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#Black Writers
bell hooks, Killing Rage: Militant Resistance
It was these sequences of racialized incidents involving black women that intensified my rage against the white
man sitting next to me. I felt a “killing rage.” I wanted to stab him softly, to shoot him with the gun I wished I had in my
purse. And as I watched his pain, I would say to him tenderly “racism hurts.” With no outlet, my rage turned to
overwhelming grief and I began to weep, covering my face with my hands. All around me everyone acted as though
they could not see me, as though I were invisible, with one exception. The white man seated next to me watched
suspiciously whenever I reached for my purse. As though I were the black nightmare that haunted his dreams, he
seemed to be waiting for me to strike, to be the fulfillment of his racist imagination. I leaned towards him with my legal
pad and made sure he saw the title written in bold print: “Killing Rage.
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Two different women although I did love the both of them. Not at the same time, so you can save your rotten tomatoes and boo’s for the next man. I was 16 when I had my first kiss and 21 when I had my first love. 

My First Kiss.

I was 16 and she was 17. This was the sidekick/AIM days and that is how we connected before we met in person. She was a short little chocolate babe with  some thick lips, so of course my little horny ass wanted to do “some thangs” to and with those lips. Anyways, we used to hang out at the church she went to because that’s where her mother and grandmother would allow her to go most days. We would go other places as well, but our relationship was great in the sense that we were both broke teens. I didn’t like to do shit and she couldn’t afford it on top of having a strict God fearing mother. I loved this young woman, but our relationship wasn’t the best nor did we end on good terms. It also doesn’t sit right with me that she spent years after our break up stalking me through my simp ass brother and via social media I had no idea she had accounts on. All that mess aside, I did like kissing her, despite her not using her tongue. That didn’t matter too much because of them big black lips. You know the first kiss is good when you instantly begin to think about how good those lips would feel on parts of your body or a specific part if you’re a stubborn freak like me. She was a sweet little lady, outside of her lips, we were just too young to be making the promises we were making. Not to drag this on any longer, I wish I could tell you the exact moment we first kissed. I believe it was the first time we met. We didn’t make it a big deal like the movie romance, it was just a quick hug and peck on the lips before we went to go meet up with her mother and grandmother at the Burger King next to the church that they went to. 

My First Love

My first love was not my first kiss, but we did kiss and that moment I knew I was falling in love with her. This was a frigid winter night in toward the end of January many moons ago when winters in New England were actually scary. The woman I was involved with at the time was a few years younger than me, but was “bout that action” if you know what I mean. Like the girl before her, she also had some thick lips, but hers were pink and glassy. She was also taller, skinnier and lighter than the “old bae” but that’s not why I loved her more. I thought I found the woman of my dreams when I was with RB (her initials). She was sweet, caring, very affectionate, adorable most of the time and treated me like no other woman has treated me before, at the time. Long story short her “innocent” girl act was just that andI later found out I wasn’t the only man experiencing those lips or that mouth in general. No, I wasn’t perfect throughout that relationship, which may have led her to step outside of the relationship in the first place, but that’s pretty much why we aren’t together today. 

So there’s my piece for day 3 of the 30 day writing challenge. Anybody trying to be my last kiss and last love, hit me up. 

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when i don’t write or speak my mind,

words build up behind my clenched teeth

some sit eagerly at the tip of my tongue

while some are trapped beneath

some are swallowed as they drown

in saliva, some are watered down

with no way to communicate, all i can do is frown

my teeth grind back and forth at night

the words start disorderly riots, they fight

all i can think once i wake again is “damn, i better write”

or “i better talk to the ones who’ll listen”

it’s hard not to keep my distance

i’ll release the tension in my jaw and loosen up my bite

-mizan, ‘clenched teeth’

art by @/neetiart_ on instagram

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I’ve been doing a lot of day drinking which leads to 5:00 pm deep thinking. The what ifs popping up and being inundated by another shot of tequila. Your name pops up in my mind and then ten minutes later on my phone… fuck. I did it again. “I know you think I’m desperate but I’m just drunk.” I throw my phone on the other side of the bed exasperatedly. The “ding” quickly forces my head off the pillow so I can ungracefully yank on the sheets to retrieve my phone once again. “I can slide by later tonight.” This isn’t what I desire but I need you in some capacity. I take one last victory shot and pass out. I know I’ll be pissed at myself later. But for now, this is my peace.

-ka

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Day 2 of the writers challenge. This one is going to be awkward, but I probably made it awkward with this precursor.

There’s only three types of people I envy in life. People who are really good at pointless math, people who can paint/draw really well and people who remember life as a baby. I only remember life after 4 years old. I wish I could tell you about my early adolescence, but I couldn’t tell you a damn thang. With that being said my earliest memory is when I was maybe 4 or 5 years old. 

