The Weakness in Me

This uber short piece was wholly inspired by Joan Armitrading. I even borrowed the title from her oh-so-popular hit of the same name. Thanks Joan :) Hope you like it!

The Weakness in Me
BY Susan Baba

There is a mountain of evidence to condemn you
The jury has spoken
The judge has ruled
But I, your executioner and victim in one
When I am faced with the choice between loneliness and retribution
Would choose to pardon you
Again and again
If only to have something to hold on to tonight

"to write your memories on my heart too"

Memory
BY Susan Baba

Tell me the places you’ve been.
I want to write your memories on my heart too.
I want to see that starry and faraway look
And travel to that place with you.

The first sunset –
You were so tiny beside the vastness of that Arabian coast
But you never would have known it from the power in your voice.
You were not scared.
You stared down the sun
Made it quiver in its boots
And, when you were finished,
You coaxed the moon out to play with the tapping of two sticks.
Your baby sister did not understand
But I promise I will.

Take us back there.

To the first day you learned that you were invincible –
You swung higher and higher
Everything below looking liked patchwork and pebbles
You leaned forward,
Let go,
And jumped regally off of the swing set.
No cape, but you were just as majestic.
No parents and their cautious hands below to catch you
Just you and air and courage.

Take us back to that place.

Where the timbre of her voice rang even in your dreams
She was a flawless first love.
Her hair smelled like Magnolia blossoms and her smile made it all make sense.
You wanted to kiss her forever
But she turned her face too quickly
Took a step away from you and never looked back again.
Tell me how it pained you to let her walk away, without so much as “I love you” or “goodbye.”
How you vowed to keep walking too,
In the path of your own choosing, this time.
You must have thought the world was ending then.

So, tell me how it ended.
How many “hallelujahs” it took to lead you back to yourself and onto my doorstep.
I want to know.

You are a man.
A brave and collected soul.
You come to me worthy of much admiration
But, I know your path was not always straight
That you fought your way through thick forests
That made you look around for your father’s arms
Let's travel back there.
Feel the intensity of those things already past.
When you go back to those memories,
Take me with you.

Happy Birthday (Haiku) to You!

In the spirit of being haiku-literate, by boo and I wrote this fantastic poem inside a friend's birthday card. Ok...maybe fantastic is a bit overboard. lol...but it is a poem...by the loosest definition possible.

These haikus are not as easy as you think..

:)

Birthday Greetings
BY SB and MD

Hey, pretty lady
It's your birthday, O-M-G
Hoping your day rocks!

Speckled Poets Rock!!

Hello good people

Hope you don't mind if I get all touchy feely for just a bit!!

I have to talk about the awesome community of poets I got to hang out with last night. I was asked to read a few of my pieces and some poems written by other artists at the Speckled Bird Cafe's Monthly Poetry Night and it was an absolute treat! I got to hang out with some truly talented poets, soak up the creative energy and bask in the good vibrations.

Honestly, it was one of the most fun nights I've had in a while. Thanks to the entire Speckled Bird crew for being gracious enough to let me share my work. We artists are pretty "sensitive about our ish," :) but the crowd was great. I discovered some new poets, who I'm sure will be fast favorites, and even read a few of my new to the world pieces...thankfully, no one boo-ed...whew!!

:)

Check out one of the new poems I read below. It shows how much of a hopeless romantic I really am. Ha!! Also, if you're interested in finding out what other hopping events are happening at this Cafe, find them on Facebook or Wordpress!! You won't be disappointed. I promise!!

Love Riot
BY Susan Baba

He only loves me loudly
If there were a mountain,
he would shout his love a million times from its highest peak
If there were a water tower,
He would deface it in my name
With my face
Adorn it anew with words of adoration

But in this city of concrete and glass, there is neither mountain nor water tower in sight
So he settled for the subway station
Taps the man sitting beside him sheepishly and points
“that’s my woman”
With the sincerity and gentleness of a man overwhelmed by his good fortune

Sometimes, if I am lucky,
Only if I am lucky
My eyes will catch him first,
His pursed lips prepared to shout “I love you” at full force
And my kiss will intercede
Capture his words like a willing prisoner
Breathe deep his elation
His giddy innocence

I always play shy and surprised when I don’t catch him in time
I nuzzle into him and shield my sly giggles from the disapproving faces of our fellow passengers

I love you
I love you
I love you
He whispers into my ear
Lifts my face to look into it
And although I already know,
It’s always nice to hear
those words
again

Ok...Let's Try This Again - NaNoWriMo

Last year, I made a sad and sorry attempt at participating in National Novel Writing Month, but I failed terribly...pretty much tuckered out before I left the gate. This year, I'm gonna take this challenge seriously and hopefully complete something by the end of the month. Apparently, that means writing about 8,000 words/ week. EEEK!! Wish me luck!!

