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On Black, Fat, Femme Positivity: Why I'm at My Heaviest, My Most Confident, and Don't Need Your Approval to Exist

"If I breathe in public for five seconds, it’s also common that someone will feel the need to tell me, “YASSSSS!” in an attempt to ch...

Friday, April 17, 2015

No. 7 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month

Not Here For It.

I am not here to appease the masses
of people who cry buckets of privileged tears
Neither am I here to trapeze to and fro to coddle stubborn asses
who are so [willingly] oblivious in their privilege that they won't admit their fears
That maybe, perhaps they have been wrong this whole time
That quite possibly, most definitely not all these unarmed Indigenous peoples committed crimes
That Tanisha Brown's death was justly ruled a homicide
and her killer is walking free; they just let dude slide
That an unsuspecting Rekia Boyd was killed by an off-duty officer
with no justification but 'suspicion' when he hauled off and shot her
That Trayvon Martin really was just buying Skittles and Arizona iced tea
and met his untimely demise at the hands of a vigilante creep
That an officer--erm--plainclothesman brought Eric Garner [with an illegal chokehold] to his death
as the man cried out: I. Can't. Breathe. He took his final breath
That an unarmed Michael Brown's misdemeanors should never have warranted a death sentence,
but this officer who killed him execution style, shot him--and meant it
That Tamir Rice and his toy gun were simply having (perhaps foolish) but boyish fun
yet, 15 seconds on the scene, cop discharged murderous bullets from his gun
How do you explain 'he looked about 20' to a 12-year-old boy's Mum

Just in case you were wondering where this is coming from
I would explain
But at this point, I'm tired
Tired of saying the same damn thang

If you can't find wrong in a justice system that vindicates the killing of unarmed human beings...
Wake. The eff. Up.
I am not here to protect your vain feelings

Mirakol Smith, April 17, 2015

No. 6 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month

Good Ground

There are times when I feel I'm brittle, dry, barren.

I wonder if the life I know was predestined will spring up from me.

Am I beyond reparation?

This soil of mine…cracked, thirsting for more…

Will it ever reveal new life?

It becomes a bit cumbersome for a bud with little hope

To wonder if it'll ever come into full bloom.

Seeds have been sown.

Weeds are being pulled.

Thorns are gradually being snipped away.

Intermittent sunshine and rain.

Just when there seemed to be no hope in this arid land

God breaks open the heavens, and pours out His blessings.

He is not withholding his greatness from His people.

Somebody prayed.

And I am reminded of a word whispered to me before one Sunday service…

"You are good ground."

While damp, muddy, and a bit messy…good ground, indeed.

If My people, who are called by My name, shall humble themselves, pray, seek, crave,and require of necessity My face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven, forgive their sin, and heal their land. Now My eyes will be open and My ears attentive to prayer offered in this place. For I have chosen and sanctified (set apart for holy use) this house, that My Name may be here forever, and My eyes and My heart will be here perpetually.
2 Chronicles 7:14-16 (AMP)

But He said to me, My grace (My favor and loving-kindness and mercy) is enough for you [sufficient against any danger and enables you to bear the trouble manfully]; for Mystrength and power are made perfect (fulfilled and completed) and show themselves most effective in [your] weakness. Therefore, I will all the more gladly glory in my weaknesses and infirmities, that the strength and power of Christ (the Messiah) may rest (yes, may pitch a tent over and dwell) upon me!
2 Corinthians 12:9

Thursday, April 16, 2015

No. 5 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month

For You

It takes a special kind of fighter, a warrior--to see the depths, lined with shards and fire.
Encamped in murky waters.
Draped in melancholy and wrapped in despair--
to dive in armed with simply a heart to see you healed and free.

This is for you.

Those who've had the seeming displeasure of swimming in my deep. My hurt. My longing.

Those who, with the Father's heart, said they were not afraid, that I don't have to apologize for my brokenness.

Those who look on my face with delight at the little girl I was, the woman I am, and my becoming.

For my family, both blood and blood bought. For my friends. For my teachers and leaders. For the strangers who listened when God told them to speak, to see her.

