why we digg rihanna:

In early romantic & victorian literature, a pleasing woman was tamed, quiet, and ultimately "milk" (void of all flavor and exceptional taste). Even more important, women were unappealing if they had been "vexed" in any type of way.

vexed/Adjective
1. (of a problem or issue) Difficult and much debated; problematic.

any woman who ever came from a dishonorable family. a woman who was missing a mother or father. a woman with an illegitimate birth, or a women who was a victim of abuse.

Rhianna is the anti-woman reincarnate. She breaks the rules in so many ways that you almost have to take her in doses. From her accent to her violent lyrics, she is the epitome of everything that is NON-traditional-eurocentric. She is the voice for any woman who feels like she does not meet the status quo of what it means to be the "perfect woman". Although she is hyper-sexual (which could easily be called an effect of misogynist pressures), she fights through her music. After watching her domestic violence quarrel debut across the world, she made a clear and conscious decision not to be the good girl anymore. consequently, She brings out the dark & "loud" side in the timid & meek girls.

Rhianna is our unconscious, that loud and volatile beast inside of our souls that we're too afraid to unleash.

Rihanna- Man Down

we don't run a thang.

and silly me, i just don't like the song cause it sounds cheesy lol. her arguments are clearly more thought-out. enjoy, hate ... who cares. just react PRO-ACT.

why we date douche bags.

It's so unfair that the macho-centered, screwed up guys get so much play in life. & i know the "nice guys" are getting discouraged, but no worries... girls will come around. but here are a few reasons why girls date douche bags:


1. They are usually "attractive" by societal standards & usually other girls want him which attracts women like bees to honey.


2. Douche bags have the emotional depth of an inflatable kiddy pool, hence making it easy to disregard their feelings without any guilt.


3. They are reliable; you can always expect them to be self-centered, inconsiderate, and/or think of themselves first. No surprises.
*although some douche bags truly out-do themselves and make you say "wow" out loud from genuine surprise lol.


4. They have deep rooted insecurity, which most women can relate to and they subconsciously attach themselves by commonality.


5. you have an access amount of money that you're just dying to spend, just because - (picking them up and driving them around town, paying for dates, and spotting them cash) ... it happens, it really does.


6. You are not held morally responsible when you date a douche. If you dated "nice guys" then you would be expected to be a "good girl" & on the low low, you're scared of your own capabilities to hurt a loved one.


7. you want to "change the bad boy" and make him into a prince charming. however, if you kiss to many toads, you're bound to get warts. gross.

Underneath every douche-baggy, ahole, trifling, womanizing boy is a firm and pitiful insecurity. They are little boys, SCARED OUT OF THEIR MINDS ...usually covered in tye-dyed facades of materialism, sex, and partying (some even find comfort in "relationships", needing to have a girlfriend as validation). ninety percent of them were hurt in the past (either from lack of family love, a girl, or societal abuse). They have spent so much time wearing these masks that it has blended into their skin.


Ladies, we all go through a "bad boy" phase, but it's played out. these guys are so transparent that it's sickening. Women are always trying to create this "fairy tale" where they make a guy change his old ways of cheating and disrespect. They want to be the "exception". SHUT UP, that's a lost and ridiculous cause. Find a guy who will not cheat on you because he thinks it's dishonorable, vile, or immoral. Find a guy who will treat you right ... not only because he cares about you, but also because it's in his character to do so.


I don't know about you, but i'd ultimately like my significant other to be a good person...not because he loves me, but because that's who he is at his core.

dare i say, WHOA.

hookah inspired.

"Purple painted picture" , a collaborative poem by James Jeter & myself.

I come from a place of purple painted pictures.
This place, tainted
with watercolored tears of gang funerals. This picture, framed by
steel prisons of complacency. Black and brown beef mixing into tacos
on fair oaks street. Puberty deprived princesses with dwarfs kicking
in their bellies. the city of dying roses ... Pasadena, california.

In D, see indigo stained streets are cemented with broken promises and
misguided expectations, as though the C stands for clover, four luck
is seldom found in the battlefield that circumstance makes of you.
Dear nations capital, I use to call you home, but now repping blocks
turned into repping caskets and weeping mothers, I am a prisoner of
war in my own land.

people thought it was a joke?