Here’s where things become awkward..

I remember my parents bathing me in the kitchen sink. I also remember there was a time I thought I was too old for this treatment, but I’ve always been a young old person to some extent. Even at 4 years old. I had a love/hate relationship with sink showers. Although there wasn’t anybody around but family, I still felt uncomfortable being naked around my brothers. Despite my small scrawny stature I still felt “too big” for the kitchen sink. 

None of that mattered much when I took my mind off it and felt the love of the water and my parents. Yeah, I hated sink showers, but that cold water from the detachable faucet, WOOOO! Not a fan of cold showers, but those moments only lasted the last minute of these 5 or so minute bathes. As cold as that water was, it was never cold enough to stop the warmth permeating from my mom or dad’s hands as they dried me and dressed for the night. Before they held me close in their arms as they gently laid me down as my big brown eyes slowly shut (Yes, even as a toddler my eyes were big). 

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You suspected I’d cheated on you… I must admit that I did. It was emotional cheating with the version of you I had created in my head. This version of you loved me and showed it with every word he spoke and by all of his actions. I cheated on you with some preconceived notion that I deserved love or nothing at all. I cheated on you with who you painted yourself to be when we first met. You were such a captivating artist. I cheated on you with someone you easily could have been. So if that makes me the one in the wrong, then I will gladly apologize and accept that I was the bad guy in your life’s novel. But if not, I have already forgiven you and I need nothing else. The memories and daydreams will suffice.

-ka

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A few years ago I began the journey of finding myself. What I have taken notice to is that I like to see people happy. Helping people makes me happy and puts me on the path that gets me closer to realizing my lifes dream. Its not hustling, its alignment.

So if you need help with your social media, need help editing a book or taking a photo I got you! If you need an accountability partner or someone to confidentiality bounce ideas off of, let me know. I just want to see you win. I promise! So send me a message. Let’s figure out how I can help you! We can do this! Together!!!

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Yeah, I’m late again…

It’s really not my fault.

This corona shit got me STRUGGLING.

I’ve never been forced to pause and keep going at the same time, and this shit is fucking with me.

I’m not afraid to admit I’m struggling mentally right now. And I’m just as proud to admit that I’ve really gotten myself together on more than one occasion.

I don’t know what the fuck is going on in 2020 right now. I don’t think any of us do. That shit frustrating too. I already don’t know what to expect just being myself on a regular fucking basis.

I will say this though, this forcing me to have some time with myself shit, really has got me looking at a few of yall confused. Confused as to why you do the shit you do. Confused as to why tf I’m still involving myself with you. Friends too. Or whatever you call em.

I feel like, if I’m trying, AND YOU SEE ME TRYING, and you insert yourself as an obstacle, you toxic.

Friends. Family. All yall.

Why the fuck is it so hard for some of yall to be happy for people? No matter the depth of their progression?

Bad energy is the most visible thing. Ain’t a damn thing more clear.

Yet, some of yall think that chip on your shoulder got an invisible cloak on top of it or some…

And I will admit, I have my toxic moments, so I’m listening to myself as well, but shheeeiiittttttt some of yall got me BEAT.

I would be exhausted.

And you know what, I am exhausted. Not from that. From getting settled back into school—as an online student. From completing homework. From meeting deadlines. From typing papers. From being back in a place that’s known to disrupt my peace. From looking for temporary work. From minding my own damn business and washing my face.

The point is, when you got stuff that you actually care about surrounding you, the other stuff don’t matter. Which is why, you roll up, reflect, and go wash your fucking face. It’s good to think on it, not about it.

You acknowledge every situation that makes you feel any discomfort. You owe it to yourself.

That doesn’t mean you give it more time than you’re supposed to. How much is too much? That’s for you do decide.

As for me…

I’m about to go wash my face.



(If you don’t get it, travel a few rows up)

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Live Write

Pen Name

So, I have seen over the many years of my writing journey, varying schools of thoughts regarding pen names.

In a day and age where privacy, no matter how sacred one may hold it, seems to be an illusion, or perhaps just harder to maintain in certain ways, I wonder what the newest thought is on pen names.

If to you want to engage, the question is simple: to have a pen name or not have a pen name?

Here’s my school of thought on the matter…

I chose a pen name because of my experience navigating the real world. When there are suffocating and limiting entities in your life, when you have to consider your race and gender separately and together, and have to navigate those spaces knowing that regardless of what you do, you may never be fully seen as YOU, a whole self and whole person, creating a blank slate in hopes to be heard just felt natural.