For the mothers who don't have their own, yet saw a daughter to nurture and did so without pause.

For the fathers with a God-sized desire to see sons and daughters experience real fathers.

This is for you.

And I hope you can accept my thank you, though my words will never be enough to show my gratitude.

Because there will never be an elocutionary means to adequately express the deepest appreciation of those who fight for the ones who could never repay them.

This...this is for you.

Thank you.

Mirakol Smith, April 16, 2015

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

No. 4 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month

Chosen, a haiku of my Beloved

Unfazed, He chose me
Knowing I wouldn't love Him
Yet, He chooses me

Mirakol Smith, April 15, 2015

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

No. 3 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month


I have believed what they've told me about myself.
Their truths about me.
'You're so extroverted and outgoing!'
'You're such a people person!'
'You're friends with everyone!'
But, you see...they don't know me.

I love people, but they annoy me.
I like my space but am also outgoing.
I have few close friends and many acquaintances.
And yielding my energy often relinquishes me of my maintenances.

See...I am what some call an ambivert; an outgoing introvert.
I think and feel deeply. And when you hurt, I hurt.
I am compassionate and intense. I am pensive and subtle-minded.
And my brightness, in part, dims my spirit--broken, troubled, and disquieted.

I began to only see it, when I was alone and left in my head.
Facing my personal darknesses and inmost thoughts had become something I'd dread.
So I'd throw myself into others, in hopes to escape what I feared deeply...
To be by myself and be forced to re-meet me.

Hello 'strange' 15 year old, with the jet black hair, necktie and stripy socks.
I see you with your questions, listening to your 'strange' music, donning a sleeve that showcases your heart.

Never simply accept someone else's truth about you.
You are okay. Being who you are is okay.
You're different, and you'll soon find that you like it that way.

- Mirakol Smith, April 14, 2015

We're Halfway Through National Poetry Month, and here I come with my 2 cents (a day)...

I figured the remainder of this month would give me a good motivator and foray back into writing. It's been entirely too long! We won't talk about all of the drafts sitting in my queue (here on blogger and in my notes app on my phone). Anywho, I'll try to provide two poems each day over the next 15 days to hit my 30/30 goal. Here are my first two pieces. I wrote them at ages 18 and 19. Seemingly in love with someone who didn't love me like I loved them...a bit stupid as we all are at that age. Deep and profound for no reason. Lol! Enjoy!

No Strings Attached - by Mirakol Smith, circa August 2009, edited April 2015

call me Gepetta...for I am the she playing on your heart strings like a puppeteer.
a callused-fingered violinist
feel me...
can you feel me, you feel me.
let me know you feel where I'm coming from.
fingers going numb. sweat trembles from the balcony above you.
I pull, you dance...on cue. you're my Pinocchio
with an ever-growing nose. the absence of truth...I can't think
as I blink back tears whilst the stage play continues
wanting to be yours, because I could use...somebody.
someone like you.
I'll cut your strings...

Untitled - Mirakol Smith, circa March 2009, edited April 2015

I gasped for my last breath as I died in your eyes...do you love me?
If you don't, then you've lied with your eyes.
And I've tried to grasp concept of this clairvoyance. That gut feeling--tummy twisting.
Do you hold that same sagacity? Can you feel me? Can you read me? Do you love me?
If you don't, my intuition has failed me. Thus, I have failed epically. I fell epically into a love that...
In essence, finds it hard to love me. Finding himself loving me, but not wanting to love me because he's finding himself. Find self...fine, self!
So, I told myself I'd be fine by myself. If I just mind myself. And focus on me.
But the love in his eyes make it hard for me.
Playing those two damn songs. On repeat. Constantly. As I let tears fall.
In hopes of one day receiving that knock on the door, that "oh my gosh it's him" call...for him to tell me...
He loves me. Do you love me? Please say it's so...Do you love me? My heart pauses for the know...Do you love me...or is that gut feeling, your sagacity, my intuition, the love in your eyes deceiving me?

See you tomorrow! :)