Dark Girls: Preview from Bradinn French on Vimeo.

the little things.

thith

a letter to my sister.

Dear Sam,

It's day number three. or four. i'm losing count of days
and tears.
and convulsions of the heart.
but you understand, right? remember when you found out about your friend who passed? and you cried in the middle of campus? i looked at you like a mad woman , did you notice? probably not.

that was so YOU- not to care. and i love you for that.

you always told me the truth, unless of course you were scared of my 'mother-like' death stare.
you always gave the best advice. you knew me better than myself at times, especially with guys.
oh, the guys. our "guys" woes. after woe. woah;
you were always too good for all of them. none of them could have handled your light, the glare.
you were a peacock amongst mere pigeons. we simply were not worthy of your vibrancy.

but sis, im nauseous.
im held in bondage by thoughts of your absence at my wedding, my college graduation, your absence in next week's phone call about life, boys, and God.
im sweating; trying to scratch myself out of this mental imprisonment -
steel bars blocking my concentration
and concrete, heavy moments trying to say the word 'funeral' or refer to you in past tense.

But that's not what this letter is about. It is to let you know that you were among soldiers.
your friends and family are fighters & we will make it through this time.
we will protect your legacy against the fraudulent and time.
Sis, you will never lose love here. Sis, you will always be remembered. here.

right here.

     and here.
                                                  and here.
and here.
                           and right here.

make me measly .

All she wanted was to be insignificant.

She’d wish on a star, but that luxury is reserved for extravagant souls.

So she’d wish on a rock. She wished on a rock that she could live underneath one.

See,

Star-wishes are buried in the hearts of 'noticeable' people.

people who can bare to be seen-

Star-wishing is a pastime for dead men walking, talking

like they call any shots at all in life.

She would have rather had her limbs and mind mended in with the rest of the world-

A number code branded into the back of her skull anytime she had the nerve to laugh-

A reminder of her smallness anytime she had the audacity to be seen.

to smile.

to breathe.

she only knew numbers.

ONE broken hearted girl trying to read the storybook of her life.

TWO beautiful, angelic pages ripped from the binding before she could finish the lines.

That’s THREE tales of heartbreak in the past five years pages that made her decide she resented being "big".

She decided she was a walking target, an aiming post for all things destructive and volatile.

God must have seen her being too vibrant, too tall, “too much of something,” she assumed.

So she’d shrivel.

She’d hide in the corners of clock hands, too small to be seen & behind the means of time.

She figured if she was never noticed again, perhaps she’d keep what was left of this storm…

titled-un

an untitled, collaborative poem by  james  (alias : "jeter") & myself.


it all FELL  a p ar t .
Now that I think about it, 
it, started from the start 
you know the part when you first meet. 
Shirt neet-ly tucked away are the things
first impressions forget to mention. 
Sentence structures are
structured so strategically that in a week you see things just a bit
differently.

Smiles hidden in cocoons birth 
flying wide grins and chuckles into snorts. 
Sometimes you just can't stop the river, 
so as the butterflies in your smile take their first flutters into flight with
graffitied wings that reflect the journey in its formation, 
shedding with it is all the burdens in your frowns it has left behind. 
And
where could she fly? with wings tattered by past lovers lost, her
destination has always seemed crooked. But HE LEVELED HER, 
peeped her
cold, amber rose eyes. 
But he loved the amber in her iris and became the
"roses" in her hospital room .

"my love poem unraveled" - re-post.

my love poem unraveled .

i tried to piece my feelings together ,
first knitting the furry anxiety i feel when our pulses greet .
i attempted to glue the metaphors together to manifest the raw, broken, choppy laugh my stomach produces from this love .
i struggle to braid the blush of the stars , the grass, and gravel when we are ... us.
like a lanyard, i slip in the day kisses, the PDA, and pull tight on the soft yanks of my waste .
i want to put together the chocolate-dipped relentless faith in one another .
braid the butterflies, the time spent searching eyes, the weak whispers birthing smiles, the finger tips dancing on necks .

but it keeps unraveling .

