The Sky is Falling

The sky is falling
But it’s upside down
And it’s raining and it’s pouring
And it’s softening the ground

So ashes can be spread
And we can bury our dead
And we can wake to sleepless nights
Cold sweats in our bed

Memories seasoned with regret
Inside already tormented heads
Heaven is below
It is where they go
And hell is in a realm
Between the ceiling and the floor

The sky is falling
And hell resides above
So the fire and the brimstone
Fall down to earth on us



The debris flutters down like snow
Making eyes water and hearts ache
Its toxic and its weightless
Yet heavy enough to make hearts break

Planes drop mindlessly out of the sky
Wasting 100s of our lives
Leaving behind orphans and widows
Death comes to part husbands and wives

Bombs detonate in churches near mosques
Making a mockery of our religions
Of our safety precautions, of us
Leaving in its wake another fresh & rotting corpse

The roads are soaked with blood
From this car crash and that fight
The streetlights don’t work
Either way, there’s no light

And distrust is so heavily woven into the tapestry
That we know things are never quite as simple as they seem
How does one even have clarity of vision when darkness sets the precedent?
For the environment, for the living conditions, even for the government

Is it the potholes?
Is it the cutting corners?
Is it corruption?
Is it lack of expertise?
Or is it just our quota for the deceased?

Whatever it is
Left behind
It’s getting harder and harder to breathe.
And even harder to sleep
The loss of the lost
Brings us all to our knees.

Father, Father, Father help us.
Turn our nation right side up,
So many things seem so senseless,
So can You please make it stop?

If the sky was the right side up
Blessings would be showering down
I cannot help but think we’ve destroyed the atmosphere
And turned things the wrong way around

When there is so much depravity, top down
How does one avoid gravity? It must come down.

The sky is falling
And it doesn’t matter if you cry
The residue from hell’s sewers
Will rise up to infect our lives

We are all sick
Inhaling these impurities
Cruelty has tipped the scales
No one has immunity

We exhale broken hopes
We breathe in dashed dreams
The future is a mirage
That is swept up in the evening breeze

The sky is falling down
It’s falling down on us
Are you willing to hold it up?
If so, at what opportunity cost?

Father, Father, Father help us.
Turn our nation right side up,
So many things seem so senseless,
So can you please make it stop?

ImagePhoto Credit:

Trust(ee) in Training

Women are trained to trust! As a gender, women most often get tarred and feathered as being emotional, naïve, and the silly ones in the relationship. There are a higher percentage of women who submit themselves to a life of doormat-ship and allow themselves to be washed, walked on, and eventually dusted off when they become too worn to be wanted anymore.

My theory is women are trained up to trust.

There are so many facets to the modern day woman that must be outsourced that women are simply trained to trust straight up strangers. Follow my train of thought here…

We trust our hairdressers, our nail technicians, our tailors, our friends (to tell us if we can pull off whatever dress/design without looking fat), our market vendors from whom we buy vegetables and meat, our fellow women (think bathroom breaks during sweaty clubbing sessions – “Do I look shiny?” “Is my make-up okay?” “Do you think its okay if I take my shoes off” *quite frankly NO* but I digress..). We trust our beauty supply store clerks to tell us if we can rinse the hair dye directly in or need to base it first. We trust the mirror, the Mac make-up technicians, the midwives, the E! stylists, the calorie counting magazine motivators, our mothers (to teach us how to cook sweet soup and serve it up the right way) and the list goes on.

We trust a plethora of people, most of whom we’ve only met moments before. Therefore is it not logical that we are easily inclined to trust someone that supposedly gives us a reason to? Someone who woos us and washes us with words we want to hear? Indeed! The fairytale framework is already set in place in our minds, so once the character hypothetically rides in on that proverbial white horse, we easily transfer the most important level of trust unto him. This my darlings is where the danger lurks. For this kind of trust can shatter the heart of she who bestows it without a second thought upon said object of interest.

So after being trained up to trust we must teach ourselves to master trust and invite some mistrust into our midst. After all the Miss with the most trust is usually left at a loss for most times blind trust does not pay off.