Anyone else interested in taking on this ridiculous challenge? Sign up at www.nanowrimo.org

Here's some info from the most recent newsletter, with tips on how to survive the first two weeks.

Ready...

Set.....

GO!!!!!

October 31: Kiss the dog, unplug your cable box, and email your family and friends to let them know that you’re about to enter the zone. The NaNoWriMo zone.


November 1: Watch the first video pep talk on NaNoWriMo.org, and then write your first 1,667 words. You can also update your word count in the box in the top right-hand corner of the website (or, of course, in your Author Profile).

November 3: Discover that what you’re writing so far wasn’t necessarily what you were planning to write. Realize that is okay—great, even—and keep writing in anticipation of what will come next.

November 4: Receive the first guest pep talk from Mercedes Lackey.

November 5: Go into the first weekend of November having written 8,335 words. If you’re not there yet, don’t worry! That’s what weekends are for. Aim for 11,669 words by Sunday night and you’ll be golden.

November 8: Get ready for one super-inspirational week! You’ll be receiving three pep talks: one from me and two from guest pep talk authors. The pep talks will continue at this pace throughout the month, and will include words of wisdom from more of your favorite published authors. (If you miss a pep talk email, don’t worry! They’ll be posted on the Pep Talks page throughout the month.)

November 11: Admit that you’ve grown attached to your characters and miss them when you’re not writing.

Thank God for Babies

A good friend gave birth to her first baby yesterday and I'm so happy for her!! I got to hold the beautiful girl only hours after she was born and it was as if the gloomy cloud that has been following me this week suddenly lifted. Seriously, it's been a crazy week, but holding this little girl completely melted my cold and stubborn heart.

Thank God for babies. Despite all of our brokenness as humans, each new child gives us an opportunity to turn it all around. It's as if, with each infant He brings into this world, God is winking at us and saying, "all is not lost. There is still hope."

I was just so inspired that I had to express it in some way...check out this new poem - hot off the presses :)

Baby Sasha Saves the World
BY Susan Baba

Just when you think he has tired of us
our ceaseless complaining
our needless lies

our insatiable appetite for all that shines
the anger we throw around so carelessly
the half-baked love we offer up with similar ease

just when you think he has tired of it all
wrung his hands of all our failures
and left us to bring about our own demise

he opens a woman's womb again
thrusts a crying and desperate newborn
into the world's waiting hands
reminds us that all is not quite lost yet
there is still hope.

Girls and Boys. Who Should Make the 1st Move?

I wrote this a while back and finally decided to share. It's a piece about pursuit. The delicate dance between men and women. The pre-dating purgatory of I-like-you-but-I'm-still not-sure-you-like-me. Ugh! Stuck in one of those places right now. Maybe I'll have some good news for you in a few weeks :)

It's stressful and crazy on both sides, I'm sure, but I always think it's worst for the women. Culture commands that we be dainty ladies, waiting for "him" to step forward. And so, we pine...we sit patiently and hope he gets a clue before we wither into nothing!

My guy buds always ask, "Well, why don't you ask him out?" Um...what? Cuz that's not how it's done, son. Call me old fashioned. Maybe I'm setting back the struggle by a million years, but I will never make the first move again. Been there. Done that. That story never ends well.

If he's too chicken to tell you he's interested, that sort of foolish cowardice will, undoubtedly, enter your relationship and force you into the loony bin. As I said, been there. Done that. I'll encourage him, for sure, but the first move is up to him. I didn't make the rules, friends. I obey them to the letter :)

Anyway...the poem. It's a short and sweet piece. Let me know what you think.

I Will do the Rest
BY Susan Baba

If you would only outstretch your hand
Uncross your arms and reach for me
No florishes
No prose
No need to even step forward
If you would simply outstretch your hand
show that you have that same longing
that I too have hid for so long
I will do the rest

On Marrying the Man of Every Woman’s Dreams

So, here it is - my first cheating-man poem.

