Kern Carter's Blog, page 98
September 29, 2021
The Wake-Up
As I lay me down to sleep
I ask myself how can I prioritize my peace?
Waking up this morning, a pregnant mother died
along with the nine months of life inside of her.
Shot by a lover,
how in his mind did he love her?
Hurt and pain intertwined with love.
Generations of emotional wounds assassinate trust…
and ostracize truth.
How do I love myself when humanity is drowning in its wounds?
Walking through life dancing in confusion.
Grounding oneself in grandiosity's illusion.
My heart beats as I skip through the streets trying to sell psychotherapy.
Knocking on doors of public housing floors fearing the fear of being seen.
Reminding other humans that they are human beings.
Turning hopelessness into hope and seeking internal peace.
Finding balance in the chaos of feeling better,
eventually.
Looking for the trust that the path,
Truly is,
Love.
Loving myself from tonight,
through my last wake-up.
The Wake-Up was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
September 28, 2021
Suddenly I was too weak to move
i.
My trachea closes up;
traps any air,
wanting to travel down,
to the microscopic bronchioles.
The alveoli stay waiting,
to filter the good from the bad.
The carbon dioxide
builds up in my esophagus
lingers inside my mouth
poisons, slowly.
makes me collapse
into a shell of myself
like a raging fire
beaten to ashy dust
ii.
I was told the dolphin
is the only animal
that had to remind itself
to breathe. That’s why it slept
with one eye open. Or half its brain awake.
(One or the other, I don’t remember)
I guess we’re kindred spirits.
I don’t know
how many times
the act eludes me
how many times
I have to remind myself
to breathe
in a single day.
iii.
One time, the first or second,
it happened in a movie theatre
An hour into the action
in the seat six rows up
five seats in.
I could not feel my left arm anymore.
My breath got
heavier and heavier
harder and harder
shorter and shorter
like an old engine
using all of its strength
to do half of what the others did
naturally.
The second or third time
the snow quivered through the wind
the weight of all the things
that festered inside me
spilled from within.
Instead of exhaling
I kept breathing in.
My lungs never got full
they grasped at what I fed them
and as he held my hand to calm me
I wondered what I did to deserve him
iv.
He learned the word breathe for me
in my native language
to show he cared
to remind me that peace
was a breath away
however complicated I made it seem.
One long, drawn-out deep breath
could make the world go dark
still my beating heart
transform quick flutters to
steady
beat
drum
v.
I think of breathing a lot
how I hope to conquer it
to uncover its secrets
to discover its potential
like great people once did
many lifetimes ago.
I wish to conquer breath
like men wish to conquer death
before they both take me, hostage
in my old age.
That we may become friends
wondering why we quarrelled so much
I would remember the word tanafassee
and the measure of breath in his touch.
Suddenly I was too weak to move was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
Look How She Expose Haself So
Photo by Luis Galvez on UnsplashYou’d think she’d be over that man by now ey? I mean he really have her looking like a fool. Swear think she’s the only person who ever been in love and hurt before.
Her sorrow so infectious. Tainting the room. Why she think she have to carry it with her all over the place? She looking to get an award? Look how she wearing it. So naked. So exposed to the rest of us. Why can’t she wear it like the rest of us? In the closet of our chest? In the choices we eventually regret.
She don’t know we uncomfortable with this — this offering. Some things better left in private. Some things we do not share. She ain’t realize no one want know about the bitter in our blood. Someone should have tell her this is not the thing to do.
Her mother ain't teach her that it’s better to self-destruct than to let others know you this malleable. That you capable of carrying deep pain. Her ma ain’t never learn her that it’s better to never let a tear drop fall in another’s presence?
Come. This is too obscene. More important things to see. Come. Come.Come let’s go. Don’t stare.
Don’t stare.
Yasmin Glinton is the author of four poetry collections The Year She Wrote , At The Shore, An Olive Branch & Yasology Vol. I . She is a performance poet and has hosted many poetry workshops in The Bahamas. Currently, she resides in Pittsburgh, PA.
Look How She Expose Haself So was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
The writer’s road.
A path between tow blank pages.
Photo by Emma Simpson on UnsplashT o write is a transit path between two Blank pages, and we start with nothing but a surprising road that requires patience, humility, love, and hard work. If we complete the path successfully, we have something to offer to the world at our return. And we return to the same point: The blank page.
I believe the writer is just a walker who covers this path, story by story, poem to poem, giving the world all the findings during this travel between two blank pages.
I am on my journey to become a walker.
The writer’s road. was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
