Author: poetryfest

Government-sponsored is what labels are,
All because I wouldn’t sponsor
My daughter’s father—he reminded me of my own.
Though he tried to warn me,
I fled when I was fed up, had enough.

Determined to see a bigger picture,
I found myself ordering
A mind-altering pitcher.
Poisoned by persuasion,
I jumped aboard a sinking ship—
Rotating on the rosters,
No time for a relationship.

Full control of everything,
Even when flashing lights warned me:
I was actively malfunctioning.

Raised in institutions,
Fleeing transitions—
After the fall of the Iron Curtain.
Solidarity made choices—some uncertain.
Wasn’t it always?

Was I created out of love,
Only to collect rocks, stickers,
Bruises, and trauma along the way?
Gravitating to learned behaviors—
Who supplied all the party favors?

“We’re celebrating.”
Why? It’s a Tuesday.

Preexisting, rewritten,
Never sure when they’ll listen
To the whistleblower.
Oh, wait—
Isn’t that so-and-so’s daughter?

“We should help.
Work her to near death.
Have her find a narcissist.
She’ll be sure to get pregnant.”

This time, don’t let her get an abortion—
She’s had three of them.
Could she even afford it?

Get her drunk, fill her up.
Don’t tell her about the STD.
Guess she’ll just have to live with it.

So far gone,
Infiltrating every fiber of her being.

“You’ll never have kids again,”
I heard, as I held my three babies close.
Surgically repaired: one, two, three—
You’re left with one ovary.

At least you won’t bleed monthly.
No, just internally,
Depending on how this all goes.

There’ll be good days.
There’ll be bad.
Well, after the childhood I had—
A feather in the wind of bad beginnings.

I couldn’t go down that path.
A child with no dad, no mom—
Horrible odds, if you do the math.

Government or not,
I got the help.
Fought for the help.
Escaped my fate,
Rose back by myself.

An immigrant navigating,
Flourishing young minds
That, too, didn’t choose to be born—
But are here.

With every organ and fiber left in me,
I’ll fight for our sense of being—
Their sense of belonging,
To this world,
As human beings

The Countdown begins
When?
November 5th, Jan.6th
OR
Is it
When does the countdown end?
I have heard one question and one statement over and over
Are you better off
We will fix it
I hear words like
I am traumatized
I am wondering I am leaving
I am scared
That is not better off
That is not fixed
That is…
More of the same.

midweek broke this new year in as a long fast—
the topsy and turvy in my stomach won’t quickly pass.

see, the sweet notes of hope don’t always dance atop my membranes in practiced routine—
no, today my thoughts stumble, sashaying away in silence, a sordid sort of vogue.

I step into a spotlight that only my eyes can truly behold,
chasing melodies of serenity moving just a three-count away from me—
after and after my heartbeat,
perpetual metronome evading me.

whiplash: rushing or dragging?
my feet: iron cladden?

madden, I:
madden,
groove, I:
try grabbin, but
can’t seem to
catch it;

disjointed patterns even in the way my chest fills,
air passes—
breathe, sun, breathe. this year:
watch me tapdance in marvelous fashion!
catch the pitter-patter of my fluttering pink-matter in vim and vigor,
a needy sort of passion!
let waves wash over me, forever crashing, but
instead of whittling away as if brittle beach crafting,
as i’m sargassum-fashioned:
won’t let buffeting push me into riptide, backwards.

nah, it’s on that buffeting i’m breaking fast in—
affirmations of an in-process crime of passion.

In 2024, I fought for my soul,
A battle beneath a sky torn apart.
The storm raged, fierce and relentless,
Heartbreak shattered, pieces of me lost.

I faced my fears head-on,
The weight of grief pressing down,
Waves crashing over me,
Unforgiving, unyielding.

Yet in the chaos,
A whisper broke through—
Like rain on parched land,
Healing my inner child,
Mending the broken parts.

I sat in stillness,
Alone in the dark,
Rebuilding, reassessing,
Learning from the storm,
Finding lessons in the struggle.

The clouds didn’t part overnight,
But with each storm, I found clarity.
The thunder no longer a warning,
But a sign of growth,

Each flash of lightning illuminating
Paths once feared.

