My Prerogotive

I've been told, "write what you know"

But what if all you know is anger and anxiety and pain and drama and crying into your pillow because all of the available shoulders are occupied?

Then your story sounds like the perfect drink,

Concocted by the bartender who thinks 

Maybe she's had enough for one lifetime.

 

Maybe it's cliché or

Maybe it's the not so funny way,

That my feelings are the same feelings of other human beings in this world,

And if that's the case

You might just wanna hear what have to say,

So here goes my Diary of a Mad Black Visionary:

 

Let me start by saying that I am blessed,

But the brutal beating of words breathed by "bretheren" and bestowed upon my being brings bountiful stress beyond belief.

Would you ever guess

That this petite frame has succumbed to verbal windstorms blowing enough hot air to sightsee over Kilimanjaro

And crumbled coming down from the peak?

Spectators outside of my fishbowl say that I've got guppy problems,

But that's because they're looking in and I'm 20,000 leagues under.

I can barely hear what they're saying,

"The grass is always greener"...or happier...or something or another,

But that doesn't make me any less upset.

 

I'm sick of all these guilt trips;

I've never really been fond of travel.

I'd rather let the patterns in the sky light my way,

But even then, my Libra scale can't support my heavy heart;

There's a weight limit,

But I'm not interested in dieting myself from my emotions at all.

See, when I'm depressed, Ben and Jerry hug me like no men ever could,

And when I'm frustrated, Auntie Anne knows just how to cure her favorite niece,

And when I need a dose of soul food, I turn to God who assures me that my setbacks are simply a setup for success.

 

So yes, I may be naïve to the majority of the world around me and I may not know all the secrets explained in the eternally elusive handbook for life,

But what I do know is how I feel,

And that makes me real.

It makes me heard.

It makes me, me.

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