Pick up the phone. Open Facebook. Yikes.
Face palm. Like, SMH. It’s alright to not
complain. Try to talk to someone with
a brain in their head without a phone
in their hand. Change of plans. Relax
your hands. Now, open Twitter. Yikes.
Nothing but litter. Open Instagram. Yikes.
Robots disguised as humans. Souls traded
for likes. Yikes. The internet can’t
be real because it doesn’t think or feel.
Yet, people that use it do, but they forget
what’s really real. What’s the big deal?
These words are real. They will live on
long after I’m gone. Pick up the phone.
Yikes. Put it down before you drown.
Shoutout to my day ones! They keep me grounded.
My day ones have been there; they have been
around. They were there to keep me safe – to help
me, even if it was late. My day ones showed me
a light that was kept from my sight. Day in,
day out, life became more important. Life
suddenly was a flame that could now be tamed.
In the midst of chaos, we would not focus on
the loss. We had fun with no attention paid
to the cost. My day ones are real ones. I know
I can count on them. They know I am there
for them, and I always have been. Day one:
our lives began. Then, we noticed the fast
hands of time. Now, we wish we can hit
rewind. Time’s flown, and my friends and I,
well, we are grown. Regardless, my day
ones may have aged, but our love for each-
other has come and has remained the same.
He was observed: made from scratch.
He was seen scratching away
at the surface: the stubborn dirt.
He scratched long into the day.
He wanted to reach the hurt.
Not before long, the day was gone.
He found nothing here, so he
scratched there. He couldn’t see
as he scratched deep into the night.
The sun came up, and he looked
down and said: “I can make some-
thing from all the stuff I found.”
Tired and dirty, he walked home
with stuff that can never be shown.
He was happy to have dug below
the surface: a place only he knows.
Today, the car is in cruise control.
I take it slow and go with the flow.
Today, I take a ride down Memory
Lane. I revisit past pain and travel
through time frames: different days.
I unravel. I tear up gravel to navigate
an unknown fate. I carry weight;
I talk to my shadows: old versions
of myself. Sometimes, I ask them
for help – words of advice. Miles
into Memory Lane, I face pain
and embrace joy all the same.
I see old friends of mine the way
they were before I last saw them.
I notice houses I used to live in;
I recognize yards I used to play in.
I begin to see places I have been.
Today, I met with Father Time
and rode down Memory Lane
before any new memories came.
Callaced and rough, tough
skin cuts when touched.
Tough skin worn by men.
Holding axes, shovels, and
tools makes you tough.
Sometimes, it is enough.
Other times, the man hides
behind his tough skin.
It is not manly to be soft.
Have you heard this before?
Women can’t be tough.
It is not womanly to chop
down a tree. Women must
plant seeds. Who says I can’t
be soft? I am tired of being
tough. I think men should be
sensitive, too. All men’s tears
should water the seeds, while
women tear weeds. We must
break free from norms and
set forms that used to be.
We can be tough, rough, soft,
or hard. We can live together
with our skin and talk about
the places we have been.