So for me a pen name is an outlet by which I can be my whole self in a world that would otherwise disallow me such a privilege. Where I can be my most authentic self, disconnected from the labels that people and experiences that do not allow for such room. To take up the space I want and proclaim what is necessary for me, as a creative, to feel as fully realized as possible. Where I can convince my fears to leave me alone and be all I want and need for a creative piece to go forth.

I will admit that here lately, I am considering stepping from behind the pen name veil. But for now, I am not sure that is the thing to do.

That’s all I got.

Please note that as a live write, this was done close to my personal way of speaking, without spell check, or much in the way of editing.

🙃

Peace.

D. Ondria

03292020 822a

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Writing Space

I write because the need strikes me over and over again. It spreads like a virus, a plague of thoughts and memories and faraway places. Ignoring the calling of verbs, persons, places, things that sing is futile. My space is open and I cope as best I can. I sit in a office of reliance upon fantasies long held in a mental trust. Lust laid bare, affairs after the fairgrounds. Divorce, bad sources. Marriage, love, doves fly, I cry sometimes too. Let it be 1984 again. No, 86. I spend too much time on a purple future. My computer expands its storage. Home, oh home, where are you? How do I fix this dismissive fixation on things I’ve never seen or touched. Women pass by and shyness grabs hold. I fold up into a romantic state of corruption. Wanting what I can’t have, having what I don’t want. She calls to me without saying a word, her purpose reaches out to me. Coffee stains my heart, warms my soul, makes my spirit rise. My ancestors call me from across the Atlantic. If only I could trade this slave life for that of royal callings. I sing silently and nature hears the hum of my healed art. I starve for the colors on my original canvas. A darkroom full of vivid 70’s themes about the plight of right-a-ways. I write in my writing space in case future generations find me. I see you, here I am, I see you.

Written by Michael A. Moss

3/29/20 for me, for Escape Indie, for my people.

WordPress, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram

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Rihanna x Higher

Keeseney x I miss you

#BlackWomanWritesWednesday


“Janet, what are you doing?”


“What are YOU doing?”


He didn’t know why but he double checked his surroundings, making sure nothing was out of place because, well he wasn’t doing anything. He was hanging out with his friends—drinking, smoking, dancing, and having a good time. What was she trying to accuse him of?


“Janet, you’re drunk.”


“So? So are you!”


“Apparently, not as much as you.”


She grabbed his arm and dragged him into an empty bedroom. Their friend’s penthouse was too big. It was holding too many people, and it was too loud.


“Janet, what are you doing?”


“I miss you! Yeah, you get on my nerves, of course you do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you around!”


“Janet—“


“And then you’re out here enjoying yourself, and I’m glad because I want you to but why can’t you enjoy yourself with me?”


“What were you—“


“Whiskey! Whiskey, okay? The shit I hate but drink because of you. What’re you drinking?”


“Whiskey,” he answered


“Of course you are,” she sighed


He didn’t know what to do. Did you hug her? Did he hold her? Did he leave? He didn’t know, so he just stayed seated on the bed, waiting for…he doesn’t even know.


“I’m sorry.”


It certainly wasn’t that.


“What?”


“And I love you.”


“What?”


“You didn’t answer my call last night?”


“It was 3 in the morning, Janet.”


“Was that too late?”


There was a time when he told her she could call whenever. No matter the day or the time. He knew this. That’s why he sat up last night with the phone in his hand, watching it ring.


“I just wanted to say I was sorry about the other night.”


He assumed she meant when she chucked a hairdryer at his head before storming out of his apartment, after claiming she was done—like always.


“And that I love you.”


“Janet…”


“I couldn’t think of anything else to say but I love you. That’s all that would come to mind because I don’t think you know it. Do you?”


He had nothing. He didn’t even know if he did.


“Because I do. You make me feel so happy. Every thing you do. It makes me feel happy. Assured. There’s always good times, good moments, and good memories with you. I’m always on a high with you.”


“Then why keep walking away, Janet?”


He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.


“Can we get outta here?”


“What?”


“Please.”


“Janet..”


“Look, I don’t have an answer for you, so that’s your answer. I love you. I really love you. So I don’t know why. I wish I did, but I don’t. So I wanna make it up to you. We can roll up. We can drink. Whatever. I wanna make it right. Please, can we just get outta here?”


“And go where?”


“Home. I got a lot to say.”


“Me too.”


“So we can leave? We can talk all night. About this, not this, whatever!”


He smirked, “the old way of communication? Without the hairdryers?”


She nodded, “I wanna go back to the old way.”


He stood up and pulled her into his arms, “come on drunk ass, lets go home.”

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