I just want a corner to lie
down in.
Pull the covers over
my heart.
Let it get buried in
snow.
Somewhere underground
where the coordinates get lost
A hideout from worry and the
slow burn out of life.
My calendar whited out.
My fingers too cold to hold.
My lips too raw to kiss the end note.
And I can live in the moment
before.
A frozen vessel alone
in the stillness.
My soul encased in a thousand
miles of Arctic air.
-Tosha Michelle
Sometimes all I can think
about is chocolate cake.
Sugar seeping into my
parietal lobe.
I run my fingers through
your blonde hair, stroke your
teeth with my tongue.
We move like batter
Clinging to each other
Stumbling around the
kitchen.
Desire in an embrace
You flutter to my
fingers, and I beg
you to give away
the recipe.
Knowing how this girl
butters to Southern charm
and blue eyes and measures
her life in spilled
flour on the floor.
Going under in a
flood of batter.
Gluttony in a three
piece suit.
I dream in dark
decadence and open
my mouth and heart
to confectionary splendor.
Happy to get lost in
frosting, strong arms
hard kisses, and oven
baked seduction.
-Tosha Michelle
A photo I took recently and my favorite Adele song. Happy Sunday. Hope it’s one to write about and remember. 💕
Please excuse my absence. I have doctor’s note. Ha. Just not from that kind of doctor. You guessed it, a witch doctor. Ha! In reality, currently working on my post graduate degree. It’s keeping me pretty pretty busy. I haven’t had a lot of time to write poetry. I did take a day trip to the mountains recently and thought I would share some photos with you. Miss interacting with you all.
I’m tired of being love’s
recruit. I want to enlist
in hate
I wish there was a dose
of something that would
make me care less.
I’m tired of doing math, I
forgot a long time ago.
Tonight, I want to get
wrecked and call it
victory.
I want to sleep on the
deathbed of empathy.
and be reborn a cynic.
Instead, I’ll wake
tomorrow. Victory
sinking and thinking
love is as necessary
as a soul patch to
a hipster.
Never content to let
it rest. Always trying
to stitch it and people
back together.
Always a sucker
for Mahler and his
tragedies.
Always in tune with
the birds weeping
in the trees.
Never content to
hide in dark places
with the moon.
Always making
something out of
nothing that
isn’t there.
-Tosha Michelle
Knowing that I’m less than a diamond,
no emerald or pearl, only mere glass.
I’m not afraid of being common,
or choking on insecurity’s bone.
I carry no bitterness in my veins.
Just a faulty valve of naivety.
My blood pulses with compassion.
The flow of humanity.
Brokenness, the barbedwire
fence I like to call my soul.
I trip over needle and thread
trying to sow a stronger spine.
I back tack kindness to my sleeve
and watch as my heart slips to the floor.
Hope perches on my breastbone.
I listen to it’s tune, wanting to soar.
It drowns out the murmurs
of negativity and doubt.
Finally unencumbered,
I sing along, the words repeat
“go on” “go on” “go on”.
-Tosha Michelle
.
Do you see him the man on the street?
His eyes that beseech
His lips that speak of
hopelessness and despair.
His thoughts and dignity
stolen by society,
and an anguished mind
The icy hands of circumstances,
taking his livelihood
held captive in poverty’s relentless grip
People walk by him in a rush
chasing unattainable goals,
slaves to the impotent narrative
of success. trying to impress,
spurred on by imperatives
devoid of substance
Passersby consumed by time
always in a race, a constant haste
teetered to an elusive dream
bankrolled by the Joneses
their blood and sweat
revenue in the stream of greed
Lusty mortals seduced by the
whorish temptress
that is corporate America
specializing in the cremation
of aspirations and inspiration
climaxing in the loss of morals
Strangers immune to plight of the homeless
They are too busy wagging the tail of the dog
Mindless sheep devoid of sovereign reason
spineless and passive, sowing empty seeds
paying on mind to the tolling of the bell
or the beggar on the street.
-Tosha Michelle
I sit. Heart in hand. I
create. Some of you
may turn away from
the blood. The red
spilling over. It’s OK
if you do.
Sometimes it scares
me too, but still I
hold it. Palms out.
I’m giving you what
frightens me. This
is me saying, yes, I’m
still here.
I give you my less than
moments, my insecurities,
my madness, my ideas
about life and love, my
shrine of longing.
My heart slipping from
my hands, falling past
my knees to the floor.
Falling toward your
shadow I hope you
will pick it up.
Feel the hopeful
beat that wars
with my still
soul and chaotic
mind. I give you
my wounds.
We connect through
our pain, my friend,
my reader. Through
the hornets in our
coffee cups. Our
syllables of what
we can’t forget.
As we suffer together,
fear becomes less.
Our hearts beat stronger
Place them on the
dashboard like a
plastic Jesus.
It’s doesn’t matter if
they leak on the
floorboard. It only
matters that we travel on,
even if we’ve misplaced
the map, even if our sanity
becomes displaced, even if
we drive down a reckless road
on a moonless night.
Understand, if we want
heaven and angels,
sometimes we have
to ride around with
our demons.
Understand, sometimes,
darkness is the heart of
life, of beauty, of art.
-Tosha Michelle
Everything I Never Told You 