So hold back emotions, analyze situations critically, let it be earned rather than freely given. If he is sewing on your clothes feel free to let your feelings show, but if his sole goal is to strip them away you better make him wait. Build that relationship, for only transactions should be conducted with quickness, and even those could benefit from some skepticism.


Photo Source:

Bombs Over Baghdad

Bombs over Baghdad
At least we know there there is war
Yet there are bombs in the market
Bombs in the store

Bombs while we argue
Bombs while we snore
Bombs while we celebrate
Explosives encore!

A knock out goes off
My heart skips a beat
For we do not know
If its a celebration or defeat

Body parts fly
And so do the flies
For there are fresh body parts
And new widows once wives

Should we waste our tears?
Should we utter our cries?
Or should we pick up our weapons
And take even more lives?

Should we too make their body parts fly?
And make fresh widows of their wives
Should we corrupt these young minds?
And age these eyes?

Should we instil that feeling?
That only the strong survive?

Yet none of us feel strong
We all feel weak
For week after week
Another shovel digs deep

We buried more today
Some made it in the ambulance
But weak they remain
And next week may be their last chance.





What claim dare lays hold on a Plateau life?

“Love thee or leave thee?
To each his own?”
These adages no longer apply
Each man won’t be left alone
Unless he is the latest resident
Under the latest tomb stone









What can we do my darling?
How can we help thee?
Is our heritage in the land?
Or is it within every me?

Down here is everybody cursed, no one blessed.
Are you really my darling the wild wild west?

Bombs while we pray,
Let the bombs rest.
Down on our knees,
Let us beg to be blessed.

Our city’s in a coma,
Her body scarred deep
Our hearts ravaged
Bombs, rocking us, to sleep.



Photo Source:,

Dear John Break- Up Letter: To the One Who Could Have Made Me Better <3

Dear John,

The truth is its really not you, its me. Well it’s not really me – it’s more like us. Have I literally cheated? No. But I do a little every day in every little way. I lied to you when I gave you the impression that it was just the two of us in this relationships – it’s not!

I must confess that my girlfriends are in this relationship too! I love you. I love you until we have a girls’ night out and they attempt to pawn me off to the businessman celebrating happy hour in an Armani suit and Gucci loafers. I love you, until they begin to water the seeds of doubt about how I should be with someone whose taller, shorter, better looking, less attractive, with a more similar background, with more prospects, whose less in the spotlight, more ambitious, someone with straighter teeth, a smaller nose, a stronger chin, not so sweet, someone less rough around the edges – let me catch my breath. (Inhale. Exhale). Someone whose more self-motivated, someone whose moving up the corporate ladder, an entrepreneur, a… The list goes on. Every different day it’s one thing or another. And you my love never seem to measure up. I do not know what the ever shifting yardstick is though, because you come out a head above their present or absent men, yet they are convinced that convincing me out of love with you is the best option. So – it’s not you, it’s us (me + my gfs).

And dear John, the truth is it’s not just you and I, and my girlfriends; but there is society as well. The way they gawk at us when we are out and about. The disapproving looks we get from various faced races as our skin tones are laid bare and exposed for comparison as we hold hands down the paved streets. Its history that haunts us saying once this was not allowed, and now it is barely permissible. It’s the present as it exists full of people who are contradictions onto themselves. It’s society that screams to me that something isn’t right. Our compatibility isn’t evident, and so they say we must separate.

And dear John, the truth is my dearest it’s not you, but the media. The media that tells me someone who’s a 10 should not be with a mere 6.5. And so I attempt to do the math. Adding and averaging but there simply aren’t enough numbers, and so the probability of our success is skewed on a left-tail test. Some days you take the top score, and other times the scale tips my way. It depends on our Fall wardrobes and our fitness regiment, our regular spa treatments and the size of our 401Ks. It’s the trending topic on Twitter that tells me the next “it couple” has already split. And then my sense of security shatters for they are prettier, richer, and afforded more opportunities, how dare I believe I deserve to keep my man when she can’t keep hers, after all I can barely afford to walk a mile in her Manolos.*

And then it’s my parents, and the rest of my family. Their mixed messages of wait, pause, stop, reboot, play. Everyone wants of me something different. The clarity to make conscious decisions. The freedom to further my career. The maneuverability to make the best of my youth. They think someone younger would be better for me. Someone more mature. Someone with a broader background. Someone less secure. Someone who doesn’t need to tan to attain our complexion. Someone who has already vacationed where we are. Someone with a less controversial family. Someone pre-approved by them. Someone they can take credit for.

