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@leighamoniqueconfessions
A starless night As I run through a field of Blazing red poppies. Their mystical flames Illuminate the darkness, And the world reflects The Divine scene. Embraced by This great red haze, My flesh tingles; Pricked from all past woes. I can now breathe. I can see all of the possibilities.
Lei MĂ´
My name means 'to ascend', which means 'to rise'. This I know for sure⌠I will be on top of the world one day.
Lei MĂ´
I think the one thing I yearn most for...is a man who could never disappoint me. A man who loves and sees me for who I am. A man who isn't all ego or brains. A man who has the right amount of passion and compassion. A man who is specifically made for me.
Lei MĂ´
âWhy do teach girls to make themselves easier to love? We tell them, Suck in your stomach Donât have an opinion about anything that matters Donât wear too much make up, Youâll look fake But donât wear too little makeup, Or theyâll call you ugly Donât be too proud, Youâll come off as cocky or a prude And boys donât like girls who have pride and dignity and they donât like girls who say no to their sexual tendencies But they also donât like girls who give it up either Theyâll call you a whore Theyâll call you a bitch And God forbid you wear what you want to Because âwith an outfit like that youâre asking to be rapedâ And âdressing like that will never get you laidâ But what we should be teaching girls is that they need to learn to love themselves Before they ever love anyone else We need to teach them to be proud in their own skin And to voice their opinions loud and clear Because theyâre just as important as anyone else We need to teach girls that we are strong, empowered women And that we were put on this earth to make boys fall in love And crush their weak little hearts, if they dare give us anything less than their very best.â
âHow do I become easier to loveâ - C.E.M.
The Pottery Class Jar by Jessica Heaven
I bought you a ten dollar pottery class jar from the community centre, sitting on a lonely table outside of a cluttered but quiet studio classroom. I took it home and thought about you for two months, until it was time to wrap it. I picked a pretty paper and folded the paper with care, even corners, minimal tape. I wrapped it with a hearty and velvet bow, and it sat like royalty on the top of this perfect squared, pretty papered box. It was a jar to hold your prayer beads, but as the day draws near in which it is time for you to unwrap it, I feel it is not enough. The jar is cool to the touch and almost perfect in dimension, which is perfect to me, but will it be perfect to you? I feel like the little drummer boy, for I do not know if you will care for what I have to give to you. You with no emotional attachment to this holiday, but instead is letting me share it with you. You with a frustrated face that I might spend, yet again, on something for you. You who now has to travel with a brittle clay jar across the world to find your family who loves you. You who wants to study hard, perhaps, and be a medical doctor in your homeland where your friends will come to you. You. You, the greatest gift from God and my saviour Jesus this year. I hope Iâve been something of a gift from Allah to you too. But what if you choose to leave the brittle grey jar behind? I pray my jar will show you something in my heart that I fear to put into words that are pronounced by my tongue and teeth, and lips and folds, and lungs. I hope you see the metaphor in my gift, that it is my gift to myself to keep company, as the jar does the beads, with you in all of who your being is with me. Youâre my prayer beads that were all at once so exotic and came in a flush of blood through my atriums and semi-lunar valves and ventricles and noodles of arteries and veins to be so familiar. I bought you a ten dollar pottery class jar from the community centre, I hope you like it.
By Jessica Heaven
I know Iâm not the only one Who regrets the things theyâve done Sometimes I just feel itâs only me Who canât stand the reflection that they see I wish I could live a little more Look up to the sky, not just the floor I feel like my life is flashing by And all I can do is watch and cry I miss the air, I miss my friends I miss my mother; I miss it when Life was a party to be thrown But that was a million years ago
If this is my last night with you Hold me like Iâm more than just a friend Give me a memory I can use Take me by the hand while we do what lovers do It matters how this ends âCause what if I never love again?
  .Kaisu.
Ponderinâ Ponderinâ
Brazilian Blues: Prologue
Sao Paulo, Brazil 10/25/2004 3:00 AM It's like a three step routine. First. The thoughts ring inside my head. Always on cue when my back meets with the surface of whoever's bed. Â "What's his name again?" "Maybe I shouldn't be here?" "What kind of guy is this anyway?" Second. He proceeds to begin his artful prowl.With eyes that scream seduction, yet holds the undertone of menace. A weird expression possessed only by men in this animal kingdom. Third. Â I hear the trees, I hear laughs, I hear the sound I love so much come to me in the night. And that is bliss. Then he kisses me; tonguing away the bliss I was thoroughly enjoying. So I focus on getting it back, I focus on it extremely hard. That way I can ignore the shabby pad with cans of "Cerveja" strewn around, and an awful smell of musty week-old milk. I can ignore the idea that this stranger I am now making love to... isn't really that cute. I look away from the looming elephant in the room that shows, obviously, he only wants me due to his jungle fever. I can overlook being just an object. I can numb the feeling in my gut that screams shame. I can get through it all.
Girls like me? Well..there are no girls like meâŚThatâs the point.
Lei MĂ´
Iâm afraid because I worry Iâm not good enough....but I should at least try...right?
Lei MĂ´
Love and faith are a mighty spell.
Rumi
BLACKOUT!! #September21 #Uprising #Excellence #theblackout
It is the duty of the younger Negro artist...to change through the force of his art that old whispering 'I want to be white,' hidden in the aspirations of his people, to 'Why should I be white? I am a Negroâand beautiful!'" -Langston Hughes (The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain, The Nation)