Comments please!!

On Marrying the Man of Every Woman’s Dreams
BY Susan Baba

At first, you will think that you are important too.
Out of the many, he has chosen only you.
He will praise your beauty,
your soft hands,
your mermaid eyes.
He will call you the moon and stars
and you will believe him.
He will make you feel confident and poised
as he lightly holds your elbow,
to steer you through the crowds.
You will sit on park benches, restaurant booths, church pews
side by side.
You will both point to young and silly things
walking by, all short skirts and flirtatious longing
who think they have only their bodies to offer the world
But he -
he will praise your mind
your heart
your ability to always dress appropriately for the occasion
and he will seem to look inside of you and love you all the more.

Soon you will see that he is more important.
As your star peaks and begins its descent,
his will still be rocketing onward.
You will still be by his side.
He will still lead you by elbow through the crowd
of his adoring business associates and political allies
but he will not offer to get you a drink
or introduce you to his friends.
He will not even look at you

He will begin to work later now,
joke about the life of a “big man,”
promise to make up for missed engagements,
forgotten anniversaries.
But he will not.

You will try to ignore your senses,
but you will begin to feel small.
He will spend weekends away now.
He will know his children’s voices
from many phone conversations
But will always look on with astonishment
at how quickly they have grown.

You will wonder about his request that you never call him first,
about his sudden out of town trips
that seem to become more frequent,
but, you will not complain.
He will placate you with the reassurance that this is all done for your good.
It is what he must do to keep you wearing couture and driving luxury cars

Your eyes will scan the tennis bracelet on your wrist,
the vast expanse of home the two of you built together.
You will never tell him that you would give it all up
for the way things were.
You will want to,
but you will
not
say
a thing.

Think Only Nigerian Men Cheat?

I've been thinking a lot about cheating lately. Not considering cheating, but contemplating the "why" of it. Why do people cheat? Specifically, why does the person cheated on make the decision to stay?

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie tried to address this question in "Imitation," one of many stories in her beautiful collection of short stories The Thing Around Your Neck. "Imitation" follows a middle aged Nigerian woman named Nkem who learns that her husband has a girlfriend in Nigeria. She lives in the US, for the children’s sake, while her husband is a prominent businessman abroad. Nkem grew up with nothing, so she was at first honored to now be able to afford a new life for her children. But, when she hears about her husband's apparent infidelity, she contemplates her next move and has to decide whether she will stay in the US, and live a comfortable but lonely life, or return to Nigeria and fight for what is hers.

Sadly, the story’s plot was not unfamiliar to me. In my small Cincinnati Nigerian community, it was common place to hear about this man or that man running the town with some other woman. No one batted an eye or seemed to act surprised when the "man" turned out to be their own husband. No one ever spoke of confronting him or keying the heck out of his car or, better yet, filing for divorce. The women would always just shake their head and say, "Thought he was different, but it seems that all Nigerian men are the same."

It took me a while to realize that extramarital affairs are not exclusive to Nigerian men. Politicians, celebs, and everyday people are ignoring their wedding vows on the regular. The most surprising thing, though, is that despite decades of women’s empowerment, the women usually take back their cheating spouses. I would like to think that I would go all Elizabeth Edwards on my man and blow his whole spot up or embrace my inner Candi Stanton and proclaim "I don't mind if he's getting some loving from you, as long as he takes care of home," but I would likely be more like Freida Khalo. I imagine that I would retreat within myself and mourn quietly. Finding out that my husband had been unfaithful would probably crush everything that I am.

Anyway, the topic of women who stay is a very fascinating one to me, so I decided to write a poem about it. "On Marrying the Man of Every Woman’s Dreams" is about a woman who has found neither the courage to confront nor the strength to leave.

Let me know what you think.

On Saying "I Love You" too Soon

Hello kiddies - I was talking to a friend the other day who was criticizing her brother for saying "I love you" to his girlfriend "too soon." I've been thinking a lot about that...when is it too soon to know that you feel love? Should a person who's been married forever tell a newlywed couple that they haven't known love because time has not validated it? I personally don't think so. I think love can be felt from the first instance. It grows, for sure, but it is still a true thing, even in those early days.

Anyway...here's the first love poem I've written in a while. There's something about the changing seasons that makes me all sentimental:)

Enjoy!