So my darling sweet John, it’s not you – it’s us. The girlfriends, the society, the media, la familia, and my own self doubt that lets them occupy a space in my head rent free. That’s really what it is. My self doubt. I doubt what good you can see in myself when I can stoop so low to have thoughts such as these. And after they’ve ripped you apart with their words and punctuations, I pause hand poised above the paper, wondering what to write to you. Wondering what credible reason I can give that is multi-explanatory. Something that will let both of us live with these decisions in a sensible fashion. I wonder where you will wander to next. Beneath my girlfriends’ criticism and constant critique I see signs of attraction, and I hope and pray that you will never succumb to their passion. For then I shall lose not only you my love, but those I sacrificed you for because I was too weak to want what I want and not allow anyone to water down my once concentrated commitment to it. To you.

Society speaks and I am pressured to listen.

Because I believe in Chanel quilted bags and Gucci glasses,
Louboutin pumps and yoga classes,
Smoothies for breakfast, crackers for brunch,
And Evian and cocktail olives for dinner and lunch.

And there’s nothing wrong with these being a few of my favourite things, but somewhere in between, I started to buy into what they really mean. An expensive uniform that inducts one into conformity, and somewhere along the line I lost my uniqueness. My strong mind whittled away by the who’s who and what’s acceptable in the upper tiers. And here I am up here, face awash with tears. For I must give you up, because you don’t quite make the cut. New money, smells funny – they don’t respect ambition. They search for that distinction that comes from a hierarchy, a family tree that you do not have my love, and now that I’ve fallen I must get up. Now that I have you, I must give you up.

Dear John. It’s not you, but all that you are on paper and in print, and all that I’m not in spirit and in strength. My French and Italian paintings will be the only ones to see me cry, as I walk barefoot and downtrodden along the marble floors onto plush Persian rugs in my Penthouse apartment. And every little thing will remind me of what we were, and what we both are not. You are not qualified, and I’m in the deepest sense shallow. After you read this letter I’ll be all alone. For when you read the truths between the lines you’ll realize what I’ve become, and you won’t love me anymore, but I’ll love you always. They’ll say I finally grew up and let the loser go, but I know I’m the one who’s losing out on you. And this regret will make me bitter, and while I’ll call myself a “go getter,” I’ll just be a digger. Digging for someone better by mine and media and society and sorority and family standards. But his better will be worse, for like me he’ll be put together. And the paparazzi will love it, and so will the public, but at home we’ll both loathe it for our expensive mirrors have reflections – and those we’ll abhor. We look stunning together, yet in spirit we are both dirt poor. And I’ll regret this decision, but as far as my brand goes – it’ll be adored.

And so my dearest, we must break up. And the truth is, it’s really not you – it is in fact me. I’m sorry!

Love, Barbie.

Picture Source:

Monkey See. Monkey Do (*_*)


She’s battered and bruised, she learned it from you.

That’s what you allowed when she was 2.

They say memory emerges when a child reaches 3,

But he did it so much that it scarred her memory.


And when she turned 4, nothing had changed.

You were just a little better at concealing your shame.

But concealer and blush never hid your bruises,

For some stains remain long after the abuses.


You swore he would never lay a finger on your daughter

But letting him hit you – sacrificed her – lamb to the slaughter.


“Do as I say, not as I do,”

Is not a lesson plan with imbedded value.


And so she grew up as the nightmare unfolded.

You never measuring up and you getting scolded.

