This is the last time I confide in you To trust you to have my heart and my back You made me a tool and a goddamn fool You backstabbing, heart-grabbing thief This is the last time I talk to you To tell you that I want you out of my life You made me a liar, a cheater, an addict You deceiver, down right disbeliever This is the last time I look at you To watch you suck the life out my existence You made me doubt my name and my future You love stealing pirate, sorry rotten corpse And this is the absolute, last time That I tell you, “This is the fucking last time”

whatever this is our end or our beginning i want THIS vow the love, the hate the confidence, the shame sunrise or sunset whatever we become maybe earth’s last hope i want THIS vow the work, the breaks the rejuvenation, the pain lovers or fighters till death binds us forever in heavenly eternity i want THIS vow

   Time has covered you but not my memory of you. You grew up in a palmetto shack, common, illiterate, with French as a first language. Abuse a way of life.    Time has covered  abuse with love. Your love, Papa. Your love of mama and us changed all for you and us. Your love got the house on land and the big boat. All you had was a pirogue and a “fish cart” and you grew it big.      Time has covered all that you built but not what you taught us. Respect for all no mater the color of their skin. “Until you walk in their moccasins, you don’t know.” You always said.    Time has covered it all but not your gene-pool. Your grandchildren stands on your shoulders papa… I ran from the killing; not from you .I ran from the wet piercing cold; the blood smell, not from you. I ran to fulfill the Dream-pool, not from you. Death its’ self has not and never will break our bond.  In loving memory of Julian Justin Sons Sr.

All the men in the world are F                                                      A But here I stand,                      L with my bra and panties,       L my brawn and brain,               I And my pen in hand.                N                                                    G   to   p-i-e-c-e-s. I’m ready to woman up and be the man that these men will never become. How could any man think he is fit for survival living in the box called manhood? With my pen, I can be here.                                                                 I can be there.                                                                         I can be down. Men can be so foolish as to underestimate writing. Great societies are built upon the power of words. Yet here comes the “mighty man” holding high the gun. He trips and falls and shoots himself in the face. Another let down face in a volume of newspaper obituaries. Self-destruction lives an