#cleo phoenix

Ruminate I wish I could pull the plug Lay off my plug who supplies me with a peace of mind that thrives in empty spaces. Bitches pay thousands to run in Jouboutins not knowing the race I’m competing in. Here I go putting on my cape to lay everyone’s burdens to rest leaving mine to grow and ruminate. Mirrors are a reflection of ourselves but I don’t recognize the woman glaring back at me.   She is unkempt, bleeding lifetimes of traumas and insecurities. Petrified because I always remain poise even if I’m hurting, but everyone has their breaking point right? So here I am. Spiraling out of control. Allowing my thoughts to fly like doves in the wind leading to conclusions down the path of mass destruction. Justifying my actions as intuition because my birth right to exist was null and void. My arrangements with mercury empowers my pokerface to thrive over my mental demise, because image is everything. God is everything, but I refuse to let my everything lie in the hands of cis-het milk of magnesia man who equates trauma to tribulation. Loyal to my notions, they guide through my trials. Leading me to the dark alleyway of fear, somehow I find comfort here. Relief of autonomy and accountability for fear is my everything. The God I worship and the leech that feasts of my experiences. Allowing me to only feel love when intimate with the idea of serenity, until fear finds their way back home leaving me to pick up the pieces after a horrific blow. The body of a broken child resurfaces after years of abandonment. She is my everything. The reason I’m still breathing, but it’s so tiring to just not….to pull the plug

They say beauty is in the eye of the holder, yet I am the queen you chose to overstand the standard of beauty. With rugged skin, coily hair, and a waist as wide as your unconditional love for me. I am your epitome of beauty. I question will the same title, and love would be granted to me since you know of the laundry list of unsolicited flings I’ve entered to. Unaware of my worth, the abuse I bore for attention. I didn’t see the beauty in myself. You appreciated the beauty in my mahogany eyes and small lips. I wonder if your existence later in my adolescence years would deter me from voluntary decisions of self-sabotage. I still feel shame for my emotional body count. How I tolerated under truce of friendship. A concept I’m relearning as I make shifts in my circle. My worst fear was to be alone. Freed myself of the shackles of public opinion to be at peace. Embody the woman you see. The woman with high standards and confidence, for she knew the world she created, can also be destroyed.

I wonder what my 12 year old self thinks of me. How I finally achieved a conventional standard of beauty, yet I still don't feel enough. My belly craves for more than half-ass sexually charged comments on what my existence means to a nigga, and bogus friendships with low-vibrational women. Is she proud that I'm slowly building the woman she always wanted to be? The woman she dreamed would give whiplash just by her essence. Being the silent elephant in the room. Equipped with words as bullets to shake the room. I understand my inner child is not the most patient, healing is not a race. The destination at the end of this journey will be worth the wait, as the weight of of my broken heart and womb will fade with time. No need to have fear 0r cry because we are on this road together. To a place where exterior energies can't we reach us, and where peace is guaranteed forever.

Writing has become overrated I spend days deliberating on how I can surpass my illmatic bars just to box myself behind the bars I’ve created. Dissecting my wordplay as I watch my flow disintegrate into the depths of my thoughts. 11:30 what could of beens for the sacrifice of “peace” The high rise, nice car, and 8-5 that feeds my flesh yet festers at my core. Bored of the redundant week days and hollow weekends, yet this is what I wanted? The maxed out credit card bills I mean black girl luxury to fill my fluctuating sensations. A foundation solid enough to create distance from being the afterthought friend ranking last in the rotation. Parting ways with what connected me to indulge myself into curating thoughts into masterpieces of witt, rhymes, and punchlines. I find myself hallucinating on where my pen would lead me. What stages I would performing on. What my book art would like, but merely merely merely life is but a dream