Saturday, November 10, 2012

UnrequitedLove:Nothing is for nothing.

I remember the first time I saw Jill Scott perform this poem. It left me with a deep sense of regret but at the same time a renewed hope that because I know better now, I've progressed past the woman I used to be.
Jill talks about relationships where she settled for cheap instant gratification from men who were only sophisticated losers, because she thought that was all she was worth. I've been there. Though I knew there had to be more to love than this,I somehow believed that that kind of "love" was all that was on offer.I was convinced that we're all doomed to unrequited love disguised as happy couples walking hand in hand.
This does not by a long shot mean I am now of supreme self-awareness.Time and again I do allow myself to love guys who aren't worthy and I have had struggles with chapters that won't close. Knowing better makes me want to do better. When I fail to do better, I chasten myself back on track.

Yours in Agony,
Under Construction :)

Nothing is for Nothing

I had been turning tricks longer than I actually knew it.
Being whatever they wanted me to be whenever they wanted me to be it.
A freak, inside, outside kitchen counters, laundry mats, two at a time,
hotels, motels, and backseats of leased cars, vans and jeeps.
Made myself like it ’cause they liked it and I liked that they liked it
and so I continued being the perfect image of a wet dream.
Nasty, wild, exotic, erotic.
Freak was they wanted so freak was who I was.

And everybody was walking around talking about me.
Like teenage pregnancy wasn’t becoming synonymous with being black and woman.
Like America wasn’t suffocating our thoughts.
Like there was nothing to talk about what was doing or screwing.
And I thought the whole damn thing was ridiculous, which it was.
‘Cause I was content giving my men a little heaven
between their struggle to breathe and contemplation of suicide.
Wasn’t I good for the cause?
Closed mind, open legs, making niggas forget why they’re so damn angry.
Wasn’t I good?

Then the mood swung as well the tempo and I became an ideal.
They want her pretty and docile, caring and stupid
and there I was on your Mark, Seth, Joe and I was Suzy Homemaker on the hunt for love;
Cooking and cleaning, ironing and faithful and a freak cause that’s what they liked
and I liked being what they liked so what they liked was who I was.
A prostitute, selling my soul for emotional gain,
struggling not to be the third generation of lonely women in my family.
Struggling to gain but gaining nothing but confusion, frustration, illusion, ’cause there was no love,
just empty condom wrappers on the floors to be discarded like me.

A prize performer long before I actually knew it too,
’cause I was faking me out of the me I would become.
The me that I see now.
The me that holds onto herself with both hands and all feet.
The me who must have love and give it.
The me who brings more to the table than good looks and a wet hole.
The me that is confident, and intelligent and filled to the brim with respect for me.
And a freak ’cause that’s what I like and I like being what I like and what I like is all a part of what I am.

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