Quixotic

In 1997, my 19-year-old brother Joel Joash was murdered in Virginia. This event would turn my family upside down and cause a lifelong battle with grief and heartache. The night he died is etched into the fabric of who I am today. Meaning, that event forever altered who I am in this lifetime. My brother was selling drugs.  My  mother—with all her best efforts couldn’t get him to stop selling drugs. The night he died, he had a confrontation with another drug dealer that would lead to his shooting death. I don’t want to re-live the facts as they are from that night. They cause too much trauma. I want to focus on how I have made it through the pain all these years later. I was 21 when he died, old enough to understand how the justice system failed us, how my brothers unlawful behavior contributed to his own death.   In the beginning of the grief process, all I could do was cry, probably through the first year after. I couldn’t talk about what happened to him, I couldn’t look at his pic

It was Memorial Day weekend 2017. We had gone to church, myself, Leah, and another couple Leah is friends with. Then we decided to have a backyard BBQ. I was on the grill, others were in the kitchen preparing things and we all were drinking.  The day turned into night, and we were all extremely drunk. I decided that I would perform some spoken word, well that turned left real quick, my poetry soured the mood, I remember most of it was erotic and a bit personal—but hey it’s my poetry. So then an argument ensues. Everyone needs a timeout. I kicked the couple out; and Leah decides she was going to leave with them.  Not to mention one of Leah’s friends present was openly flirting with me..So I remember being pissed off about the whole scenario.  Leah and I talk the next day and I want to be done—I am done. I tell her I’m having problems with being gay, questioning my faith and the argument from the night before just underscored my need for change. She doesn’t take it well, she expla

When the twisted winds of pain Push me down to Valleys low, I cry Power tears And Pray Power prayers I stand bare hands open After years of holding children’s small hands And locking hands with members of my church Clasped hands span over decades Now holding hands of adult children Soon to be my grey hands Problems gone I released those sorrows into the Master’s hands Because trouble don’t last always