The Mindful Thought Project

It was a long way down.

Willow whispers in a dream, Drifting away like autumn leaves, Will you be mine, he asks gently? No she said, I belong to me.

And when the rest of your waves Ripple out After that bomb Was dropped Will you still be here Holding my hand Or will we drift apart?

I feel like a Tragic Comedy.

Where do broken hearts go? Are their remnants floating aimlessly in cloudless skies, Or are they crumpled on the ground like plastic caps and old receipts? Do we keep them in worn pockets fiddled by fingers too afraid to mend but, Needing to know they are there? When hearts break- In one, two, or fourteen pieces- I always wonder where they go.

You feel that hot air surrounding you Like the auntie you know gonna kiss your cheek even when you try to dodge it Or the man's breath next to you on the bus. That hot air is just there whether you like it or not. You feel it over stepping your boundaries Moving in on you and you can't back away or even turn to run. That hot air runs right with you And when you stop to catch your breath, Panting hard, fanning yourself, dabbing that salty sweat off your forehead That hot air reaches in and embraces your entire being And it's only that gut wrenching feeling That hot sticky sweaty mess That tells you- you're alive.

Flattened like sheets of metal Pounded to a thinness that could be What's left of the lifeline I gave to you. When you didn't choose me I thought I could die right there- Shrivel up and blow away Like crisp brown leaves In the barren winter wind. But the incessant shock has actually ceased. The unnerving thoughts are no longer Waiting to come out of the proverbial closet. No more haunting feelings. I, am over you. And unsure of how I was ever under you, Which has ironically left me flattened, I am now someone new. Flattened maybe, but I am free.

Reposing roses with spinous stems floated around listlessly. A girl lay still among them in a warm pool of blood, Deep and red like the wilted petals. Taking after the once beautiful flower, She too wilted away. Floating in the blood bath her wrists open And poured out memories she dared not live with any longer. Like splices on a reel, Remnants of her past came to life On the white tile wall. Her eyes, red and narrow, Saw her body slumped in a corner, Too weak to block blows of anger, Too tired to question why any longer. She saw her privacy, now nonexistent, violated, Her innocent youth stolen By prodding hands, And a prepubescent eagerness. Her body ached with chagrin As the next scene showed pieces of her heart Poured down a drain like flat soda, Because nobody wants that at all. She remembered acting; Her double life leading everyone to believe nothing was ever wrong. How wrong she was. Relentless memories continued surfacing. She saw herself trying to forget How wanting love so badly Caused her to feel even more alone than ever before, Even after her stomach became flat again. She saw her mother, The woman she wanted to remember and forget, Her love shown too late, The pain lasting forever. Every damaging episode of her short melodramatic life flashed before her eyes. She sunk lower in the bath, Wanting it all to stop, The memories to disappear, Her life to end. But the blood baths' cognizant hologram served its purpose well: She can remember the past but she can't live it. Presently, she recovered from the almost suicidal comatose. All the hurt, the pain, the psychosis, can be left in the past. And she remembered one pivotal token: She hates the sight of blood.


Grief isn't one single moment that begins and then passes. Grief is continuous and as fluid as an oceans waves. It comes and goes without calculation, crashing down without warning, leaving you empty wondering when the next wave will hit. I find myself still having "aftershocks." The waves are random: a certain song, the positioning of the moon, an overcast day, anything could trigger my eyes to widen with sorrow and fill with tears. Ever since that day, colors and sounds have become dull and waking up without the sun is absolutely miserable. It's been two years since the passing of my mother but my grief is still the same as the day my grandfather said "She's gone Ayo," with tears in his eyes. I miss her.

Wanting love but, incapable of loving.

The people will rise Up and out of your shackles Freedom is coming.

History repeats Over time it seems normal But now we fight back.

From her big brown eyes Never faltering in fear Weeps a sea of tears

Revolutionary: Fighting for equal rights and, Never giving up

Fed up with the lies We are confusing real life Believe nothing heard.