Dear Words…My Tribute

It’s amazing how tears never flow when fingers bleed through the screen.

When a mind becomes tangible through etchings. The feelings caged find face. A picture. A palpable existence. Words are my minds eternal soul.

Dear Words,

If I didn’t find you, who would I be? Would I live among the pill shakers, decision makers or life takers? Would med packet’s “riddle rattles” chime  life’s battles?

If I were not in fear of breaking, would I attempt to preserve my sanity right through your art? You make me whole like nothing else can. Running through mother natures playground is bliss. A familiar or foreign smile warms my heart and mind. A door held for me or by me gives strides another few inches in length. Yet, you… you do something different. You envelop warmth in societies cold. You attest to sins and confront them. You teach me what is important. You project emotions wheel, and yield significance in its circulations.

I love you for being my dearest friend when solitude needs a plus one. I cherish the smile you furnish me with in your wake. I value the melodies you create when etchings are attuned to elation and darkness. You have taught me the importance of friendship, connection, love, devotion, growth and emotions. I experience the intensity of life, yet you provide meaning in the spectrum of sensations.

I am indebted to you forever. Let this partnership hold a piece in societies evolution. 

Yours Faithfully,


creation not circulation


When there’s Nothing

I need to write. My fingers are twitching. Each muscle readied with grit. Each digit yearns to give value to the games racketeering in my head. All ten pawns poised to play. My thumb is the favored big hitter for finding the gaps between words in timely fashion.  My right ring finger loves that swift reach, grounding finality in a full stop.    A victory see’s all fingers seamlessly touching base with the thoughts that appose my sanity. Let’s Play. 

Today, is just one of those days….there’s a weird drone to the movements. My thumb sluggishly chimes in to ensure I don’t overrun, while the period plays the field less frequently. It is with a fainthearted fondle that this sentences finality is signaled.  Bases are loaded. My mind is brooding with anticipation for what this pitch may yield. Annnnnnddddddd.

There is nothing…Cricket pitch silence? ….Nope…just crickets.

Cheering crowds? No…just crowded.

Worded wit?.. Nope…finding wits end.

When the mind gives you crickets, play ball. Failure is not in the defeat. Failure is in the silence. Play with me? 

Image Cute Cricket’s By Emla

Gentlemanlike Praise for Ladylike Ways

I find the term “ladylike” a bit condescending

To fine-tune our womanhood, “wedding impending?”

Arrogance voiced in this courting expression

Wolf whistled anticts, painting suppression

See…I’m astutely cute with the wit to match

Life’s feats or fail’s are not in your catch

A reveled pursuit should find verse and gaze

“Gentlemanlike” awe conveyed through phrase

Splendid not sexy, beauty not hot

Grace not ass, and she’ll like you a lot

Be a Woman by PtiteCocci
Be a Woman by PtiteCoc

I just don’t feel like you today. Is that ok?

I smile, because you’re suppose to

I wave because it’s polite

I don’t want to… but I do. I do to uphold the perception of normal. Acceptable, sociable, likeable?

Do I feel…..nothing?

I blink….no tears.

I slam….no anger.

I hurt….no pain.

I am not numb!!! I see a squirrel dance across the fallen leaves as if playing a game of Autumn hopscotch within colored margins. I smile… a real one. I giggle… a girlish one… I stare…I see joy in its prance, life in its pursuit, trickery in its mind. I am not numb…I just don’t feel like you today. Is that ok?

Autumn Reflection Image by Aphariel
Autumn Reflection
Image by Aphariel

Times Abrasions

Tapping feet, strum the beat imprinted by a scene.

A solemn song sees soles despond, as mood and tunes convene.

Treble in delight, while bass embraces gloom

Feet stampede in melody, composing moment’s tune. 

Impatient pounds in song. Intolerance of time.

A line! A Light! Delays in flight! Impart the trudging chime. 

Tippy toes, tap chipper blows, in lively disposition.

A state translates to melody, matching life’s editions.

 Can’t we tap to counteract the mood upon occasion?

Make our chime? Not fall in line, with the tone from times abrasions?

Screen Shot 2015-10-05 at 12.12.36 PMScreen Shot 2015-10-05 at 12.12.36 PM

What is Art?

Art is hunger; it is passion, a resource without ration

Art’s the seamstress of the soul, adorned as timeless fashion

Art’s regret expressed as fiction and the pill that fights addiction

Arts the mentor and the shrink,  the foe to life’s afflictions

It’s the comfort in the dark as darkness finds the stage

Art’s the prophet finding face, the soul etching on times page

Art is growth without decay, it’s a life without an end

Art’s the potion void of poison, its concoction brewed to mend

Time plays us all, yet we never get to play with time

The second-hand carousels, corralling all manner of creatures within range of its focus.

Not alarmed by the alarm that shatters the silence of my surroundings, while muting the chaos of my thoughts.

You say I am a time bomb! I thought it was established. I’m not ticking.

Muffled mutations chime, constructing intelligibility. Sitting in silence amid my crescendo.

A conductor’s symphony racketeers an intruders thoughts. The merry-go-round rides me. The saddled beasts imparting ticks. Not my tick, monster’s ticks.

