Culture

The thing about a flower..is beauty til death
It lives with grace, as it dies in that vase
You may only wear your beauty because of pressure
Make-up veils the truth
but I see your eyes, as if life is dying inside of you
Stunning the way you hide it
You are deeper than any well
Enthralled with such elegance
Like a bug, I feel fatally lured into your luminescence
But up close, I peer into your petals of agony
Others too often hover the surface, your look induces the chase
Externally masked, ironically you put off what you hate
Composed well since you first blossomed
So no one see’s your depth
You die slow yearning for trust and true love..
But you don’t love yourself
You feel like an object, a prized possession, a visual gift
Lauded after because of your appearance
Shallowly preserved, slowly wilting away within time
Dying slowly as you stand brilliantly flushed
The thing about a flower

No-stal-gi-a

I always loved the sound of the word

though I never took to it

I mean, I never had a past time of memorable things I clung to

Reminiscing was always in some form kind of painful

But this one day..

It boasted my favorite memories

I felt whole

No matter what foster home or group home I left

Just to be included on that day made me complete

Thanksgiving

The only day of the year I felt a part of my family

The day I looked forward to every year

To see my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandma and siblings

People who looked like me, shared my blood

Nothing fulfiled me more than seeing my family on Thanksgiving

It wasn’t the food though you know us black people can throw down

It was the family reunion, the day everyone seemed so happy to see me

Nostalgia to me is Thanksgiving