Now, as 2025 unfolds,
A quiet optimism stirs.
Fear still lingers like distant thunder,
But it no longer grips my heart.

For the horizon gleams with possibility.
Not because the storm is over,
But because I’ve learned to stand in the rain,
To trust the rhythm of the universe.

This year has just begun,
But already, it feels like something has shifted.
I’ve changed for the better,
And for the first time,
I believe I’ve weathered the worst.

The thunder may still roll,
But I stand strong,
Ready for what’s next,
With hope in my heart,
And the strength to face whatever comes.

Poem:

A choice filled with desires.
Take whatever you want,
but leave everything you have behind.
Choose your attires,
cause it’s your life and not your death, enshrined.

Meaning:

A forced reflection on your life which shows what makes you happy. If you choose your desires, leave your life and achieve. If you choose what you have, be grateful.

https://www.instagram.com/scribeyourlife/

Under the soft shadow of an olive tree,
where my grandmother once stood her
fingers brushing the rough bark, the cool
evening air settling on her skin. She told
me stories her voice like a lullaby, as if
the land itself hummed with memory.

Ramallah, then, was not a city of loss but of
laughter spilling into the streets, of young men
and women dancing on rooftops to the rhythm of
a love song no one could forget. She met him
there, my grandfather, a man from a distant
village. but to her: he was the only one.

They sat beneath that same olive tree, whispering about
a future that felt wide as the sky, her hand resting in his,
as if the soil itself had promised to keep them together.
The scent of jasmine in the air, the taste of fresh bread,
the sound of the city fading into the hum of her
heartbeat–

Spoke to me of the quiet mornings, of how the sun kissed the
hills of Ramallah, painting everything gold, how their love grew
slowly, steadily, always reaching for the light. They were young,
full of dreams that felt as simple and eternal as the olive
branches, strong and unbroken.

But that world shattered one evening when the
first crack of violence split the sky. The streets
that had once echoed with laughter now
carried the heavy silence of leaving, of
knowing there was no place to stay. She fled
with him, the olive tree and its promise left
behind,

her heart still tied to the roots that no
longer grew beneath her feet

She’s a quiver on the dotted line
A slit in the sun spewing out
A rush of light shining in her hair
She’s a whisper nipping at my ear

I’m a pudgy blotch
On an ocean floor
I’m a baby tooth rotting inside a pearl

Even if I was a sloppy kiss on a silver star
She wouldn’t love me
The way she’d love to be his

Not that she might never be hers
Just that she could never be mine

I’m not a brooding mystery
Foaming at the mouth
I don’t strut with an overbearing musk
Or swing around sweat-kissed, calloused hands

I’m “a rug who was once a beast”
And there he is “a beast who was once a rug”

But can’t you feel it?
The metal eyelashes and the eternal night
Can’t you taste the crisp moon on your lips
And can’t you hear the dandy lions howling in the wind

Can’t you?
Like you said you did
And don’t you forget
The synthetic affection that painted my tongue pink

Oh and how you might just go crazy on me

enough hear my breath crackle and heart spudger
And what I wouldn’t give to just tell you yes
But then that’s all it would ever be
Your head between my thighs
As I close my eyes

She’s my piece of obsidian. Always there, fully formed within my heart like a crystal embedded into the side of a mountain, warming it when it falls cold and dark, and cooling it when it overworks and overheats. She’s my piece of obsidian. She might be dark and edgy to the unappreciative eye, but those are unique and alluring traits that make obsidian so special to me. She’s my piece of obsidian. She’s speckled with gold or quartz or marble or crystalines on the inside of her core, beneath her pristine, sleek, and mesmerizing pitch black surface. She’s my piece of obsidian. Formed from the hottest of magma and coolest of winds through her experience of life. She’s my piece of obsidian. Solid and unwavering in her devotion and love. She’s my piece of obsidian. Someone I know I can turn over and squeeze in my palm for comfort and protection, knowing she will never crack or shatter. She’s my piece of obsidian. Her beauty is the color of onyx. I know the howling winds and driving rains in life will never erode her. She is my fully formed piece of obsidian, a beautiful example of it. She is my piece of obsidian and mine alone, to cherish, respect, admire, and love for all our years.