QueenofDawn

I am a writer until I am among poets,
an artist until I am surrounded by others with the same name,
and my colors fade,
my pride slipping as the lines I so carefully crafted unravel.
I am a musician

I don’t play the piano.

Yes, I do have one.
It came with the house
and has sat,
gathering grime
next to the philodendron.
I adorned it with pictures,
fresh lilies,
a lamp - 

Fact.
Some suns are not meant to die
quietly
to drift apart
softly.
They cling, clutching to angry flesh
to feathers
to expired promises,
explode in supernova,
burning each other’s edges as they go.

Fact.

Can you tell that I didn’t want to get out of bed?
That I didn’t get dressed today
-or yesterday-
just wore the same thing I put on
after sitting on the cold floor of the shower,
trying to reach all the way around myself.

The young author at the conference,
meets her idol,
he tells her ‘such talent’,
‘what writing!’
‘let’s work together’,
but-
plot twist-
there was something else he wanted.

The black boy who learns,

I sit down at my desk,
on the floor,
at a table.
Open my laptop,
my notebook,
try to clear my mind.
I tell myself, 
just write.

But some days