Day 6- Eye Contact

This was a really tough word prompt for me…..


She made sure their eyes met. After all, she had a point to prove.

A defining moment, confirmation she was being heard yet questioning if she was understood.

Averting her gaze after just a few moments, he couldn’t fathom why she was so angry.

They hadn’t spoken in years though they’ve shared so much.

The respect is absent. Love is depleted.

The desire to meet somewhere in the middle left that winter of 2008.

Now they just meet on the curb, never sharing a word.

The eye contact is fleeting and sporadic, awkward and confrontational.

She keeps attempting to lock eyes so he won’t forget.

She keeps attempting to lock eyes so he can’t forget the time when love was real.




Day 5- Food

This shit isn’t going to be poetic…

There is no song being sung about food…

My nemesis, my battle opponent…waging war since adolescence, forever winning.

An admitted emotional eater, I write this morning and think of the 5 days in a row I’ve gone to the gym and say fuck, food doesn’t always have to win. Sometimes it has to be me, unwilling to accept defeat. 

Meat and potatoes. Sugar and carbs. Lemonade and wheat thins after eight. 

Sugar has been compared to heroin. Weight Watchers or NA. 

What I’ve learned this week is I’m not for play…it may take me a while to want something bad enough to face my own demons…but this round, I’m coming for you and I’m hellbent on winning.

I’m 100% all for body positivity but this girl is sick of being overweight. Bring it. Fuck bad food. 

Day 4- Dancing

(I have to double-up today…I missed Day 4 yesterday…dange it.)

Dancing used to make me sweaty and happy at least four nights a week.

Dancing used to provide a much-needed release to what I thought were monumental woes, jam-packed into what truly was a worry-free life.

Dancing stopped when I became an emotionally, verbally abused wife and mother.

Among the ruins of my first marriage, dancing was dying too.

Somehow, my insides have always known how integral dancing is to my happiness.

Now the dancing I do is in my kitchen while four little ones bounce around me, giggling and more excited as the song plays on….

Now the dancing I do is in secret, in my bathroom when my outfit is especially cute and my lipstick is right.

Now the dancing I do is out of freedom and love, out of rebirth and redemption.

Day 2- The Unrequited

Its startling when you realize you have been devoted without hope of that love being returned. Knowing from the very start that your heart would go unmatched, unclaimed. Realizing that regardless of how hard and deep your love runs, it can also be the tie that binds you up and keeps you from truly shaking free.

There has been shame in loving without warrant, without reciprocation. A provocative quest to change minds and shift intention. Stepping into the battle of unrequited love a warrior looking to conquer; only to walk away battered, bruised and reluctant.

These scars become sacred. These scars are revered. These scars give way to a transcendent yearning, a most perfect, willing love.  Indebted forever to those unrequited loves who taught me to first to love myself.




[ree-burth, ree-burth]


a new or second birth :

the rebirth of the soul.


a renewed existence, activity, or growth; renaissance or revival:

the rebirth of conservatism.

I have always been a writer. In my mind. Occasionally pen finds paper and a few twenty pages in a pretty ill journal…smells familiar. Empty pages though.

I suppose we will see how this goes. A little bit of everything. No “I’m a music junkie mom of 4” bio-tagline-niki-keepin’-it-100-hiphop-forever-birdwatchin-buddhist-wannabe blah, blah, blah…I’m laughing now. Yes, a little bit of everything but mostly nothing…a gemini…with intentions on lightravel…travelight

travelight, gemini.

I make grammatical error.

I fly from one subject to the next


thought process

my thought process (G.O.O.D.I.E.)

cell therapy and attempts at fuller pages

lighter travel.

I guess we could make this “revival” all poetic or whatever, and call it a return or even a rebirth. Because here I am a mother, a full time professional, a full time student, a full time thinker and worrier, flitting from one thought to another, attempting a blog. I feel called to write more often. I prefer to write with a really good pen or pencil. I think I have a better shot going digital.┬áI am not sure who will find this blog or who I will share it with. I can promise only myself for now. Constant musical connotations and references, sex, race, money, superficial politics, actin’ like I know, old thoughts, new beliefs, is what first comes to mind. I write for healing perhaps. Or maybe to fulfill this sudden desire to make sure I am seen as more than all of that regular ish. What IS that?! I’m still too scared. Pretty funny as I grow older to become a little more withdrawn but in a happier, introspective way. I’m probably gonna spout some pretty contrived “universe, karma…I am trying to reap goodness and grow everyday” hilariousness. Ahh well. Trying to stay ahead of what’s heavy. Unload.

I’m gonna change my mind. I need it to be easy.