She was nice.
So uselessly nice.

The morning dew is,
Easy to catch.
It was welcoming and refreshing, 
Yet now it hurts. 
You’re old enough now to be free,
Yet the fences buzz.
But, what’s out there,
For you?

Tears are expected,
Like rain though the sun shines.
Not of sadness, but gladness because,
We see your face.

no more than twelve
walks like he is trying to sneak up on the world,
hesitating with each step,
as if the world is trying to take the little he has left.

When I say “no” I mean that 
Why do I have to repeat what I say? 
Why is this world so nasty, 
Why do men always want their way? 

This isn’t a pretty flower to much
Most pass it’s treasure unnoticed
It’s presence, much like stop signs,
we see and ignore
These ordinary flowers
are the seeds of our island,
planted more than beaches eroded and resorts built

Whilst strolling cross the alley
I saw a wilted tree
It’s roots and stems, they’ve sprouted
But unrested like me

Oh Invisible Man
Where have you gone again?
Was it to party and dance? 
Wasting your liver away just for a chance
To be seen? 

There is color in my skin
Where certain spots
The sun chooses to dance leaving warm
Dark paint splatters along the way.
The other parts don't have the same fate,
Where the  light, blank patches were, the dark should have been.

Your love is 
dirty against my skin
Like stubborn smudges
water can’t persuade
And a covering too heavy for a heart,
It lingers and coats me in its murkiness.

My child, my Child,
Clings to me as I hold his back
With a whispered prayer.
My pocket is empty,
Yet there is food.

Since my youth
I’ve known your embrace.
Felt your cold, hair raising trail 
Unexpected, creeping silently,
Like a thief. 

I have a love hate relationship with the ringing of the phone. I am not always eager to receive immediate communication.
Ring, ring, ring.
Who is on the other end of the line? I hope it is someone I want to hear from.

In the salon, a vision so fair,
A beautiful black girl with curly hair,
Bouncy, shoulder-length, a crown so rare,
She sits so poised in the stylist's care.

I’ve found crude streets offer plenty to see. 

“Nevah go on dat pier!” 
“Not when da moon is full!” 
“When not a creak can ya hear!” 
“When da world is at a lull!” 

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. 
This wasn’t supposed to happen. 
What was supposed to be a triumphant, 
And a heartfelt victory, 
Was soiled by iron and the smell of loss. 

Such blights of the soul, 
Have persisted throughout history. 
Yet, there is one, 
An eighth that bears warning.