone mad in 1983, 82, 5, 6, 7, 8 count the ways electricity can flow to ignite a minor dissovowed. no presents wrapped but destroyed-schools out stand alone and wait to be forgotten left for dead to missappropriate a life. innocence burning, drifting on... sing sing a lullaby to impress upon this offspring good does exist beyond four walls. if chances are dared will someone lead to quiet places glasses half-full to particulars unknown for the chaos that did exist.

Copyright July 2005

Tiffani C. Frost

Empty Pockets

Delicate is the shape it takes only constructed for the eyes not for the touch of things is different somehow lagging behind, ticked on and on the meter strikes empty.

Do you need change?

A luggage rack? 

Some type of carrying device, handicap?  What’s your drive?

Sink? Or plummet?  That is the question to pose, prose and impress upon those that don’t know any better.  Lambs out to slaughter designed to feel, shave, no harm-no foul or sound.

Though it does come undone sometimes don’t it?  Unraveling before you, frayed beginnings is not off to a good start, on your mark, get set, fly into yourself and those of which we do not speak of. 

The good, the bad and the ugliest thing ever seen or presented to the country divided for your safety.

Do you need change?

Homeless, undertaken, under the thumb of your own self-no riches on these streets no handout even for folks who do tricks.

Hat in hand, would you like a floatation device?  Possibly some of the bubbly to aide in the after effects of the charm less wonder called the psyche.

Yes, assistance is needed and warranted in this matter of the heart, mindless mind empty and ready for new words.

Cliché as it is, that which does not kill us makes, us stronger and day-by-day Pete says to take heed to the one above.

Karma has no vendetta just an agenda like you. 

No point wasting life to satisfy that craving.

Fresh out.  Pockets are empty.

Tiffani C. Frost

Copyright  2005