I’m not ticking. Wave riding creatures attempt to periodically curtail my fuse.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Expressions ricochet monotony.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Out of reach yet within earshot.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Lifelines within a circumference.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Faces etched with occasions inevitability.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Surroundings painted in echo.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Framing our existence.

Tick Tick tick. Each chime is one less.

Tick. Time has no deadline, yet its demise yields certain death.

time. darth vader

Beauty and the Beast

She sings because she’s happy, tunes tapping her resolve

Her melodies are methods for melancholy to dissolve

A hum celebrating joy, as it emerges from within

Its lullaby cast crescents arcing in her grin

Tears are not from sadness, but a product of her state

Inner piece now dripping in a droplet down her face

Her prancing feet are to the beat of happiness’s drum

Tapping to a tune that is cheerfulness’s sum

Yet, suddenly this tapping skips from its even pace

The rhapsody is remedied from its joyful race

Inoculations seem to be the product of a man

Foreboding upturned lips through the raising of a hand

Suspension with intension to strike this damsel down

Beast puppeteer’s beauties lips into a trembled frown

Positioned as if waving, to an absent passer by

This hand produces droplets now fearful from the eye

The beast embodies father, brother and soul mate

Momentarily, this limb suspends with fury fueling traits

Yesterday, tender strokes where doused upon this dame

Today a hand will strike, ensuing charred remains

The aftermath a shaking beauty-clutching that which burns

The imprint of a hand, signifies a man who churns

Who stews, who brews, from daily dues, adding whisky to the pot

The beast is brought to broil, then lights the coil with molten shots

Broth abruptly spilling over dousing dame with fear

The stirring beast, spoils the feast with flames that dually sear

A victim lies in turmoil residing in tempered stewDV race relig

Simmering in suffrage with nothing she can do

A perpetuating cycle fueled by the absentee of hope

Beasts palpable remorse tightens wrists cuffing rope

The throwing blows like paper cuts, not grave but ever burning

Dames Pain remains when aesthetics aren’t concerning

A leash that wont relinquish without external aid

The marking scorched in skin purely fuels the flower trade

With each fume the beauty hones her skills to mask the former night

Denial put this file in chest marked “own fathers plight”

The maiming shame now stowed in heart and padlocked draws

Sympathy imparts submission to the pleading on all fours

What will strip these shackles fortified by beastly mourning?

Is it the bruised reflections, that beauties now adorning?

Is it the voice of reason that comes to her at night?

Is it the next-door neighbor who overheard the fight?

Beasts pitied pleads yield cuffing leads which paralyze this wife

That noose not lose as braiding burns when beauty takes her life

Schizophrenia. We see it! We hear it! We avoid it. Let’s confront it!

Talking about mental health is how we progress mindsets. This video represents a poem I hold dear. The words are drawn from both personal, and professional experiences with Schizophrenia. As an Occupational Therapist, I have clinically witnessed the debilitating nature of Schizophrenia.  A fear of your own reality is heartbreaking to see, and difficult to mend. Daily function becomes hampered by your own demons and contradicting realities. Through living in New York, I am submerged in diversity. Eccentricity is valued, yet when a hint of “insanity” hangs on your coat tails, doors become closed and backs become turned. The correlation between homelessness and mental health on the streets of New York is devastating to see. I have watched Schizophrenia destroy a friendship because I was not strong enough to detach myself from my own insecurities to support another. I will never be a bystander again.   It’s ok to not be ok. It’s not ok for society to turn its back on those who live with a skewed perception of reality or those who are suffocated by their mind’s malfunctions.

As a society, we often let fear paralyze us! Whether we are bystanders, or a loved one to those with mental health issues, it is important that our hearts and minds remain open.  “Are you ok?” is a simple question that can turn a person’s day, week, year or life around. The time taken in watching this video and the attention sustained in reading this script is greatly appreciated.  The first step is talking about injustice; from there we can unite for a worded fight.  This is for equality, society, humanity and community.

Let’s start to de-stigmatize,  one smile or positive gesture at a time.

Please follow Mind to Unbind for further insight into our world through the visionary lens of a poet, dreaming for a future void of inequity and injustice. Your comments and questions mean a lot. I try to never shy away from personal growth, even when suffocatingly confronting.

Which Mind?

Which mind minds what I bring for show and tell?
The one that’s always late or the stickler for the bell?
Which mind’s tell, which one is the show?
Visual flamboyance, or my verbal plateau?
Who’s pulling strings when clutter is my camp?
Who’s pouring ink for pessimists stamp?
Is it the makeup or you, masking me a traitor?`
The mind or the mirror who stands as my berator?
Who’s the poorer and commentary for this half empty cup?
The umpire deeming best, is never good enough
Mr Mind, that I mind, did you know you have a foe?
A contradiction to your course, the script for this show
It’s the cup that’s never empty, or less than half full
The “I’ve had enough of this cup,” the “I won’t be late for school”
It’s the mind that cleans the clutter, in light of comforts camp
The etcher to the carvings, who imprints a pardoned stamp
It’s the waving checkered flag, which knows I’ll reach the end
The clapping hands, the waving fans, the shoulder that I lend
It’s the hand that refrains from snooze, when alarms are calling
The judge who deems my presence is coherently enthralling
Yet, the question that I ask at night, is who will show tomorrow?
The mind who I mind, or the one in my dreams to follow?


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