Push.Woman.Push

Push pause…push play….This world is not mine. This life is no life at all…push pause…push play….There were flowers, and garland and beautiful stems of gold and silver the glimmers of color needed to add the sparkles that had gone dull from the lack of true cinema, true drama spawned, no birthed from the righteous, from the evil and everything in between…push pause…push play, and start my storyline off right…remarkably gifted my little actress will represent me oh so well. She’ll twirl and shimmy and flash that wide gaped smile, winking flirtatiously at men she’d never take considerably for one night, one night that she’d never had because this little lady is a woman of choice, bound by her god’s law, and stationed flat footed and showered clean and fresh like spring’s lavender, autumn’s best, and the classic sunshine of May and April at its’ brightest, pure and dignified, sweet and penetrationless. Not like the gallowed wretched carcass fest that tramples over the pavement, flashing Apple Bottom Jeans price tags attached and bonded to their skin because they themselves can’t even remember their own worth so they play on the notion with plastic and cloth to fill the void…but not this girl…not this Jazzy woman, no…She is sexless and still sexy…powerful yet meek, overly developed and how brilliant this angel shines internally iridescent and beautiful and unafraid and shimmering like the sapphire globes of the Mediterranean secret, or the lovely waves as they glisten, owned by Emerald City, a place longed to go to, yearned  to be from, to embrace and to speak of knowing such land, because this gal wants the world underneath her fingertips fused into her colored skin, skin luscious brown, ultra cocoa, buttery like heavens cookie crumbs over double fudge delight,  taking prisoner to none, yet making servants of all that dare to hold themselves against her silk like stare, like a reverse Medusa, screw turning him to stone, instead make a man outta that heap of rocks and gravel! Her power succeeds her own frame of mind! And all it took was a second thought, a blank space, a word, a syllable, even…a push. Just a little push for her to become underestimated, because this girl, this woman, this lullaby on a limb that she hangs from as her weapon of choice is all she’s got in the end, when girls of different strings become one painstakingly crafted quilt, when color meets brush and words are her sanctuary, she formulates a legacy for all to Push together, Unity was screamed hollow echoes interweaving rebellion, and so she became an outcast to de-Evolution and colored women faking negro appearances, while diminishing what was once real, what we felt ever so sweetly as women of color…we used to THUMP to the beat of a sound, and now all that is left is She, keeping the dreams of our people alive, and she lives today for our tomorrows when we, all in our brown and milk chocolate painted skins, cannot see past our dreaded Mondays.  She becomes our eyes when we are brow beaten, and charmed by eye candies, coated poison red, like forbidden fruit. She becomes our voices,  when we are dry and parched, when the sweet liquor turns bitter black like tea, and we shake the lie that our pains can’t be cured with an easy lay, heavy heaving and animalistic, starin’ at us with those eyes! Seeing us while we see nothin’ but black, don’t matter , less’ we decide that feeling was worth the waste of emotion, we push then, but we be damned if we really mean it…Cold, yet we aimed to burn a gospel through the air, a melodic song of steel, shatterproof, for us women that dream of becoming ourselves again, free and lovely, and beautiful, and unconquered, and enjoy days when our inner temptress rouses to play for playing coy, and invites the weary, and tickles pleasantly as they ache, oh! These creatures, warm blooded and boiling high at the edge of her fingertips as the silhouette morphs into she, back to herself again, …into this woman who weeps by day…pushing a hunger for silky sin by night.