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sillypillypoet · 4 years

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my baby

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sillypillypoet · 4 years

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Red Bird

red bird,

sing.

red bird,

cry.

red bird,

you’re always trying to fly.

red bird,

why must you be so sad?

red bird,

chasing dreams that never last.

red bird,

I’m sorry this cage is your home.

red bird,

all you ever want is to know.

red bird,

I think I finally understand

how lonely it is,

when no one else can.

red bird,

I wish I could open the cage

but if you leave me,

how can I stay?

red bird,

where do you think you will go?

no one else here will offer you home.

red bird,

no one else knows you,

or loves you like me.

red bird,

your crying makes me want to scream.

red bird,

so lovely,

or so everyone says.

red bird,

it’ll be me and you alone

till the end.

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sillypillypoet · 4 years

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I told God I was tired.

Not the kind of tired

Like needing a nap tired,

Or can’t quite wake up tired,

Or need a second cup of coffee tired.

But God already knew that

Or so people tell me.

So I didn’t bother explaining.

I didn’t tell Him that

My bones wanted to crawl from my skin

And rest somewhere far away from me.

I didn’t tell Him that children

Getting sold for sex

Made my heart burn inside my chest,

And not in a good way.

I didn’t tell Him that

Elephants getting killed

For their tusks,

For shiny pianos, and jewelry

Made me want to yank my own teeth

Right out of my own mouth.

I didn’t tell Him how painful it was

To walk on these aching feet

Like stepping on the hot sand

Of the desserts where His children

Are beheaded and slaughtered,

One by one,

Filmed like an action movie

That never quite made it to

The big screen.

All for nothing.

I didn’t tell him that

My empathy no longer had a limit,

That it had stretched far beyond

My eye’s horizon.

That there was no line to cross,

That I couldn’t feel my own heart

Anymore.

Because somehow I was feeling

Everyone else’s instead.

I didn’t tell Him that

Babies crying in their beds,

Born addicted to heroin and cocaine

Made me want to rip my veins

From my wrists.

Or how I would powder my gums

And jab a million needles into my arms

For the mothers

Who couldn’t make it past their

Addiction to love their babies.

If it just meant they would love their babies.

It was like nails on a chalkboard

The way they screamed.

I didn’t tell Him that suddenly

I felt like Atlas,

The man with who held the world

On his back,

Except it was so much heavier than

I had ever imagined.

I didn’t tell Him that people

Getting shot on the streets

Felt like a bullet between

My own two eyes,

Or races fighting over which was

Right and wrong

Made me want to peel the skin

Off of my body.

I didn’t tell Him,

Because He already knew,

Or so people tell me.

So when I told Him I was tired

His only response was,

Me too.

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sillypillypoet · 4 years

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Ode to my Father

I remember when I was little

the way your jaw would lock

and I could imagine the steam coming out of your ears

you were an angry man then

full of testosterone

the kind of man that held little mercy when you came home in the evenings.

I remember when I was 10

and your eyes began to soften

and your tears stained your cheeks behind tinted sunglasses

and your heart was no longer hard

but soft and breakable like my own.

I remember when I was 11

And you kept me home from school a lot

because I cried too much

and ate too little

and told you I wanted to die and that was the third time I saw you cry.

I remember when I was 15

and I realized that you had raised me alone

with many hardships

and little will to carry it.

I remember yesterday

I heard my laugh and it sounded like yours

and when I looked in the mirror

It was your kind eyes looking back at me

with the wrinkles on the side

and the same freckles that take refuge here on my skin.

and this smile that is not mine,

but yours.

this is my ode to you

for carrying the weight of the hardships we did not ask for.

my ode to you

for giving me

this laugh

this smile

these eyes

these freckles.

but more importantly,

this is my ode to you

for giving me this willing heart

to carry my hardships

with dignity

with pride

with grace

with love.

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sillypillypoet · 4 years

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An Ode to Mary Magdalene

I think I might be just another character In a so-called Good Book. Men will scratch me out in the parts where I don’t fit, And this is what we call cherry-picking. The next day, they will preach Loudly against cherry-picking in the streets While they look you in the eye. They will call me a whore even if I’m not, And by their standards I am. Maybe because I make more money than a man, And I must be a whore, Because there’s no way I’m better than a man. You’ll find gaps in my history and my purity, The spaces between each letter of my name, A sure sign that I was never real, And you’ll question if I was just a figment Of someone else’s imagination, Like the figure of someone’a dirty fantasies. I’ll reincarnate into your own dirty fantasies While I’m at it, and this is my greatest magic trick. I part like the Red Sea for any man brave enough To sport my scarlet letter, And then I will push him back out because There is no place for him here, unless He wishes to drown in my blood. The men who scribble my name across paper reserved for purity Will rip the crown off of my head, Because how dare I mark myself worthy of anything Other than a stone in my skull. How dare I request love, even if I must bruise my knees In order to obtain it. How dare I make the mistake of visiting an empty tomb, Only to realize it may have been mine all along. How dare they take the magic from my fingertips. How dare they write me into a story, A man’s story, If they weren’t even going to tell my truth along with it. They took my truth, They took my heritage, They took my body And turned it into a piece of meat instead. They couldn’t give me a proper ending because They decided it belonged to an empty tomb. So instead I will conjure women up from my own flesh, And they will revive me with every war they wage. They will take back what was mine, And they will feed it to starving dogs And weeping children And mangled women. I am the empty tomb, And I will fill my belly with every man Who crossed me, Who crossed my name, Until the tomb is no longer empty. This is holy ground, And maybe next time They will do well to remember that.

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