Fallen Anjel

I am ready for love
Why are you hiding from me
I'd quickly give my freedom
To be held in your captivity

I am ready for love
All of the joy and the pain
And all the time that it takes
Just to stay in your good grace
Lately I've been thinking
Maybe you're not ready for me
Maybe you think I need to learn maturity
They say watch what you ask for 
Cause you might receive 
But if you ask me tomorrow 
I'll say the same thing
-I.A.


I've stared in her face, smelled the sweetest fragrance of her lips, devoured each word that glides off her tongue with a ferocity of a thousand hungry men - yet, she belongs to him. She is not property but a gift, his gift. And he is so blinded by possession that he has forgotten the blessing one can find in a gift.

Pity Party of One, Please. I'm not into self-loathing, martyrdom or deprivation - though at some point in this entry, I am sure to exhibit all the signs. Actually, I refuse to admit that I might be one of those disgusting people in this world whom God has set aside a true love. Okay, maybe they're not disgusting. And yes, I'm hating. But a brother's got to find a way to appropriately make sense of it all.

Since very young, I've been celebrated for my intelligence, good looks, athletic build, hair texture, etc. None of these titles (excluding intelligence) have I readily taken ownership of. However, if I amass these prescribed qualities into a recipe for romantic success, then a guy like me (or whom I have been told I am) would be a candidate for a love degree with summa cum laude honors. Yet, in the darkness of my home, the smallest whispers echo the loud truth: I am alone. And frankly, at 26, I need to make the decision to be really content with this or to be ABSOLUTELY uncomfortable about it.

I am THE friend. And while I appreciate that I have set myself up to be a trustworthy individual for others, the fact that I die inside whenever a female calls me a great friend shows that some part of my  tin man exterior is porous enough to feel the grief that lies in hope. I'm too old to play the "shut down" game and I will NOT use avoidance as a coping mechanism. Being confident about 99% of the things in my life is not good enough when I doubt my right to a gift such as this. Fuck TV and its depiction of love as some boomerang type of object that magically returns to an owner who takes a risk and throws it out into the open abyss. I haven't seen a return on my investment yet - so, either television is lying or I am truly damned. Scarily, I can't decide which of the two options sounds more plausible.

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
But that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
But that's alright because I love the way you lie. 
I love the way you lie. 

Maybe I'm a sadomasochist, a glutton for self-imposed pain and heartache. In my most heartfelt reflections, I resent the fact that age has riddled my spirit completely incapable of managing matters of emotion. Its like a cancer has lain latent in my soul all these years only to spread its malignant microbes throughout my system at a time when I need to be sealed tight. I can't handle it any longer. I feel like I'm coward, hiding behind the mask of friendship (the same one I resent) so that I get time with her that is, at least, semi-genuine. That way I don't have to risk becoming dumb for her - in her - by her - though I want to. I'm wrapped in a paradox of my own creation and I remain only partly capable of freeing myself from this feeling.

I liken this experience to a prison visit. I stand behind the thin glass, my cool breath kisses the vibration of her lovely sound. I'm pressing my fingers up against the window trying with all my power to get that touch of reinforcement, the little sign I need to know she's in this with me. But sitting on the other side of that window is him. He's staring at her, but she at me. Yet, I stand close enough to be just out of reach. I am not even asking for full contact. I just want a sign. The smallest indication that I might be worthy - or worth what everybody's been telling me I was born to inherit -

love.

When I was 6, I would sit down and draw my future - myself as a grown man with a beautiful wife and four sons. Innocent though it was, I've held on to that hope. Unfortunately, I feel that my crayons have become ink pens or computer keys - every stroke symbolizing a step away from love and toward this contrived idea of success. That kid dies. Every single time I work toward a goal that I realize I have to enjoy alone, that little blonde headed boy certainly dies. Every 4 hour evening conversation purely between friends (that feels like romance) smothers that little boy under one hundred of the heaviest feathered pillows.

I've trapped myself in a maze. I can't or don't know how to escape. I'm a mess inside. Everyday, just before bed, there's an involuntary tear that meets the 'Amen' of my prayer as I rest my mind. Until now, I've thought it to be exhaustion. Now, I know for a fact that its sadness. I could ask myself the depressing questions I've bounced off friends: Am I not good enough? Have I dug myself an emotional hole of escape too deep to be rescued? But they usually yield the same answers as those reminiscent of my childhood upbringing. FUCK. Am I a child gone by the waste side?

These are the things I do know: I'm kind, considerate of others, confident, driven, passionate, and capable of transferring love - from my soul to another's. And yet, even with her and him out of the picture, I remain.... alone. So, it is me. Everyone's lied to me. But how can I reconcile this without feeling like an emotional martyr? The only way I can make sense of it all within the confines of my situation is this: I meet all the qualifications of a great guy but I was born to be alone.

If this is true, then I hate it. I'm not just exiting stage left on this one. I'm setting this stage aflame. This is not a life I can live forever.

And here comes the tears.

Jail Time

Originally, this was written on 50 strips of paper along a rigid table that, unlike most people, had seen my fullest tears. I've decided to give those pieces a body to encompass the soul from which they were begot. This is Jail Time. 


His head was tilted, anchored by a hand that seemed to carry the weight of the world; and yet, his long, dark extensions of fingers trembled beneath something much heavier - an idea not easily defined by the English language. So, for my purposes, I will call it guilt - systematic, institutionally catalyzed guilt. In the background of my observation, there existed the muffled sounds of sniffling, a choir of sympathy bellowing from dry, wooden court pews. These were the family members of the defendant, holding back disobedient tears, filled with shame, anger, confusion - and (weirdly enough) a small bit of hope. It was between these sounds that I found grief, having hid behind the wall where my emotion once lay. I did not understand the legal system. Another black boy convicted of a crime crafted by a system that reserved a jail space for him just as he exited the birth canal - just as I exited the birth canal Yet, I escaped this fate (thus far). This same prison cell he would come to call home - and his final resting place.

We had no choice. There was never one offered in the matter. He had killed in cold blood - or warm blood as was depicted over and over again by the mottled sequence of events that we jurors had to conjure up from gruesome pictures and half-truths. I probably won't ever be able to reconcile the 'why' behind this young man's decision-making. I could probably name a million reasons or excuses as to why and what got him to this point in making horrible choices, but there is nothing I can do to actually create order in places where a mess of disorder exists. The hopeful part of me thought about programs I could start to give young, black men options - better choices - or initiatives that promote healthy decision-making and reemphasize education. These ideas fled quickly at the loud screams of anger - piqued frustration begot from unanswered questions. Where were his parents, the schools, his family, or his church? What causes a seemingly good kid to make horrible choices? 

There's an odd smell that fills the room as my mind runs through options. Justice. Unfamiliar, yet kin. I'm made uncomfortable by the idea that I have to enact something that I don't truly understand. Justice, a remedy that occurs in hindsight, too late for everybody involved in any situation. Up to this point, a speeding ticket (that was later pulled) was the extent of my criminal history. And yet, I have to make a decision about someone's life - and use foolish justice as my only tool of recourse. In crimes this gruesome, there is only life til death or immediate death. Am I my brother's keeper? Should I extinguish a life so that society's failure of him is but a newspaper headline of memory?

This young man had completely lost - or cut himself off by his actions. The whole scenario reminded me of the feeling I would imagine a kicker to get when his field goal winning kick is two feet left of the field goal post. Nobody on the team wins because of his actions, but the team has to pick themselves up and try to do it better the second time around. I think we (I) chose correctly in giving him life imprisonment. I pray there are faculties and resources available to change foolish justice into saintly rehabilitation. Only time can prove that.