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.
