High Praises

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Oh Goddess of rejections,
insecurities, sleepless
nights, and the sink
that always seems to leak.

Oh Goddess of loneliness,
depression, evenings spent
looking for hope in the
foggy light of isolation.

Oh Goddess of endless
chores, mundane errands,
always lurking around,
watching me toil and spin.

Goddess of painful memories
collected in a heart jar.
Unfulfilled dreams and desires.
The oil slick of wasted time.

I love you for forcing me to feel;
As I stand here holding onto
the railing of my sanity.

I thank you for the hands
wrapped around my neck.

For each tussle with the sun,
that always hides behind
a cloud of chaos.

At least I’m still here, kicking,
and dodging, the shadow crop of
my mind. I know how to make fire,
while others still struggle with flint.

For you it was never about high praises.
You live for the forlorn.
You know the insincerity of the thorn bush.

I praise you for the shattered,
the weeds, the bee stings, the
thunder clouds, every skinned knee,
wilted flowers, the dove that
refuses to eat from my hand.

Oh Goddess of imperfection,
You know that despair is the beauty
life and poetry are made of.

Thank you for teaching me this.
My tears and words sing back
a hallelujah for the pain.

-Tosha Michelle

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Nothing to Lose

If there’s one thing I love almost as much as poetry it’s dresses. Today  I give you my fashion sense and a song.  New poem coming soon. 💕 Happy Sunday y xx


And one of my favorite songs

“Come on, and we’ll sing, like we were free
Push the pedal down, watch the world around fly by us
Come on, and we’ll try, one last time
I’m off of the floor one more time to find you’

What Do You Hear?

Hello lovely ones. Happy Sunday. This blog post is a mix of of beauty, fashion and poetry. Please excuse the no makeup, hair in a messy bun look in the video 

Sometimes when low dark clouds hang above a
mind that is usually crystal
When lucid thoughts
become cluttered with
distorted perceptions.
When negative voices
linger in the darken chamber
speaking in disorder tones.
It’s hard not to become
brittle and break.

But if we can silences those
naysayers for just a moment
Maybe we can hear the sweet
cadence of a call note
reminding us of life’s affirmations and blessed beatitudes.
Maybe we can release ourselves
from desperation and self doubt. As hope’s
breathless alert finally resounds.

-Tosha Michelle

Laying the Blues Down

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I’m tired of dragging my
hurts round like a stick
along jail cell bars.

And my tune always broken,
and the warden always asking
for some change.

Let me lie down on a cot,
or in the middle of the floor
and scatter my grievances
and self abuse all around.

And wait for another inmate
with a bottle of whiskey
and harmonica, who knows
how to play the blues, to
come and sit down beside me

And we’ll harmonize our angst
like pressing a finger to a bleeding wound.

And our hearts may be broken organs,
but we’ll pluck a banjo from it’s strings.

And we’ll sing until the night
opens for us like a door.

And let our song carry us as
far as the sky will go or, at least
to Chicago or St. Louis.

There we’ll swallow snowmelt, and
take our self doubt underground.

Finally laying those
melancholy blues down.

-Tosha Michelle

Besot with Fire.

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I don’t want a dehydrated love
that lives somewhere between
purgatory and just good enough.

I’d rather bust my knee on the sidewalk,
bruise my arm and cheek on the wall,
crash my bike on a rocky path, crack my
wrist for a love full of oxygen caught fire.

Turning blue to red. Scarlett Crimson.
I don’t want to be rescued from the flames.
I want to be wrapped in them

Let’s lose the word complacent,
and replace it with passion.

Trust that a love full of imperfections
is more interesting than one
full of perfect nothingness.

Let’s get pleasantly disoriented
on a bed of salacious.

Where everything we need
is a finger trail away.

Let’s follow the glint of rosebuds
and not be afraid to step on the
thorns.

Let’s create a love of different rooms
we can waltz into.

Now a lover.
Now a friend.
Now a sexy stranger.

Nothing predictable, no room
for maybes.

I want a love full of poetry,
but nothing conventional

I want crude statements.
Expletives, obscenity.
Possessive pronouns.
Imperative verbs.

A lexicon of love and sex.
A love that’s not offended by
the Fword -foreplay
and likes to fucking fuck.

No! I don’t want a dehydrated love
I want a love that is fully
saturated.

I don’t mind drudgery but lace it
with swoon, with heat.

I believe in the power of endurance and faith,
but let’s pepper it with decadence and sin.

I don’t want us to look back
and realize how sane we were
for each other.

I want to reflect back on
a crazy love that took us and
the moon down.

One that resides somewhere
between soulful conversation and
a wet dream.

-Tosha Michelle

Choice

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His shirt is devoid of him.
My dress is much too
pretty to put on.
This day is an easy
choice. Tomorrow,
might not be.

The flames fan to
a jar of splinters
we chopped the
night before. The
fire takes what is
giving freely (without
thought)

I choose to take the
heat in his eyes. I step
out of the shower.
and notices the sexy
message he left
for me on the mirror,
Now the glass is
less full of clean
me.

We make our decisions
We become our choices
We become pleasure
We become pain.

Life with all it’s options.
Roads to choose.
Do we drift or stay
on course? Turn
forward? Turn back?

We make love and tea.
Pillows spill from the bed.
We roll around on the floor
wallowing in soot.
A mop is the only response

Dawn slivers through the
window and across our
bare skin.. The sun winks
at us through a wave of
white. The sky, tall and
blue, curtsies. Taunting
us through the window
pane. The sky and sun
knowing (of course) that
they are an easy choice.

-Tosha Michelle

Thin Mints and Unsent Letters

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Sharing one of my older poems 
Love is often on a street
that only runs one way.
In the space between
stop and go. You think
if you stand still long
enough, he’s bound
to bump into you.

You wait with your
defibrillator.
Doing painful logic
inside your head.
Charting your feelings
in an equation that
never adds up. No
wonder you never got
far in math.

You call out, and he
spits back a thousand
different tragedies.
The shaman in your
right ear says
“WTF, let it go”.
The leprechaun in
your left ear says
“Don’t stop now”.

You climb out of
the pothole you’ve
fallen into, saved by
a rope with a noose
on it.

You’re still alone.
Heart in the gutter.
You pick it up, dust
it off. The wilted
roses blowing
across the road.

You place one foot in
front of the other, only
to find you are on a
moving sidewalk
going nowhere.

You jump off and
hail a cab. In the
distance you hear
a steel guitar, and
what sounds
like a fight song.

You look for clues
and chess pieces
in your purse.
Trying to unriddle
the endnote.

You wind up at a
street carnival,
in a form fitting
black dress, high
heels and garters.

You look up and find
unsent letters in the sky.
Folding the stars into
tokens, you stupidly
hope for another chance
to win that bear.

-Tosha Michelle