I have this girl. A women. Well, two of 'em. There's Welela and there's Tasha. I never enjoyed poetry (much) and they live it. I used to listen to Tasha read her stuff and think...that's really beautiful but why don't you just say what you mean...my credo...no lube...just spit it out. A pretty lace mask for you to hide behind, that poem.
Walela lives poetry. Before I stayed in her space (and didn't want to leave) I didn't get it, in her cubby looking out on the eiffel tower she and Tasha clicked into place for me.
After so many years it wasn't until I was up at 515 in the morning looking at the sun begin to tickle the tower did I understand that sometimes things don't fit into essay form, sometimes pain goes outside the lines, and look at all the pretty scraps that you might have left behind.
I get that there is no long form to explain how it feels to sit on the train with so many arms, uncovered, and smells and erykah (timesawastin) and feel something that won't obey the periods and commas. It makes more sense to think of yourself, a movie short, in a whirlwind surrounded with people by yourself wondering if you're scared, loney or hungry.