First by his harsh words, then by his big fists,

Grabbing your throat and twisting your wrists.


Your skin discoloured, your face swollen,

And your self value shattered when you accepted his tokens.

Gifts wrapped in lies of this being “the last time.”

He’d blame it on the liquor, his job, the wine.


And you knowing full well it would never end,

Deluding yourself as you tried to pretend.

Paralyzed by fear that you could not make it on your own,

You bowed to his beatings, keeping him on the throne.


A coward was your king and his wickedness your sin,

For you were his enabler caving to his every whim.

You told yourself you’d made a vow: With This Ring I Thee Wed

Yet your portion was never a part of that Pledge.


You did not stay because he was rich, although that he was

You stayed because with sustained abuse is an accompanying drug

Love? Fear? A combination of both?

Standing outside looking in, one cannot denote.


But you knew it was wrong

Yet you feared he was strong

Mistaking his violence for a backbone

You let him cast stone after stone.


And then she was 5, 6, and 7

And you thought “every girl should have a dad”

So you told yourself you were staying…

To give her what you had never had.


But raised voices were her lullabies

And your shimmering black eyes her night lights

And as she grew she aged

Wedged between his violence and your fright.


Then she was a teenager and you rationalized

If you didn’t stay he wouldn’t pay for college

And after all –

“You can’t put a price on knowledge.”


So you said you’d “tough it out” a few more years

Truth is you didn’t know how to move past your fears

It is what you had known for 20 odd years

And your eyes couldn’t see without the tears


Just like you wanted she moved out and went to college

Your gorgeous gorgeous girl.

And you patted yourself on the back

Thinking your suffering had gained her the world


But monkey see. Monkey do.

And that’s just what she did.

She found a man like her daddy

And in his arms she hid.


She told him she loved him

Unfortunately he “loved” her more

And every time she showed her lesser love

She was sorry, of that he made sure.


Soon everything she said was wrong

Especially when she was right

She moved in cuz she felt right at home

In the presence of her fright.


This was love she recognized

Turbulent and full of blows

And monkey will not suspect,

What monkey already knows.


But she was not “strong” like you,

And soon she’d had enough,

She never spoke of it though,

Because that’s just how she grew up.


You were so used to hidden emotions,

You couldn’t see the ones right before your eyes,

And so you encouraged her “wonderful catch”

And didn’t not notice her soul withering as it died.


He continuously killed her with his words

And one day she just gave up.

And she slit her own wrists

For where she came from: violence was an acceptable construct


An invisible prison with metal bars

You taught her that it was okay

You taught her she should conceal her pain

You taught her she should stay


Her eyes were swollen like yours

Yet her heart had 20/20 vision

And with her sight she saw

That she could not hope to exist in this prison


In her old house there were no “exit” signs

And this one was much the same

So she retreated inside her head

And thought of what she had to gain –


Existence was nothing but pain,

Love was the most violent of emotions,

And she decided not to remain.


She cut the cords of bondage,

Split them from vein to vein,

And wrists wide open,

She breathlessly called your name.


Your gorgeous gorgeous girl

Peaceful and pale

Concealer on her face

Blush bleeding onto her veil

Strategically placed to hide the bruises

The make-up could not mask

Soon to be lowered into the ground

In a coffin of damask .

You did it all for her,

But u forgot – monkey see monkey do.

And now her lifeless body,

Was doing back onto you.


For violence robs the receiver

And those the receiver loves

And no lies will diminish the echo

Of what staying really does.




My Tomorrow left Yesterday :(

iCan’t write about you. iCan write about anyone else. Cuz everyone else is here to defend themselves.

iCan’t write about you. Because you are far gone. You’ve been here and done this, and left me to mourn.

 I don’t know what to say. The words just don’t come out right. Forever out of mind. Never out of sight.

 iSee you with my eyes closed. Hear you when iDon’t listen. Feel you when I’m dreaming. Wake up to you missing.

I’m trapped in a prison. My emotions have no release. For while you are the catalyst, you’re also the deceased.

