Grouping me with urban literature - That shelf is so miniature in the bookstore - What if I wanted to be more? What if I wanted more than just the Bronx to read my book, more than women like me to take a look and see what shook me, took me away - Despite the pain, I chose to stay and wanted to show you the way. A way to face the monsters and fight; Yet you look at my poems like roaches in the projects, scattering in my light on the subjects I highlight - Like I’m just another urban reject; A genre and people neglected for our deep emotional intellect. Pay some fucking respect for the bars I kept in me - Turned my dark into poetry. My poems have no category. Unapologetically telling my story. I am not an ordinary woman. I have so much good within despite his hands hitting my skin, pushing me into a dark place with the words he spit into my face. I spit right back, make my own rack in the bookstore, because my poems and me are so much more. They apply to all of you. Hasn’t anything shook your world too? Took something out, leaving you to glue the pieces back together - Have you never had to weather a storm? Or is a blue sky your norm? I doubt you have never faced a drought, dear reader. That you never had a monster inside, tried to decide what to feed her before something else tried to eat her. Greet her dear reader. The more you ignore her the more meatier she gets feasting on you whole, I bet - Were you ever taught to let these things out, or told to shush instead of shout about the things that hurt you? I was taught that too; Until I picked up the pen and started dreaming again. Found myself on the page instead of losing my light in fits of rage. Painting over the graffiti he beat into me so casually that I felt that to be so normal. Such a formal way to take a life; Yet just as savage as plunging a knife into the heart - It’s cruel to tear a mind apart. To get pleasure from stealing someone’s treasure. Have you ever had to measure the weight of things you carry, figuring out how much you could take? Have you ever had to fake a smile all the while you felt like a little child, lost and waiting to be found - Have you ever been wound up so tight you lost the ability to fight and surrendered to the ground? Dear reader; Are you lost waiting to be found? Everyone has something that plagues, however grand or even vague, something that whispers hazy pictures of self doubt - Planting seeds in a drought won't get you out, my friend. You have to nurture the earth to give birth to the real you. That is what my poems aim to do. I spit bars and sprout little green stems through the concrete cracks - Strong spined weeds despite the smacks of shoes walking over busy Bronx streets, where cold stares and warm hearts meet together with the poetry beats - The home of such wonderful sounds, where I was lost and became found. Flowers fighting through the sidewalk and making myself known. Growing from the talk despite stones and chalk, a little Bronx tree firmly planted lifting concrete.