The Road Less Traveled.
Sleepy. Life as a PR Writer are generally filled with days sitting on my computer, cranking out press releases and other materials for publicity clients. This weekend, I was able to take my work on the road, traveled to Detroit for a smooth Media Day, relaxed with the family, partied with the girls and made it back last night only to get up early for a much-needed doctor's appointment.
I usually don't get too personal on this thing, but my life as a writer is so much more than brainstorming and penning drafts. Everything I write is inspired by life. So at times I feel a little compelled to share it with you. Pardon me if you could care less *wink*.
My goal this week is to get back on track. I went to my favorite resource, Google, and did an image search for "The Road Less Traveled." I needed slight visual inspiration for my mission of taking a new route to promoting and marketing my work.
Below is my favorite result. Enjoy and stay tuned for updates.
I usually don't get too personal on this thing, but my life as a writer is so much more than brainstorming and penning drafts. Everything I write is inspired by life. So at times I feel a little compelled to share it with you. Pardon me if you could care less *wink*.
My goal this week is to get back on track. I went to my favorite resource, Google, and did an image search for "The Road Less Traveled." I needed slight visual inspiration for my mission of taking a new route to promoting and marketing my work.
Below is my favorite result. Enjoy and stay tuned for updates.
Musical Motivation.
I deal with words. I'm a sucker for similes, a fiend for original metaphors and a lover of the unmatched energy of poets like Saul Williams, jessica care moore and Def Poet, Beau Sia. But as I cling to Amethyst Rocks and spit poetry because "The Words Don't Fit In My Mouth," I still seek inspiration from the sweet, the complicated and the raw rhythms of music. My "Top Ten" is constantly changing. This week, I'm drawing inspiration from the following:
FYI, visual art is also a great motivation. Just watched this movie:
- The funk of Sa-Ra.
- The whimsical wit of Wale.
- The madness of a Murs track (whereas madness=Dope).
- Little Brother's lyrical grace.
- The soul of Esthero.
- Jazmine Sullivan's story telling.
- Citizen Cope's revolutionary spirit.
- The love of John Legend.
- Raphael Saadiq's retro style.
- Dashing Detroit balladeer, Dwele.
FYI, visual art is also a great motivation. Just watched this movie:
BOMB IT. CHECK IT OUT.
Promo Shots. Sneak Peek.
Face Simplicity. Love Life. Laugh.
Enjoy the Sun. Relax.
I'm Nice, But My My Words Will Slay You.
All photos taken by the beautiful TT Coles.
The Phenomena of Skin Bleaching.
Color Complex
Dark skinned girl
She don’t want no dark skinned man
She don’t want no blacker-than-tar
Babies on her arm
Creating more black than there should be
She trying to save
Her seed from everyone else’s
Color complex
She trying to beat Jim Crow
By taking Jim Crow’s name
Dark skinned man get no love
All in the name of her revolution
Dark skinned girl
She rebels by twisting bodies
With any brother lighter
Than the paper bag
She hides in
She missed the memo
She never heard John Rock
Say “Black is Beautiful”
She never witnessed raised fists
Never felt the kiss of a man darker than night
She still carries of the scars of taunts
From school kids afraid of her beauty
Dark skinned girl
She’s so tainted by the world
That still praises the booty fat
And long hair of light skinned vixens
She don’t love herself
As much as the struggle begs her
She prays for God to erase the melanin
Leaving no trace of his mistake
She dismissin’
His so-black-damn-near-blue skin
She don’t want no blacker-than-tar
Babies on her arm
She trying to beat Jim Crow
By taking Jim Crow’s name
The concept of this piece came unexpectedly, from an episode of the Tyra Banks Show. The segment featured young women ho bleached their skin in order to appear lighter, and thus, in their opinion, more beautiful. The show brought me to tears. One woman mentioned that she would never want a dark skinned baby on her hip, for fear that society would not see the child’s beauty.
A friend passed on this short documentary on this disturbing trend. Watch.
Dark skinned girl
She don’t want no dark skinned man
She don’t want no blacker-than-tar
Babies on her arm
Creating more black than there should be
She trying to save
Her seed from everyone else’s
Color complex
She trying to beat Jim Crow
By taking Jim Crow’s name
Dark skinned man get no love
All in the name of her revolution
Dark skinned girl
She rebels by twisting bodies
With any brother lighter
Than the paper bag
She hides in
She missed the memo
She never heard John Rock
Say “Black is Beautiful”
She never witnessed raised fists
Never felt the kiss of a man darker than night
She still carries of the scars of taunts
From school kids afraid of her beauty
Dark skinned girl
She’s so tainted by the world
That still praises the booty fat
And long hair of light skinned vixens
She don’t love herself
As much as the struggle begs her
She prays for God to erase the melanin
Leaving no trace of his mistake
She dismissin’
His so-black-damn-near-blue skin
She don’t want no blacker-than-tar
Babies on her arm
She trying to beat Jim Crow
By taking Jim Crow’s name
The concept of this piece came unexpectedly, from an episode of the Tyra Banks Show. The segment featured young women ho bleached their skin in order to appear lighter, and thus, in their opinion, more beautiful. The show brought me to tears. One woman mentioned that she would never want a dark skinned baby on her hip, for fear that society would not see the child’s beauty.
A friend passed on this short documentary on this disturbing trend. Watch.
My How I Love, A Queen Named Rita Dove.
Golden Oldie
I made it home early, only to get
stalled in the driveway-swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.
The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air conditioning off,
leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go?-a lament
I greedily took in
without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.
By Rita Dove
I made it home early, only to get
stalled in the driveway-swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.
The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air conditioning off,
leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go?-a lament
I greedily took in
without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.
By Rita Dove
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