the Gangsta and the Butterfly

I invite the darkest parts of myself into light filled spaces.

We need each other.

my Rich homie

My rich homie lets me borrow his Beamer sometimes.

“Put it in Sport mode,” he says.

I never have.

I glide down highways slowly.

He works a lot,

and we all wish we saw him more—

I wish he saw himself more.

I’ve known him a long time.

Pretty much,

he’s always been rich—

though he doesn’t see it that way.

If he fucks with you,

he’ll tell you the hard truth

about anything you ask.

With me,

sometimes it’s unsolicited.

Our other homie once repeated

something he said

about me

and my job at the time:

“They don’t value her—

and she needs to value herself more.”

That was the gist.

I was pissed.

So pissed.

Then I sat with it.

Picked apart all the reasons

I was upset.

And it was true.

The time had come

for me to reassess

my value.

My rich homie’s truth

can triple salaries.

I’ve seen it.

Makes me believe

even more

that wealth

is internal.

There’s nuance, though.

Always.

Is wealth something

given by God?

Is it our birthright?

Where does it start?

Can you build it?

Or are you

just making visible

what already existed

for you?

What is wealth?

Is it time?

Is it money?

Is it people?

Is it time

to spend the money

with the people?

What is wealth?

What is rich?

Is it a feeling?

Is it worth it?

I’m most certainly

still figuring wealth

and riches out—

and I think

I always will be.

What I do know

is gratitude

makes me feel wealthy.

Thank you, my God.

Thank you.

My rich homie

lets me borrow his Beamer sometimes.

“Put it in Sport mode,” he says.

And maybe,

I will

next time.

Just for July

Good grief—it’s already July?

Have your dreams been as vivid as mine?

Are you remembering what you thought you forgot?

Are you nurturing those unhinged parts of yourself that need love and attention just like the rest of you?

Are you staying open?

Are you letting go?

Are you?

Yeah. It’s already July—sheesh, and good grief.

Processing good grief.

Vivid dreams, whose meanings rarely elude me, tell stories of what is, what was, and what could be.

Sometimes I remember—and then I forget again.

And it’s okay to remember and to forget.

Oh, those unhinged parts—

I let them swing sideways in the winds of my love

As I view them from perspectives that heal and realign.

It’s okay, remember?

You’re okay, remember?

I whisper this to those unhinged parts,

And slowly, they realign in divine time.

I’m staying open—as much as I can.

It makes the letting go easier.

I am.

Good grief—it’s already July.

Love on display

Their love is art.

Cathartic Cold

cold wrapped around her soul

she was becoming all-weather from the inside out

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/all-weather

Vibrating words / Flickering Screens

Sometimes I wish you would watch your words as much as those screens you love so much.

Lucky for your ass the patience I ordered off Amazon just arrived.

*Laughs

Chitty Chitty Namaste bihhhhh

Royal Palm

[found this in an email to myself from 2014]

She rode thru old spaces
Thinking of all those places
The words that fell from faces
Their weight had held her down
Horrified that she would drown
She now realized that fight she fought
And the fucked up shit it brought
Those actions were the offspring of fear
Amanayea came with the light & made it clear
Fear is Darkness meddling in your mind
Awakened to Truth she put fear’s ass in line
She refused to focus on the fuckedupness of life
the constant replaying of perceived strife
She rode thru old spaces
Thinking of all those places
The words that fell from faces
They were never holding her down-
They were building her up so she could wear the crown