On Saying "I Love You" too Soon
BY Susan Baba

love is not this static, definite thing
it may start small and dim
it will be tested
it may splinter
and grow torrid or weak
and though it may take time to become what it must
it is still -
from the hearts first flutter,
to the last desperate utterance
it is still -
whether new or ancient
it is still -
a true and beautiful thing

Dropping Truth on your Dome!!

Remember the Last Booty Call on Earth?

"Even when he cannot remember his name
or even his own address,
my number clings to his mind –
distant but clear"

Yeah. That one. I've been getting a few questions on why and how that poem came to existence and thought it best to address it in the public webisphere:-) I was able to explain the poem's origin and much more to a friend a few months back and thought I might re-post my response here.

You can read the full poem after the jump.

enjoy!
sb

ps...I'm oh-so stoked that people are reading the blog and that it's making them think. ::Blessed::

The simple fact is that most women, myself included, have self esteem issues. Sometimes these are relatively small and interfere, only minimally, with our daily lives. But sometimes, our skewed sense of self is debilitating and makes us do things that our wiser selves would blush at...We go back to the men that hurt us because laying in the arms of even the wrong guy can feel like "love." We crave that false sense of uniqueness that even the wrong male attention brings...to remind us that we are not just another body roaming the planet. That, even if only for an hour or a day, we are somebody...desired and desirable.

And I say "we" because it has been me and at times still is. It's funny how, even with this sort of emotional clarity, I still fall for it. It's almost like I'm carrying my raw heart in my hands, waiting for someone to help me carry it the rest of the way...and before finding out if the guy is trustworthy or even simply worthy, I hand over my heart...all of my love...and pray that he will handle it with care. Most often, he does not. Whether it is because he cannot or chooses not to, I can never know for sure.

So there it is. It pretty much boils down to low self esteem and insecurity. On the bright side, I'm learning that the more I start believing that I deserve better, the less tolerant I become of anything less. Hence "the last booty call on earth" post. I'm also learning that I am lovely and lovable...internalizing that shit and making it my mantra...reminding myself that I was created for nothing less than true love, by a God that is so much more. -susanbaba

Stuff I Write: "and leave me to write this poem in peace"

Whoa! I wrote this randomly one night and sobbed for about 30 minutes afterward. Have you ever had one of those moments when you didn't know how strongly you felt about something until you started writing/ talking about it? Yeah. Mos def one of those experiences. The poem is about a boy who I didn't realize I had fallen in love with until his abrupt departure from my life. I'm pretty over it now, but I still felt the need to share this piece. Hopefully someone out there can relate.



Walk Away
BY Susan Baba

walk away

tell the earth that i could not hold you

tell the ocean that i pushed you westward

tell the wind it was
my footsteps, night after night,
that frightened the warmth from our bed

tell the sun it was my salty kiss,
my lips that spoke too loudly,
that made you thirst for something other

fill this universe with the reasons why you must go
flood its shorelines with your well crafted excuses
but

tell
me
nothing
i have heard enough already
i cannot hear your voice
without trembling again

so go,
sweet
riotous man,
find some other woman to hold on to
and leave me to write this poem in peace

The Last Booty Call on Earth

Tonight, (after talking to a former crush whose interests lie more strongly in the parts below my neck than those above it) I was inspired to write a poem. It's a pretty somber piece that doesn't end as I would end it in my life today, but I needed to get it off my chest for one last time. It's sort of a last hoorah for the woman in me who once thought that a drunk text at 2a or a random booty call was an appropriate proxy for love.

That woman has long since fallen by the wayside, but she will be buried for good in 2009. AMEN!

So, Au-Revoir to the 2009 Booty Call! Mr. Late-Night-Text, please delete my number. Unlike the girl in the poem below, I am not afraid to reject your calls:-)

Enjoy and Stay Safe this NYE!

The Last Booty Call on Earth
BY Susan Baba

He only calls when he is drunk these days.
It is only when the bottle leaves him stumbling
that he craves the strong anchor of my arms
Yearns for the solid ground,
soft blanket of my ever-abiding love for him.

Even when he cannot remember his name
or even his own address,
my number clings to his mind –
distant but clear

He remembers that I am good
and honest
and waiting
With eyes that never ask why,
hands that can carry all that he wish he were but cannot be,
a head that will stand tall,
lips that will not quiver,
a mouth that will never open up
and ask him to stay for breakfast.
A tongue,
Oh, that silent tongue -
the one that promises not to betray the heart
that's breaking just a few inches below.

