Everything I Never Told You

What was? What is? What will be? Confessions of a Reformed Southern Belle-The Unbound Edition


13 Comments

“Your Song”

I’d be honored if you would listen to my rendition of Elton John’s “Your Song” I recorded this with someone special mind. Perhaps, that someone was you.

Listen to “Your Song” by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud

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She always wanted more…more chocolates…more books…more shoes…more solitude..more anarchy.. more peace.. more calm…more chaos ..more sex…more time…. more love…more stability….more heaven…more hell….more poetry… more J’s…Jon Stewart…..Jimmy Fallon…jolly rancher’s…Josie..
.more Lana Del Ray….more BBC America… more…more… more ..more…more…until there was no more.. until all the more had been used up…ingested, consumed, spent, thrown away…and more became less…and less became so much more…

Tosha Michelle


22 Comments

Solo

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When my heart becomes
drained from voices
and sound, the anchor
of social interaction
crushing me into stone.
I go in search
of solitary exclusion

My ship sailing away
into the gray.
The night opens
for me.
My soul’s backbone
chilled by the wind.
fingerprints unseen.

I hide out under
a hard luck moon.
In those moments
I love no one.
I hate no one.
I’m indifferent

Lost in the stillness
The shadows follow me.
They write in pencil
taking notes in
a black journal
chronicling the sadness
that resides in me.

Something lingers
in the silence, a ghost,
an echo of compassion
creeping up and taking
possession of my bones

Eventually the stars
catch my eye
giving me a provocative
wink. Pointing their
celestial fingers at me.

Singing back
my lost lullaby.
reminding me the
universe can be
mysterious and grand.

Embracing me in humanity
Folding me back
into gold,
Melting the ice
from the marrow
of my bones.

Telling me to go home
that it’s late, but not
inside me, that I can
learn to dwell.
That the time has not
come to say goodbye,
only goodnight.

-Tosha Michelle


6 Comments

The Flood Came

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The mist whispers “come closer”
as the rain falls down,
The sound invading my heart
Sadness huddles in the leaves,
waiting to burst forth with the wind.
brushing my cheeks
finding purchase within my bones.
Bringing me to my knees
lost in a puddle of bruises
My red rimmed eyes
trying to breach the light
Darkness consumes me
Literally.
Figuratively.
The kind of darkness
I feel with every breath
filling my lungs and
slowly suffocating my soul.
There’s no reprieve from the darkness
only self inflicted torture
of a tear stained mind.


5 Comments

“Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald

F. Scott Fitzgerald ❤❦♪♫

My relationship with F. Scott Fitzgerald has evolved over the years, but he is still one of the great literary loves of my life. I discovered him at 11 years old when my aunt gave me a copy of The Great Gatsby.. I read it all in one go. After that,  I was hooked and quick to read anything Fitzgerald had ever written.  In middle school and high school, I was taken by the romance of it all. His books were magical; the parties, the glamour, those beautiful lyrical prose.  It was only after I was older and began reading about Fitzgerald’s life that I truly came to understand the depth of his work.  

Life for a while was a great shindig for Fitzgerald.  He married the love if his life, the belle of the ball, his first book This Side of Paradise was a huge success, but so much can change in a decade. Success is fleeting, the belle would stray, be forgiven, go mad and end up in an asylum. Fitzgerald would lose himself in gin and insecurities.  He would die of a heart attack at the young age of 44 at a time when he was just finding his creative voice again.

Fitzgerald is not unlike you or me. He was man who understood grey, the fading of the seasons, the sting and zing of a lived life.  I hope he is at peace, his final chapter written much too soon.  When I am in a particular melancholy mood, I read Fitzgerald’s work and let his words guide me, Knowing that the man behind the text understood life’s nuances, that dreams are often lost in the dirty laundry, that the heart is constantly bending itself and being reshaped, that often failure is just a deceptive voice, that we have to move with the taste of change and finally, that everything has a conclusion. Or does it? Fitzgerald’s words will last long after our cars are replaced with hearses, his ancient ledger of living verbs, nouns, and adjectives, a future pearl for a new generation.

Now if you will excuse me, I’m feeling a bit blue today. Gatsby is calling, like a hidden note, I wonder what his pages will reveal today.

“It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

F. Scott Fitzgerald ❤❦♪♫

F. Scott Fitgerald ❤❦♪♫

❤❦♪♫


3 Comments

Papa

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At eight years old.
I hold my Granny’s hand
The one that use to hold
my Papa’s hand
The one she
held for 32 years
The one she won’t
hold again.
I wonder how much
different mine must feel

We stand in a darkened room
Sharp with the taste
of ash and loss,
full of family and flowers
Tissues to cheek,
eyes red.
Grief pouring out,
like the holy spirit
at a Pentecostal revival

My Papa in his coffin.
dead. I struggle to
understand.
The adults talk of
angels wings, gossamer,
and light
Remarking how peaceful
he looks.
Granny lays her head
on mine and weeps

I place a rose
in Papa’s cold hand,
and kiss his cheek
Hoping he will
answer me
“Papa, I love you.
I’ll take care
of Granny
and hold her hand,
until she sees you again. “

In those few fragment moments
where consciousness
and grief collide.
I understand loss’ lexicon
That is comes off
like synthetic fabric
fused to a body
in a fire
taking skin with it

-Tosha Michelle


8 Comments

What Love Is

Cool Artsy Shoes

Love isn’t
a weekend in Belize.
It’s not flattery.
Rarely, the perfect fit.
It isn’t cake and schnapps
or a walk by the river
with Thoreau

Love is
a photograph cropped,
rearranged, often marred
It’s an arsenal of joy,
of pain, a loaded gun
Locked, fired, reloaded,
fired again.

It’s salty, gritty
rarely sweet, at times solid
at others, a noddle slip
off a chopstick.
It’s a Rorschach test
a complex algorithm
disordered thoughts

Films never get it right.
Songs sometimes do.

Love is
difficult,
a chalkboard lesson,
in Mechanics and
Special Relativity

Love is
a Dixie cup
full of gin
the brush of angel’s wings
horse’s hooves in hell

Love is
true.
Seldom,
but when it is,
it wears sensible shoes.

-Tosha Michelle


4 Comments

Love is a Unicorn From Hell

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“Let’s get lost, in a romantic mist”
I’m mad about you.

Lock me away
in your sanatorium
Make me your inmate.
No opiate needed
Just Pavlov’s reflex and
Plath’s bell jar
brimming with malaise

“Let’s defrost in a romantic mist”
We could fall into fast love
Buy lottery tickets
Gamble our savings away in Vegas
Eat dessert and cake for breakfast
Topple from a tall building.
Fall into a broken story

Act like the savages
Walk instead of drive
Collect vinyl records
Slow dance to Miles and Chet
Read Tennyson, Poe, and Whitman

Make love until our brains fall out
Until everything is blurred
Time is reset
The gravy ‘s all gone
And it’s “Now what?” “FINE” and “Oh well

You’ve got a splinter in your thumb
I’ve broken a tooth on crushed ice
Nirvana is reshaped and bent and
Dystopia is all that is left

“Mmm, let’s get lost, oh oh, let’s get lost”

-Tosha Michelle

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