& when i walk away from my failed masterpiece, i step and CRACK .
i pick up the beads of personified skepticism & ask where it came from .
then, a string of miscommunication imagery has meshed to the back of my sweater .
i open the door to find the pieces of heartbreak similes, neighborhood gossip, and illusion allusions scattered across the floor .

i dont want these in my love poem . My fairy-bitten, cotton candy, sparkly, pink & perfect poem . i dont want these elements in my love poem , but without them . . . mylove poem cannot live . without our f*cked up beads, and passionate, clumsy strings of yarn: without our mushiness that provokes puke . . . my love poem falls apart .

my love poem unraveled . 
a counterfeit recant of love can never exist if it's meant to be beautiful .

re-post from 9/2010

          stevi:

i dont need a serial lover man :
googley-eyed, stunted-at-growth, shallow love is banned .
tired of men 'falling in love' right after lunch or dinner,
these big ego-souled, midget mind, hacking-heart killers .

creeping in our windows and marking up their space,
tip-toeing in and out of bed just for a little taste .
they lose their minds along the grind & say that theyre 'in love'
but with whom ? susie? sally? jane? ... or all of thee above .

ladies: you're disposable. it's sad, but often true .
although he says you're "different", he's said it to a few .
find a man who sticks around & puts forward his best toes .
unwavering love is pure in substance, a cryptonite for woes .

[curtain close]
epilogue:
women, stray from serial lovers . they are obsessed with the "idea of love", but hardly know what it is . love is not only a feeling, but it is a verb . half of the time, men will say it ... but be in "love" with someone else just as easy . that's not love . although this is not the most convenient method, time & actions will tell if someone really loves you . [i know some men are upset ... cool lol . this one isn't for you ... ]

dear yellow bone,

you are playing barefoot
in fun house mirrors of complexion
with broken shards of glass on the floor.


they tricked us.
pinned us against one another.
drowning in waves of self-hatred;


you see, every time i hear "i only date light skinned girls", i cringe.
every time i hear, "she's cute for a dark-skinned girl", my stomach folds -
for every"#lightskinned" tweet ... i'm convinced a piece of a little girl's soul dies .
but that's what you get for giving pistols to children :


men that is .
they wont deny the opportunity to make you feel belittled .
and silly light-skinned girl , you think they're loyal to you ?
they'll turn on you in a minute.
shoot you in the head while you're idolizing "light".


too busy choking and dangling from your skin-tone hang-ups,
you couldn't see the blindfold .
we hate one another, allowing others to appraise our wealth .
- as if it were a cheap silver chain.
what's so fair about "fair skin" ?


nothing.


it's disgusting ... and you think you're in control?
you think men are in control?
they're just the puppets.
Jim Crow has always been ma`ssah -


big daddy jim fed you these ruthless rufies,
convinced you that Black is revolting.
slave masters sit in your skull, while your mind picks cotton .
the blisters that form filled with puss and denial of the house verse field slave mentality.


light skinned girl,


save your "whoa is me for being light skinned" lies.
while we beat off "cat calls"
they fight themselves over being treated like dogs .
we are accountable for their pain. & it affects us too -


Darker skinned girls used to say that they were never seen in music videos or portrayed as "beautiful". and you, my light-skinned friend,  didn't stop to think that you would be exinct ...


drake ft. jamie foxx - your type.
wiz khalifa - roll up.
fabolous- killin' em.
lil wayne - 6 foot, 7 foot.
drake - over.


i guess you didn't notice, but you're being replaced.
if you embrace your race, you might save some face.


- there are so many shapes, colors, shades, and types of beauty out here. it's up to you to decide what you think is beautiful. don't allow others to define that for you. lift up your fellow women and don't engage in this self-hatred. personally, i have always had a problem with men who liked me for my light skin. i have always had a problem with men who let rappers and 'hype' define their definition of attractive. they're weak at hear & mind. so love yourself, ... it goes against the grain.-


btw, wth is that vogue picture anyway? (sigh) . let's do better black people.

nice :]

oh, my president .