Who do I tell what I’m feeling? It doesn’t matter what iSay. So iWhisper it on the inside. Then I pray and I pray.

What happens to a soul departed after it’s risen up? Does it look down and miss what it’s given up?

Or does it just rejoice in the new, embracing what it could never conjure. Forgetting about the reflection of a life, it was living before.

I want the pain to dissipate. But I know it never will. I take comfort in that fact, for I’m holding on still.

The phone battery is dead, the text messages erased. The voice notes expired. Yet tears still cascade down my face.

It hasn’t been that long. It feels like yesterday. Yet it feels like forever, for the whole future is changed.

Our future a construction site, on which the scaffolding has toppled down. And the foundation crumbled, all is rubble scattered on the ground.

Burying your body, trapping my heart, crushing our construct, as your memory departs.

You cannot be forgotten. I hold on to the pain. And give in to its pull, for then I almost feel sane.

“A penny for my thoughts?” How about a yen? The last place you were spotted. Haven’t seen you since then.

Except for every night. When iDream that you lived. And wake up the next morning, feeling like a kid.

But the pain is my present, and it presents the past. The sleep clears from my eyes, reality sets in fast.

Eyes wide shut I no longer see you. So the pain seeps back into my core. I could have sworn you were right here. I pray I dream again tomorrow.

Why would God let me glimpse you, only to take you back? Why would our souls merge, only to have them retract?

There was a point to our encounters, all pointless now. Was there a point to our encounters? I’ll try figure it out somehow.

The strongest emotions course through my veins, rendering me weakest – my crying is in vain.

I’ve typed and backspaced this many a time, but today I’m not erasing what’s always on my mind.

I don’t know why we met, I don’t know why you left, I don’t know why you slept, but I will never forget.

Your eyes are fading from my mind. I don’t know what hurts most? The fact that I can’t see your face or that I’ll always recognize your ghost. You are embedded in my soul, I feel you in my inhale, gone but not forgotten, the (k)night in my fairytale.

Where everything is bliss, until darkness falls, and everything is perfect, until He calls.

And then you go leaving fingerprints on the doorknob, and the door wide open. Allowing darkness to seep in, and ravage my every emotion.

You make me want to live more, you make me want to feel less, I can’t let go of the “what ifs,” I’m lightweight obsessed.

I’ll wish upon the whole sky, even though iKnow nothing will change, yet still every falling star, will bear mention of your name.



*234 days

This IS Not An Ugly Girl Rant

Let me re-iterate: This Is Not An Ugly Girl Rant. This is not one of those “those who cannot do, teach” scenarios either. I simply comment because I feel it is a comment worthy topic. Today on Twitter I was asked if I sing or dance. Similar questions have been asked before. Do I? No. Should you? Probably not. Why? Because these things are not realistic. 

There are two levels of quasi celebrities in existence, both would be better off extinct.

There are those who think by simply existing they are stars and should be treated as such, and there are those who make limp attempts at being yet never quite make it anywhere. Both the former and the latter’s progress is stunted and they never reach their peak as a result. For in order to reach one’s peak, one must first identify and then strive for it; this leaves a lot less time for silly things. Therefore, these two levels of quasi celebrities would be better off extinct. Not so much the individuals, but absolutely their mindsets and motivations.

These quasi celebrities in question are everyday individuals that spend more time on their weaves, funny coloured contacts and nails, enhanced by gallons of make-up and ankle-breaking heels than they do not receiving an education. If you want your fifteen minutes of fame and want to be front-and-center when it comes to the entertainment industry, please realize it takes more than a few bucks worth of fake to achieve that status, and even then it’s a little less than feasible.

We were taught many things in highschool such as Advanced Math and Algebra 2. We were also taught that Chemistry is not for everybody, the fame of scoring goals hardly lasts past the season, girls should wear shapeless clothing always at all times, and the diploma you received does not matter – at all, go and get another one!

And so here we are – a few years down the line – University.