This wretched body -
always open and accepting
These horrid hands -
forever waiting and forgiving.

Despite my best attempts,
I will always
answer
the phone.

A Slice of Humble Pie with my Turkey

Hello lovelies

After wiping away the stray bits of cranberry sauce and finally prying myself away from the desserts, I have finally emerged from my turkey-day food coma with a poem on my lips:-) This entire day of thanks has made me realize that I don't thank the big guy upstairs enough. In fact, I rarely give Him much attention when life is peachy. It's like I only come crying at his proverbial doorstep when its all crashing down around me...I guess, despite how far faith has brought me, I am still a work in progress. Let's remember to be thankful everyday...not just when the calendars and grocery stores command us to be.

Hope you all had a wonderful and blessed Thanksgiving. Happy Black-Friday!

When I Pray
BY Susan Baba

Only when I'm hungry
only when
enough
is not really enough
you see, only when I'm hurting
only when the world crushes all of my dreams
only then do I look for you
wait on answers before I move
seek you
like those books say I should

hands clutching tightly
as it all just slips by
it's at those times I need you
and want you by my side

but when its -
sun
joy
laughter
and parties to go to
warm smells of delicious
and music to dance to
people to kiss
lovers to hold on to
endless
endless
endless

another year set aside for singing
when its -
arms flung open wide for loving
when dreams are all revealed to me
and destinies all fulfilled through me
when I have
enough
more than enough even

plenty of all the right things
none of all the wrong things
when it's all here
like I'd hoped for
I forget that you're still in it

and you,
in silence
or in thunder, if needed
jealous lover, you call me back
reminding me that you've never left my side

You're Not a Real Poet...Are You?

There is a local poetry night that I absolutely love going to. It's inspiring to be around so many artistic and creative minds all at once. Sometimes, I even feel inspired to read some of my own work. A few weeks ago, after I had read a few new pieces, a young lady came up to me and said, "I really like your style. You're not a real performer. You're a poet." Her words struck me in the oddest way as I tried to determine if it was a disguised insult or a genuine compliment. I opted for the latter and smiled.

But, it got me thinking...what does it mean to be a "performance poet?" And what would our poetry greats think of all this? What would Langston Hughes think of the slam culture? What would Shakespeare or Robert Frost or E. E. Cummings think of the spoken word movement? These folks were poets in the most honorable and pure form. Yes, they sometimes read their work aloud, but their words stood alone on the page, unembellished by stage or intonation (except maybe Shakespeare and his plays). They focused on sentence structure and punctuation. They released anthologies and poetry books instead of performance cds, because they let the reader take from their words what they wanted.

This is not to bash performance poets. In fact, I love seeing people totally light the stage on fire with their words. I envy them for their skill and courage. But, for those of us who "only speak because the written word has all but gone out of style," it's an honor to be counted in the group of writers who wrote words that were fit to read - not just fit to speak.

Long story short, this inspired a poem about poetry...

Enjoy:-)

A Difference in Style
BY Susan Baba

I am not a spoken word artist
I am a poet
My words do not sit on display like plastic fruit
They are meant to be ingested
To roll around in your mouth until you’ve sucked all of the juice from them
To make you feel something in your stomach
Sometimes unsettling
But something
To shake through you
To rumble through you
until they're done

My words come to you naked
Peering from behind the ripped out pages
and scribbled out lines of my poetry notebook
With nothing to clothe them at all

I am not a spoken word artist
I am a poet
I am of the tribe of soothsayers
A dying line of women who can read a single book more than once
whose bookshelves and libraries are filled with
underlines
and highlighter marks
and smiley faces
beside words that have moved them
The weird chick who dares to laugh
or tear up
as she turns the pages of a well worn book
Only to watch the words she once fell in love with
unfold before her again

I am not a spoken word artist
I only speak because the written word has all but gone out of style
because you can only hear me if my words sound like hip-hop
or have a rhythm that makes you want to tap your feet
You can only feel me when the drama of my delivery
catches you by surprise
and snatches the chair right from under you
But I am not a spoken word artist
I stand before you
with nothing to guard my words but this small page

The Hardest Part of Breaking Up...Is Getting Back Your Stuff

To steal a line from MTV's fictional boy band 2Ge+her, "The hardest part of breaking up, is getting back your stuff"...and, I would add, your sanity. Breakups are crazy for so many reasons. When they happen, they totally turn your world upside down and leave you with sadness, questions, a meteor-sized hole where your partner used to be. Even if you're the one who ended it, it's most definitely no walk in the park.

