The Blackest Blues

by Yosha Bailey

My blues are so deep, they're that Magic Woman turning Santana's heart to stone, from the taste of the Bitches Brew of hard beats beatin' fast enough to kill the air that was inhaled and exhaled for the next note. I take another toke: tryin' to remember how this poems' suppose to go, but the revision of the revision of the revised original keeps confusin' me, so I've decided to allow this poem to be like my angry Negro spirit that wants to scream REBELLION from the top of any clock tower in Austin or Dallas, to assuage this cancerous callus growin' roots in my heart, mind and soul: makin' a pessimist of me, stressin' that the worst is already here and more is yet to come.

Constantly battlin' between good and bad, always reminded of things I don't have. Thinkin' that being a drug dealer would ease this distress and put my mind at rest, because I would already be bling-blingin', cha-ching, chingin', flossin' and glossin' an Escalade with chromed-out blades...but I always choose the right path that has already been paved. Workin' 8-hour days for an honest two weeks pay, just to have transportation, clothes, food and rent; all the money's spent, can't even afford a doctor when I'm sick. And I'm suppose to lift my head towards the skies, keeping my eyes on the prize that has a DO NOT OPEN TIL THE AFTERLIFE wonder I don't cry, cuz if I ever did, I'd cry another Jordan River, in order to deliver me from my sorrow, grief and rage. Worrying about who I am, who I was, who I'm suppose to be. Moving two steps forward, constantly looking over my shoulder, makin' sure my past doesn't catch up with me.

My personal demons are too much to bare; drenching me in hopelessness, anger, confusion and despair. Maybe by exposing them, they'll disappear....but how do I embrace my inner six year-old and convince her, she was truly loved, and the stranger's hands and fingers that stole her innocence was not her fault, because she was Heaven sent? Or that twelve year-old closet alcoholic listening to old blues songs, wondering why she, her mother and sister didn't get along, or why she wasn't special enough to capture her father's love? Or that fifteen year-old that became a woman one summer night? How do I convince that 17-23 year-old that, what was between her legs wasn't the most important factor in her relationships, and that she shouldn't consider herself a hoe? I don't know.

I'm my own worst enemy. Therapy's too expensive to cure me, so I write and wrestle with my everyday life. I write and rhyme out my personal strife, of being a lesbian, a provider, a surrogate mother, a daughter and sister, an employee and lover. The masks that I wear are easy on individual occasions, but when I wear them all at once, my roles become complicated. Who am I really? Is the me I see in the mirror, really the real me? Why do I fear the things I've yet to achieve? Why do I constantly block myself from obtaining the things I should rightfully receive? Always pondering what I should have done, could have done back in the day when I was young, I'm not a kid any bills knocking at my door that refuse to be ignored. And that perfect credit?...forget it, that was ruined years ago. So , I spend my time proving how to balance my account and stay within my monthly budget, paying off my debts, trying to save money for the down payment on a house I don't have yet. Got me robbing Raheim to pay Sha' me trapped in the never-ending hurricane of non-existing financial gains; wishing I had the courage to sell my poems as an extra income of confessin my sins before the world, in order to confirm its okay to be human....instead of being judged by the type of car I drive, the clothes I wear, the neighborhood I live in and the tax bracket I share....

Like I said, my blues are so deep, they're black... like that Magic Woman turning Santana's heart to stone, wallowing in Simone's Little Girl Blue...waitin' for the sun to come.

The Blackest Blues by Yosha Bailey

© Copyright 2004. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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