It’s crazy how we can find someone who loves us more than we love ourselves. But how can we truly love and trust if we can’t start with the self? Otherwise we love sporadically, like happy beings holding on the fragments of time; when in reality if we fix the self we’re more likely to love others fully and be at a constant state of happy, problem is, we’re afraid of pausing to fix the self because we’re afraid the other might finish faster and then it’ll be too late, so we hold on to those fragments and make them enough for the whole, shifting piece around-even though it’s not enough.

But in the end, if it’s true love… Won’t it prevail??

-Precious Smith

Re-read and re-read and re-read again,

Re-read your words until the fragmented words pierce my eyes like fire lit needles and my mind raps around the concepts of your words like a dope head wraps his lips around a glass pipe.

And because my grasp it too tight, the words continually repeat themselves—
over and over the syllables unfathomably dig deep into the depths of my mind
and your words sing like a broken record, but the broken record isn’t broken,
containing all the pieces it keeps playing that same phrase you sang so powerfully.

And it stings.

Your cold words rape me of my hearts catharsis like a savage beast ripping apart every inch of meat—yet as he feasts he doesn’t savor because he feels it’s the last meal he’ll ever eat.

And because I was so torn, the words unjustly created this cosmic black hole
that’s bigger than the idea of Armageddon—contagiously spreading it’s legs like that of a bitch in heat.

And I was heated—hell didn’t have shit on me.

Yet I still re-read and re-read and re-read your words… “I Don’t Love you” you
said. And in my head a whirlpool of thoughts stronger than a whirlpool ran
ramped, hitting me all at once and my head wanted to explode; my heart wanted to stop beating and my legs wanted to give out, but I couldn’t understand what it was about. How, as a mother can you not love your child—not even a little bit.

So the whole time—all the roles we played was bullshit, none of it was legit and
when times got hard you gave up on your only child and you split… what a bitch.

But I refuse to be irascible, tempted by your unbending will to be pervious,
nonetheless I picked myself up because moping around is useless. And I forced
myself to love you—be better to you than you were to me.

You can’t oppress me—I’m lifted by love

You won’t restrain me—I’m liberated by hope

You can’t antagonize me—I’m filled with joy

Forgiveness is a beautiful thang… and I forgive you.

-Precious Smith

A thousand knives, a thousand glares, closed ears, conniving motives, and selfish hearts. Seen from a room with four walls, a floor and an ever closing ceiling; screams from pain and traumatic memories leave faucets of truth leaking. Screens formed by the inner thoughts of backstabbers captivate eyes like a nosy neighbor trespassing that thin line of trust. And as you hear these screams from this screen, you notice nothing is what is appears on the outside. The face value or face validity masking the unlined issues of tomorrow and crowd you mind with pleasant thoughts of what could happen today. Realization is the only friend you have. Open your eyes, open you eyes and find where the truth lies…. it lies, it sleep and slumbers beneath all the hope and faith you’ve placed in nothing.

- Precious Smith