If you are lucky enough to survive those first post breakup months, though, you find out that there are some perks to breaking up. For one, you get the freedom to focus on new things that you love (especially the things that your boyfriend or girlfriend hated). It's also fertile ground for a budding poet. My breakup was many months ago, but I've finally gotten enough distance from it to be able to write some pretty introspective pieces about our time together and my thoughts on our breakup. I've included one of these below and will share a few more breakup-related poems throughout the coming weeks. Let me know what you think.

ps...actual names have been replaced with singular pronouns, to protect the innocent (and not so innocent)

Sorry
BY Susan Baba

We communicate in I’m sorrys.
Sorry for taking so long to text you back,
I wasn’t sure how to say it.
Sorry for never calling you back,
I didn’t think you would want to hear my voice.
Even across a crowded club,
My eyes say I’m sorry as I flirt with another.
And as we get a feel for what this “friends” thing is supposed to be,
We’re filled with I’m sorrys
For all that we choose to leave unsaid.
As you might have guessed, we were lovers once
And there is so much to be sorry for
Much too much to be sorry for
But I don’t regret ever loving him.
I don’t.

POETRY > War

So, I've been reading a lot about the mass rapes that happened in Guinea during last month's military crack down. Hundreds of women, peacefully protesting for democracy were ambushed and raped by military officers...in broad daylight!! I know...madness!! It made my soul hurt and more or less broke my tiny little heart into pieces all week. But, it also inspired me to search around the net for some good news.



AND, I FOUND some!! Poets Against The War. There's more than a bit of politicin' on here, so be forewarned...but it's an amazing celebration of self-expression in the face of war. The organization's mission is simple -

to continue the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.

There is something so empowering and liberating about art:-) I was even inspired to write a bit myself.

Poetry > War
BY Susan Baba

She will never kill
for justice
and you cannot make her.
She will fight with all her might for you to see that we are all precious
from the smallest to the greatest among us
we all have worth.
She will fight
with words,
attack you when you are not looking
with the bullet of self-expression.
She will read and write and create and love until the wall breaks
and there's a crack big enough
for hope to slip through.
That is what a poet can do.

::love::peace::justice

Stuff I Write: Rules of Engagement (All 3 Parts)

Rules of Engagement
BY Susan Baba
1.
listen to my heart
does it sounds broken to you?
you see, a heart can only take so much pain
can only crumble into so many pieces
before it is gone

2.
lover
when you take your leave
let it be complete
leave no trace of the broken fragments for me to slip upon
take away every remembrance of us
until
there is no more

3.
to me
love is an unfamiliar term
I squint hard to remember when I knew it well
knew you
loved you like flesh of my own
saw the word "eternal" sketched across our love
but now
no more
no more knowing your life in beautiful detail
holding each syllable
every word
in my mind to draw upon and smile
no more sitting forehead to forehead
willing you to kiss me first
no more talking to you first thing
and last thing
finishing your sentences before you do
no more us, really
no more us.

I know that "friendship" was what we had agreed to
but this cannot be
you see, even my body remembers you
feels your palm on the small of my back
when no one is there
even my eyes remember you
see flashes of your smile on the face of another
so
no
more
I will no longer be your lover,
but I cannot be your friend

Stuff I Write: Rules of Engagement (Part 2)

Rules of Engagement: Part 2
BY Susan Baba

lover
when you take your leave
let it be complete
leave no trace of the broken fragments for me to slip upon
take away every remembrance of us
until
there is no more

Read Part 1

Stuff I Write: Rules of Engagement (Part 1)

Ok friends. I know I may sometimes sound like some googly-eyed, love idealist, but I'm not. I'm also not a depressed, heart broken chica. Yes. I have had more than my share of love, heartbreaks, and self-inflicted wounds, but I really just love writing poems about the emotion of love. Every facet of it. So, hope you enjoy my latest.

This is the first part of a three part piece I just finished. Enjoy!

Rules of Engagement: Part 1
BY Susan Baba
listen to my heart
does it sounds broken to you?
you see, a heart can only take so much pain
can only crumble into so many pieces
before it is gone.