And here, there, and everywhere else individuals venture forth acting like the University Center is a hall of fame in which they are to be recognized and respected. Where they should be worshipped and wanted. It’s not! We don’t come here everyday to see you. No. Not at all. Go to class! Quasi celebrities need keep in mind that there will always be somebody prettier, with a better voice, a smaller waist, a better boob job, and more followers backing her. A man with bigger biceps, a better background, etc. The list goes on.

I’m not saying you are all not gorgeous in your own right or you will not be successful, I just warn that looks are hardly ever enough. Do not bank on what you did not create and can hardly positively enhance. I know and respect individuals in the entertainment industry, some more than others, this memo is not for them.

This memo is for the girls who lurk on the corners of classrooms strutting their stuff, some wearing too much, some barely enough; all with ambitions and dreams bigger and smaller than what they should hope to achieve. Do not drop out of school to become a super model. The girl who sits in front of you is probably thinner. Do not spend your days playing basketball on the streets, dunking into garbage cans, the NBA does not recruit there.

An education is the surest way to ensure success. Even if you do not do anything with your direct degree, you make connections, you sharpen your mind, you keep your repuation safely tucked away in the concrete creation that is higher learning if nothing more. Do not sell yourself short by attempting to sell your physical self. The price of the highest bidder will be too low, and most times your self esteem and self worth will be the first to go.

A pretty face is not a prize, its a cherry on the cake, and we can all do without the cherry. What matters is the content, not the case in which it comes. Models grow fat or die of anorexia, sportsmen get injured or cheat on their wives with 18 other holes – or both, actresses are traded in for younger versions, and everyone is recycled and attacked and stalked and over – and under – appreciated and all of these things probably will be you – if you ever become quite so important in the industry as to experience these “triumphs.”

There are billions of individuals who reside on this planet, too many believing stardom is the easy way out. I’m all for talented individuals joining the rat race and blowing up, I know those who have done so, and those who are attempting to, and I respect that effort in all stages of existence. Keyword: talented.

The defiiniton of a quasi celebrity would be one who is not famous in their own right. Isn’t really much of anything to be honest. More like a local champion. An average sized fish in a small pond such as a university or college whose presence is magnified by the trumpet they blow and by the fact that their “competitors” are too busy competing for valedictorian status and a graudation with honors to pay them any mind.

You are paying, or loaning, or scholarship’ing (probably not if you’re a quasi celebrity) this education, so the least you can do is receive it. Take notes instead of checking your hair every 5 minutes, study instead of sash-aying through the hallways, learn instead of lurking around the basketball court hoping to get scouted and signed.

We also learned in highschool that little miss popular is bottom of the food chain in the big bad world, and therefore I ask that we not rely on the word of our highschool music teacher who said we could sing, our ex boyfriend who said we could dance, or our friends who said we’d look good on tv. Let’s rely on our intellect, our intelligence, our potential that can definitely be honed and enhanced as we further our education.

A higher education is not for everyone, but a degree must be to a degree for you if you are already heel’ing through the halls, so its time to put the brush down and pick up a pen: take some notes, learn something, and chances are your parents and your bank account will thank you for it!

This is not an ugly girl rant. This is the rant of a girl who realizes that :

  • Beauty is fleeting, its definition every changing,
  • There are inherent trade-offs to being “famous,”
  • In order to be wanted you must give much more of yourself than E! shows,
  • Most of us will never make it to that status and futile attempts are a waste of time and reputation
  • You as an individual and the world as a whole will benefit from the realization that serious minded professions can and should be pursued and respected, are more stable, benefit society, and save everybody the time, gag-effect, and eye rolling that occurs when talentless people exude naseauting confidence in areas that do not concern them.

This is the rant of one who realizes that being the half-naked girl on the fraternity’s party flyer does not make you a model, and the heights you will acheive at the rate you are going will be more pornographic than prominent and no one wants that. We did not arrive at our respective institutions to live out loud and gain the love of the crowd, we the fish are at school to learn to swim. So test the waters of various organizations and the depths of your passions, but focus on the primary goal and elevate your mind and its potential above that of your body and your beauty.

This is not an ugly girl rant. Its just the perspective of one girl, all looks aside.