Ms. Who

To All the Misses:

Thinking of your future is never very fun, when the ruminations are reflective of the empirical number: one.

They say you need another to make your house a home- runaway like Kanye, from the solitude and the thoughts of being alone.

It’s like a fatal disease or something bad if you contract-

A career, a home, a dog, by yourself; society told me

Don’t do it like that.


They say- he’s out there, somewhere- he’s waiting in the wing- he’s preparing to mount the white horse- he’s picking out the perfect ring.

But I don’t know if I believe that shit-

Cuz, I got friends with a house, husband, and some kids-and I don’t recall any horses involved- and the ring came after the baby was already kinda’ tall.

Society’s perception is skewed- so don’t believe that mess, at all.

Another thing I failed to mention was Mrs.Whatshername has not an ounce of ambition,

While Ms. Impossible - uses personal achievement as her ammunition.

Mrs. Whatshername, used to play the game- well enough to score a man who already had the fame.

So how could you blame, her, for living life in a skirt. With an infinite pot of riches, she doesn't even need to wash the dishes.

Just wear her high-heels, pretend to cook meals, and look sexy for the man who cheats-

He's paid out his -ass so she dare not make a peep, when his cell phone *beep-beeps*  from Ms. Groupie-Bitch demanding a piece of Mr. Whatshisname's treats.

Oh, but wait- Mrs. Whatshername ain't blind, crazy, or dumb-

She has Mr. Man-on-the-side, waiting because her husband treats her like scum

Then there are a fortunate few, blessed to be hybrids of the two- putting her shit first- but making sufficient room,

Not to consume or fill any voids, distracting from life’s more meaningful joys:

Career, man, ring on hand, and 2.5 kids matching the flawless home in which they live.

Mrs. Got-it-All is a dying breed; yet even with our heroin- prototype-

Perfection perpetually remains in hindsight,

For I failed to mention, a cocaine-addiction- hiding in the bathroom - her teenage daughter,

Kristin.


Then Miss Im-doing-me; single mother with baby boy- a medical clerk, yet goes on exotic Caribbean trips

Makes a decent living, although she used to dance for tips-

Even she gets it in with several boyfriends and fancy dates; expensive dinners, on him, and penthouse one-night escapes

Street-savvy enough woman, who knows how to play-

But a stable father for her little-man is about 1000-miles away.

Supporting two lifelines should require a second-mind,

For one choice effects both-not always for the better; yet it’s not her fault that she and Mr. baby-daddy ain’t together.


And then there are the bitches that lack any balance, whatsoever.

Forgetting the natural order, like the birds and the bees-

And alone at night, after the daily fight, all she inhales are promotions, broker’s fees, Louboutin pumps and college degrees.

She might not know how to boil-water, or cook a pot of peas-

But she’s beautiful, powerful & brings these niggas to their knees.

Existing on her own path- and nobody else to please; content in her solace, un-tied

With an uber-confident stride, just going for life’s eventful ride.

Man is not there, and at every failed-attempt, the one that she likes was never ready to commit.

Or he had a shady story; or he had too many babies; or he was married for the papers- but because she's such a fucking-lady,

She won't accept non-sense. She'd rather be alone. Ms. Impossible figured she is better on her own.

She has a business trip tomorrow, she needs to dye her hair, she's penning her first memoir; so time she's reluctant to share.

Ms. Impossible dwells in her autonomy- so, there is just she-and she can just

Be.

And right now, that she, sounds a lot like

Me.


Yes- Miss. Auto-tastic can clean a house, cook a steak, fix a break, roller-skate and even bake- cookies if he likes.

Work out, go-out, chill out, speak out, think out –and when necessary, she can even let the freak-out- let him go with his boys and she don't even pout.

(Get the fuck-out-of here.)

But wait a minute- Miss. Auto-tastic comes home, and there’s nobody else in it.

So what’s a girl to do? Stuck on this conundrum like glue,

She thinks about Mrs. Got-it-All sometimes, in moments of retreat- lil’ Malik’s football games, family gatherings every week

Intimate moments with the husband and her closest of kin

The home awaiting her, daily, with honey-sweet kisses welcoming her in.

