We exhale pieces of what our souls once tasted like,
what i ancestors once breathed terribly,
dreams of freedom are restricted by the reality of chains,
clouds of smoke block our path onto the right way,
distractin our mind,
subtracting our time,
and i cry because people lose pencils everyday


no one will
listen to broken dreams,
rejected hopes,
or crooked smiles,
too busy frontin like they dont have the same problems,
the world wants made beds,
clean floors,
clean clothes,
sweet smells,
roses
and make up
because we are meant to believe that God dont like ugly

apart from keeping memories,
i wish that we could keep days,
i can keep kisses and cuteness in my back pocket,
but days would go in a special jewelry box
and on my cloud evenings, i would take our my summer nights
and spring days when the rain played
and a few winter nights with warm companions,
so i can feel like myself again,
so i can write like i once wrote
without preoccupation of assumptions and stereotypes,
broken hearts and even broken homes
and broken tears,

i took notes on happiness
and derived at the conclussion that happy people were once the saddest at one point,
their smiles are just cover-ups
because they have to keep an image,
a different kind of make up,
a different kind of lie,
a different kind of life,
and tears and smiles are related
in the thoughts of a mind's eye


gender blindness, color blindness, maybe blindness in general
is a beautiful thing,
instead of discussing who is the better sex or race we should be discussing authors and poems,
we should be trying to compete with our own minds, instead of each other,
we should find the comfort spot instead of the war zones,
we should be making a difference


but people never listen,
so i cry,
not for the sadness of it all,
but because
people lose thoughts everyday,
people lose words everyday,
i cry because people lose pencils everyday,
but then i remember that paper will always listen
and my pages will be here to stay