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Tag Archives: Deonte Osayande
Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life. – Arthur Rimbaud Now at the verge of birthing little things of my own, I think to what I thought were beavers’ teeth in my younger … Continue reading
Growing up I had conflicting feelings about ghosts. I was a child concerned over whether they actually were real. I feared what mischief unseen spirits may cause but only because that’s what I had been taught to do. It was … Continue reading
& the next time it could be me, or a white person or a woman, or it could be anyone anywhere & I’m just tired of writing these protest poems about police who take their power to take lives so … Continue reading
lineage of legs, now pierced by a wayward nail, as I hobbled to the front office I think of how silly we were as youngsters to not even consider these moments to be the ones that stuck in our minds, … Continue reading
My parents, told me they were broken together, when I was born, then they broke up, and they had me believe the story they told to hide who she was in her past life. Deonte Osayande is a writer from … Continue reading
My uncle seeds himself. My family buried a forest. My father consults nobody. All his kin have passed except one. In space, time moves differently than here, takes twelve Earth years to equal one on Jupiter. Universe cares not about … Continue reading
I wanted to be the accident uniting parents not the one taking them away, I wanted to be more welcomed by my mother’s family, not reasons for the graves of in-laws, who became more tombstone than handshake. Their vehicle became … Continue reading
“We can choose a love that will courageously seek out the wounded soul.” – bell hooks Her mouth wide open like the segregation of stars snores straight up like a sputtering car engine resting on my clothed lap. I snore … Continue reading
I have been sleeping like a hunted animal in my own bed. To my knowledge, I’m only chased by myself. My doctors have said the narcolepsy and nightmares are unrelated to each other. When tracing their origins I hold this … Continue reading
A dead person can’t answer a phone call, so you rang and rang, waiting to hear my voice against your eager ear. My speakers are still playing James Blake’s “Why Don’t You Call Me” on repeat when you walk in. … Continue reading
I’m watching the smoke ride towards the cathedral roof like food coloring in a pool of water and like catching a projection of light in my hand your grip’s warmth wakes me up. The snap back of a drowning neck … Continue reading
From an airplane window it looks as if I’m in a city of light. On the ground it is a settlement of wax walls after the candles have gone. Outside of my window oil and water are mixing, drowning out … Continue reading