I write because it seems that's all I can do.
I write because I love you.
It's a matter of understanding, of liberating
The heart and soul and mind
And find the talisman that will bring you spirit and joy
How does this fit into my life?
My life of Ernest, of Oscar,
How does it move and jive with the feelings of Luciano,
of Mestre Bimba
I have no idea what the purposes of these two mixtures
The mixture of supplying the raw self
Hidden behind social constructions
The feeling and movement of capoeira,
Standing on the beach, giving a habidi hai to my bisexual friend
The mess my mind makes when I train it to think linearly
The nostagia takes over
Am I Quaker, or am I nonreligious?
Do I have a Bahian identity? That I care to reject
because society says it's useless
To think this way.
I'm not supposed to percieve as a black Bahian woman
I am a white Irish girl
With hopes of becoming a writer like Charlotte Bronte
I don't know who I want to be.
Thewriting flows out of me like a mixture of nonsense
My integrity has compromised
My ability to think in a form that is flowing
Beautiful and serene.
In a way that will make my parents happy
The way the wind blew on my cheek as I sat there, motionless,
Waiting for the air to push me,
Release me from a ton of misgivings
I gave it my all
and I forced myself to be lonley
Because I believed that would give me hope
But I must be honest.
For otherwise my true integrity will be compromised.
The looking glass will bbe glaring back at me, eyes ponted, black
And I will be left with just a hole in my heart
A "whole" in my heart.
The last story is redeemed.
I am finally a believer.
Of my mother earth's peace.