Something Different 

I think Jimmy Kimmel is my new favorite Jimmy. Sorry Fallon. I love his friendship with Sarah Silverman. They’re the cutest ex couple ever, I swear Sarah is aging backwards. 47 and she looks bettet than ever.  Anyway, this clip just makes me happy. I’m so easy to please at times,  The “woke Jimmy” part cracks me up, Have a wonderful Saturday. 💕

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Chit Chat Chicks

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Hello lovely ones. Greetings from the land of confusion. I have a favor to ask. As some of you know, I host a podcast with my beautiful friend Jane called Chit Chat Chicks. We bring you the latest in entertainment and good old fashion snark. Some of our past guests have included Norman Reedus from The Walking Dead, Allison Burnett, known for movies like Fame, Autumn in New York and Gone, and Ericka Eleniak from Baywatch

We have started a blog for the podcast. If you are so inclined we would love for you to follow us. I’m not sure where we will lead you, but I can promise it will be a fun trip. We will also follow you anywhere, but if you could direct us to a chocolate store, that would be great. As always, thanks for the support. The WordPress community is one of the nicest. Really happy to have connected with most of you. Ha! Happy Thursday.

You can find us here: Chick Chat Chicks Blog

Issues

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I was always clingy
with my boyfriends.

I never really knew
my biological father.
He left when I was
two.

I never got a bad grade.
I did the right thing, but
not evey time.

I never told my mother
about that time I snuck
out to meet my first
love.

The fault that is never
mine, but always is
mine.

The feeling I get when
I get something right.
The despair I get when
I don’t.

I’m not okay with being
alone, but I crave
isolation.

There is an exact ratio
of sugar and tea in
every glass I drink.

I hold onto books,
even the ones I don’t
read anymore.

I’m always nervous
in new situations. I
worry about being
liked.

I get excited over
vintage anything,
but mostly dresses
that sway on my
form.

I like how his eyes
stay on my form
wherever I wear one.

I spent $123 dollars
today at the Antique
Mart. I bought a lovely
Mod Print Dress and
a sequins party dress.

I don’t like parties.
or sequins.

The number of time
I obsess over anything,
over nothing.

The way I hoard my
relationship and worry
he will leave me.

I purposely call him
just to make sure he
is home.

How much I hate
doing this.

How much I
hate doing this.

-Tosha Michelle

An Introvert Goes to a Party.

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Tonight, I’d rather be home
getting lost in antique spines.
Craving the casual, yoga pants
and T-shirt. .Ditching this party
and dress. I can’t relate to
razzle dazzle, hoity toity
The desire for loud. My
symphony has always
been quiet.

These people
are a splinter in my isolated
hope chest for one. They
are a complex Allegory of
celebratory nothingness
Outward they glimmer
Inward, just a flicker.

I’m my own mistress of
distraction, mapping out
a poem in my head,
as some fool
in a too tight corset
tells me stories
about her latest boyfriend
who has a love for the
voluptuous and shallow.
The latter is just
an assumption on my
part.

As the clock ticks
inside my head,
sounding more
like bedtime, bedtime,
than tick tock. I note
the exit, I must reach
it before I’m tempted
to try hemlock.

I escape into wallpaper
border and sit down by
a napping cat. I stencil
my name on a gravestone
of banality and toss my
party dress off a bridge

I dissolve into particles
of light and reemerge in
bathwater of blessed
tranquility. I find kismet
with my bath mate, the
one I love-Solitude

We celebrate lavender and
quiet things. Afterwards,
I put on a night gown
of silence and
climb under a blue
comforter, under the
bluest of moon.
Finding serenity
in the stillness

-Tosha Michelle

Blue

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I have hazel eyes.
Let’s assume
for this poem
his were blue.
That sickening
shade of too
pretty blue.
You know, the
kind that women
get lost in, or
some cliché
like that.

He had women
of every description.
They never tired
of his discourse,
or his bedside
tricks. Magic they
said, too enraptured
to notice he never
took his hat off.

He was always
bitching about the
harpies beating
on the door.
Trying to dislodge
the shingles from
his roof of
debauchery.

Did I mention his
eyes were a
misogynistic blue?

Yet, he always
wanted another
harpie, and then
another, and just one,
no, two more.

Pose struck. Happy
to be their God of full
frontal. As long as
he reigned over
a kingdom where
the women came
with pulleys and
tight wires of
rope, he could
manipulate and
pull.

Did I mention his eyes
were blue- like the
coldest shade of
winter?

Never alone on
Valentine’s Day blue.

Never heard of
commitment blue.

The kind of blue
that makes women
blue. Drop a Valium
in a shot of gin
blue. Hose to
tailpipe blue.

I look in the mirror
and see eyes,
mostly green with
flecks of dead leaves.
Nowhere near as
mesmerizing as his,
but at least they
aren’t wishy washy
blue. Empty as my
icebox blue.

I take one last
look in the glass.
I see the soil of
determination
ready to bloom
in fiery eyes.
The rose of
resolve taking
form.

I walk outside.
Broken slate
shingles cover
the barren grass.
A waterless stone
birdbath gives me
a gleaming, hopeful
look. The wind
whispers its
approval. I take
a breath, nod to
both, kick a few
shingles and walk
away.

These hazel
eyes are done
with his blue.

-Tosha Michelle

Listen to Jar Of Hearts by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud

Yorkshire Pudding

I’ve plugged this A-hole before but here I go again. If you aren’t following the King of onion gravy, insomnia, strange dialect, weird dance moves, and Chandler Bing wannabe. Shh! Don’t tell him it’s 2016. You’re missing out on some truly diverse and interesting prose and poetry. All kidding aside, his wordsmithing is phenomenal but what’s with his Angelina Jolie lips?

Sooooooo

Follow the yellow brick road. Take a right and follow this guy. The man behind the curtain is pretty OK.

No. 3060 – http://wp.me/p27egX-2Qs

Put It All On.

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In my gentlemen’s club
the ladies come out on stage
in baggy sweats and hoodies
then ever so slowly put on
winter coats, boots and mittens.

They grind to the beat of a
girl power song, briefly
flipping off the stripper pole

A big tipper can take
one of the ladies
to the back room
and tie up her boot straps.

-Tosha Michelle

Happy International Women’s Day.