(What is my writing without a 90’s reference?)
Work has been the breeding ground of a lot of my stuff. I stay scribbling on batch tickets and envelopes. When you get an idea, write it! Catch it in the moment! I literally walk around with a head full of stories. Some of them are based on dreams, too. This past week has been an interesting one for my subconscious, so stay tuned for a new short story. But anyway, I’ve never really considered myself a poet. Revisiting my past writing though, majority of my work has been poems, or verses. You could not tell me I wasn’t spittin’. In high school, I connected with one of my writer friends, D, who often wrote responses to what I wrote and vice versa. It was good competition. It helped me to strengthen my writing. It pushed me. It challenged me. In the beginning, I felt the need to rhyme, write alongside music, get a vibe, you know. But after awhile, I realized poetry is not about that. Readers get the most from the art of it. The emotion. Whatever about it sparks something in ’em.
I got into spoken word in 2010 (no. I would not dare do that. That’s another level of talent. Sis ain’t there. I can’t imagine reading my stuff out loud, anyway. Behind the scenes and on paper, please!) I was heavily inspired by the likes of Elizabeth Acevedo, Jasmine Mans, Alysia Harris, Camonghne Felix, and so on. Ya’ll remember The Strivers Row? Lawd. I felt the need to go harder because these women got me right together. And the men. Joshua Bennett. Rudy Francisco. Oh boy. But, like I mentioned in my first post, I deleted a lot of work (like a goof) and lost my footing.
Why did I do that?
Still not sure.
I don’t have a name for this. It was inspired by my recent bouts with FOMO. *cough* Everybody getting married. Having babies. *cough* Congratulations to the newly engaged, almost married, newly married. I live vicariously through you. Pressure on my boyfriend? Nah. *cough* Maybe.
No Title
I stood still watching him on his knee.
The room began to move in slow motion.
My godsister jumped up and down in glee.
Tears of joy brimmed my lower lid.
I couldn’t believe
this was happening.
He wanted to marry me.
this could not be happening.
He wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.
it’s happening.
He saw a bride in me.
I stood still watching him on his knee.
He searched my face
with eyes screaming his plea.
His family and mine chanted ‘Yes’
as I finally answered,
“Yes. Are you kidding me?”
He took his first breath, taking
a sigh of relief.
“Make him sweat,” my mom would say to me.
“Don’t let ’em get you that easily.”
He took my hand gently, sliding on the ring;
had to be a couple carats, or three.
“Yo. You ready?”
He stood from tying his shoes, awkwardly
staring at me.
“Yeah.”
Damn.
This what happens when you stop in front
of Tiffany’s?
Til the rose and tiger lily bouquet flies,
Ella.
The Daily Ella 