Thursday, September 6, 2012

Wooden Staircases

my staircase smell like strange fruit
their voices creak as i tiptoe over them
i feel them breathing beneath my feet
and wonder if a negro hangs in the forest
does the tree remember his face

my staircase looks like my brother's skin
and swells like my grand father's tears
the wood in the south is stained
how many of us sleep on the blood of innocent men
How many Mary Turners were taught lessons
that threats to white men in the south
are like leaves on trees
they bounce like branches
struggling to support strange fruit

would it be accessory after the fact?
can we consider them guilty?
do they rot apart from ptsd
as they try to forget the lives they have held

©, 2012, Tiffany "Spokenheart" Shack

Talking into fans

my words are broken
like slices of childhood
falling into unsturdy mirrors
stepping out of windows
my words are unstable
like when changing was as simple as talking into fans
and now i am someone else
inside of fans
smiles spread across my face
as words escape me
and i sit on a wooden floor
with a foundation that is leaning
i stare into a reflection that is leaking
at a girl that is leaving
and wish i knew who she was
my voice taste like kung fu chops
my lips feel like power cords
watch me break up with myself
there is a blade where my tongue use to be
forgive me if my sentences dont make sense
i was eating memories for dinner
nostalgia tends to stall me
and my lips become too dangerous
i was trying to change
i was looking for me
i forgot to pick myself back up
there were sentences i left in that fan
a time capsule
in a junk yard
i was chasing a quick fix
like when changing was as simple as talking into fans

©, 2012, Tiffany "Spokenheart" Shack