And as much as I hate to admit it, sometimes I just drive, aimlessly, to avoid the pounding silence, in the desolate loft that waits for me-

Stupid Ikea lamp; damn black-leather couch-

The lifeless white-walls constantly remind me – ‘its just a fucking house.’

Eating Taco Bell, while sitting in the car- listening to Freddy Cruz, wishing someone would ‘Send for Me’ like Atlantic Starr

Staring at the midnight sky as the stars twinkle bright in a pitch-black sea

Reflecting on the life of Mrs. Whatshername –

Wondering- what if she, was possibly me ?

But then, I snap out of it.

For matron-dom is not my plight.

God put in me a spark- an adventurous zest for the unconventional life.

Ms. Impossible is a traveler- a citizen of the world-

And if she had a 3-year old tied to her leg, how could she ever achieve the glory or any accolades-

With an impatient personality and another life that would weigh her down- or give her a snail-paced start to her ascent up off the ground.

We cannot have it all- because, we all desire different things-

Earthy mothers value the hearth & reigning as the household Queen.

Gypsy girls want to see the world- and meet everyone they can;

And society cannot define her; her world doesn’t revolve around a man.

So Misses of the world, if you still don’t understand

We all have a unique path- and God always has a plan-

And there is no path better than another- that’s like asking if you love your sister more than you love your brother.

We must accept who we are. We are who we choose to be.

You must live out what’s within- for the truth will set you free.

Reconsider

Things don't always go according to plan

For hesitancy is rooted in doubt

You thought you made a final decision

Until you faltered to carry it out

That something inside, failed to subside

A lingering feeling you thought you could hide

A consistent drip from an old faucet sink

It constantly taps & you try not to think

But there it still dwells and there it remains

Chipping at the subconscious like a wood-pecker on a pane

You try not to notice

You think its alright

Until you can't decide if your decision is right

You like the control- a consquence of the pride

Ego is live and kicking- often steering you to thrive

You thought you had it resolved; you knew that you knew

Until the time to say it; until the time to do

You prepared so long- and it all seemed so right

But the thoughts became separated, from your heart's true plight

Stopping you in the moment, in the middle of your pace

Once going for the gold, you're now indifferent to the race

A paralyzing feeling ; one of instant distaste

You are now slow to respond, disregarding all haste

The spirit takes your helms; the mind is put aside

Pride no longer leads you

Mental is ready to abide

A contemplative heart is not something one can hide

No longer is there doubt; no longer is there fear

Intuition's grip leaves you no choice- but to adhere

You wonder if it's right? But, you do not wonder long

For internal tides turn & the tap has been there too long

No longer is it a choice; its a force beyond control

You finally throw your hands to heaven- you decide to let it go

There's always an ambivalent mind before one can commit

And those who become fulfilled-

Were enlightened to submit.

 

Almost Paradise

Almost Paradise

They say that all good things must come to an end

But the wise ones know, it's necessary for a new to

Begin. If you lose one game, it gives another opportunity to win.

We wouldn't distinguish the feeling of joy without a dose of pain

And to experience success, there is unavoidable strain

When there's a shift in seasons, there tends to be a little rain

And as the punishing winds blow and we experience the change

We see the beauty on the horizon

Rising up

Again

The dead leaves wither away and fertilize the Earth

Behold-the flower sprouts, and in us there is a

Re-birth

As we reflect upon the past, the taciturn storms

We rejoice in the harvest from all we thought had gone wrong

We give thanks for the famine

We give thanks for the flood

We glory in the emergence out of the sticks and out of the mud

For without the harsher elements

Non-existent be the rose-bud

Difficulties yield our best growth 

And optimum progression

The most abrupt death can unveil a phenomenal blessing

In the midst of the dark and sorrow, we uncover the most epic lessons.

It is not always familiar to those with untrained eyes

For, those lacking vision, will never see past the moment's cries

There is always more to a story

Beyond the cover of a book

So the next time you're dealt a harsh blow

Try to take a deeper look

For faith is belief in the things that are unseen,

And the greatest moral of a story,

Lives in the lines between.