Haunted Poets, November 20th

I always love the metaphor of poets being haunted. How can we not? We’re always dredging up ghosts and making them home inside ourselves. Our hallways are haunted, our heads are haunted, are fingers are just waiting to express a haunting.

I wanted to time this workshop with Halloween but missed the cutoff for its creation so we shot for November. I want to kind of dive into what is it that you hold onto? How can you persuade it to come out poetically?

I’ve had so much fun with my workshops, with Poetic Catalyst, and my poets who make space, create space, take space for us to inspire and be inspired. It’s a lot of love, fun, learning, creating, and it just makes me so joyful to have us creating in the same space.

I’m thinking and planning eventually to maybe have some in-person workshops, but this is down the line. It would yet again be probably sliding scale, and maybe even where instead of us writing right away we explore something, then find a place to sit and make things. Or, we explore and then I leave you with a small booklet of prompts to write out your poems in, hand-held, at any time.

I’m already thinking if we will keep Haunted Poets next month or if I’ll explore a different topic for us to do and get together to go through on the weekend.

If you’re curious, and interested, just click here to find out and sign up.

Matrimony Made Unmaking

I never believed in love. I figured, if it doesn’t believe in you why should you believe in it? I believed in myself, and I still hold onto this. This belief in myself above all else. I become my own deity, not to say it’s ego driven, just knowing that if I’m drowning there isn’t anything that will be sent down to save me. I gotta grip my hand, pull up, and get myself out of the well.

Cue, me now, writing some of the best poetry I’ve ever written hands down and I have love. I have the best kind of love, safe, easy, always there, strong, compassionate, giving, considerate, and always appreciating me for what and who I am.

How many times you’ve been told you’re broken so love will never find you?

I have, but the funny thing is, it’s not true.

My parents married out of necessity. I had a brother before me, my mother was divorced, and my dad just fell in love with the hurricane that is my mother. She said either buck up and marry me, I don’t have time for games, or get the hell out. They were married in three months. My mother needed a father figure for my brother.

He still speaks warmly that my mother knows the best places to go to (she does, honestly, honing pigeon of a woman) and what she comes up with is exciting.

My mother talks less now about how much she distastes my dad. And, my dad had his own times where the power flipped. But, it was never healthy. There’s so many different things I see where I go, well, I can see why my own ways of repeating history happened. Even though, I always screamed from the rooftops I was strong.

When I met the love of my life, I wasn’t looking. I never am looking. I would prefer to be left alone and just left to my own devices. Remember, the only thing that can save me is myself? Add a person to that and it almost always would turn out, well, not good.

Our rituals we have in our relationship are sacred and I love them. We always kiss when we wake up in the morning or return to each other in bed. He is basically like my silent editor you never see with my poetry getting his help if I feel like it needs some extra something. I share all of myself with him and don’t feel like a fear he will use anything against me. Which was a constant.

I was raised from a system of love that I knew I didn’t want. So, I thought I didn’t want love period. Just goes to show that I wanted it, just the kind that gives, receives, trusts, and embodies you like cashmere sunsets.

Defending Against A Loaded Gun

I woke up thinking about what happened yesterday. I thought of race and how it is a constant within a system that’s broken and needs to be corrected. I thought about the blatant racism my boyfriend deals with every day and the fear I try to quell of losing him because of his skin color.

I thought of my friends and them coaching their black sons to be small, shrink in size, if they are approached by cops to save their lives. Always show your hands to them. Always.

I think of the racism and looks we may deal with because we are a biracial couple. And, the fact that our children would have to face what is going on as well. The conversations. The quiet killing happening daily, and the loud gunshots we hear and don’t hear around this country. Constantly happening.

I thought of how to word this. To word the pain. And I did it, but I feel like it’s never enough. And when I explain this to him he just says to keep at it. Keep doing what I’m doing.

I wrote it in a poem that I posted and that I expanded into a performance piece. I feel like all of my Racial Injustice poems could be stronger. I always feel like I’m not doing enough. I need to do more. This voice is important and there’s so many things I want it to scream from the rafters we need to talk about.

Race. Mental health matters. Black lives matter. Suicide. Molestation. Sexual Assault. Rape. Rape in marriage. Rape by family members. Your child’s voice matters. Predators are normally a part of your structure already. Anxiety. Depression. Gay rights.

I was asked by a friend with my second feature with the Word Is Write whether there are any poems I ever write I don’t like? I said no. I’m thinking, I love all my poems, but my poems on race, on what he’s faced, on my fear of losing him, could always be stronger. My voice just doesn’t seem strong enough to make a difference in my mind.

Tonight is my feature with The Poetry Stream and I’m excited for it. I’m excited for a new day despite all the bullshit there is. I’m excited about life. I’m excited about love. I’m overjoyed I have it in my life and it is a wonderfully amazing human being who gets me 100%. Plus. I am grateful for his family I adore, and are hilarious, and amazing human beings on this planet.

If you want to join in my feature with The Poetry Stream the link is: www.twich.com/sc_says

I would be beyond grateful to have you with me. To all those I love I am so damn grateful for love.

Trigger Finger Suicide


Topic For Today? Trigger Finger Suicide. What is the bullet on your tongue? What is the trigger you finger in your head?

Welcome to updates about me day by day! (ish) I never like to keep communication too consistent but since this is my author site, figure you guys getting a look in my brain is good?

I wrote a poem that unloaded some deep trauma I’ve never talked about.

It’s weird how it ticked 2021 and all this stuff wanted to get unloaded.

It’s called “Trigger Finger Suicide” so the title itself gives you a good idea of the mental space. Molestation, suicide survival, assault inside of it and some experiences I’m just starting to go back to and unload poetically.

One of the things I enjoy the most about poetry is I get to speak through metaphors real, life experiences that I’ve never shared. Then, people don’t ask me what happened. Because honestly? Lots of times I would shutdown if you asked me what spurred it. It’s in the poem and I don’t like to go into the details, the details are in the poem.

I live with trauma daily. Trying to pick apart living on eggshells being broken by my mere steps forward. So, that trauma can be accessed through poems but when I explain them it’s like I’ve already conquered the situations. But, I haven’t. Just because I’ve written something thousands of times doesn’t mean it gets smaller each time it’s written.

Sometimes, and most of the time, it gets bigger. And it looks like it might crush me by revisiting it. But, I know, if I can help with explaining it and my experiences, it’s worth it.