Erica Thurman - Life Behind The Veil

Until Next Time

Erica — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 15:31:06 +0000

A few days ago, I told you all that I was taking a break from the blog. As you can see, I then changed my mind and posted a few more times. Since then I realized that I really do need to take a break. I have a lot to process right now and I can’t write about it so I find myself rambling and producing work that I’m not very happy with. Contrary to popular belief, I am human and even though it seems that I always have everything together, I deal with the same human experiences as everyone else. Right now, I need to take care of me. So I’m taking a hiatus. For real. The plan is to return no sooner than August. Until then, I hope you all will stay with me and maybe take this time to catch up on all of the older posts from Season 1 and Season 2. Thanks so much to those of you who take time to read and comment. Hope to see you all when I return.

erica

…

Erica — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 16:08:42 +0000

Feet hitting pavement it’s just me and whatever my tunes shuffles into my ear gate. Everything else can wait. This is me time. The rhymes match my stride perfectly. Not running from anything. I’m just running back to me. Back to where I need to be. Before confusing actions posed distractions upon an already complicated existence. Resistance present only in the tension between rubber and concrete. How sweet the sound of my own breath and with every step I get closer…to me.

Let’s Talk About…

Erica — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 13:21:35 +0000

Natalee?

She’s dead

So why don’t we focus on the dying living

Instead

Let’s talk about

Zombies

Down on California Street

Where hearts still beat

Underneath

Concrete coffins called cells

Alive and, well

Somehow they remain buried

While the rest of us hurry

Forget that these dying men have faces

Let’s face it

Jon Benet?

She’s dead

So why don’t we focus on the dying living instead

Let’s talk about

Specters

Down on Halstead street

Where brown babies are sleeping

Beaten

Trampled

By media dirt

There is no Amber Alert

For our children

Let’s face it

Laci and Stacy?

They’re dead

So why don’t we focus on the dying living

Instead

Let’s talk about

Ghosts

Down on 79^th Street

Little girls whose bodies still reek

From the deadly stench

Of grown men

Who’ve been inside of them

Preying on lack of self esteem and then

Emotionally

Killing them

Decaying shells of the souls within

But only blonde hair is worthy of CNN

Brown skin

Is still foreign in this country

An entire people deceased

With each news release

Denying their existence

Despite their insistence

To feel alive again

Why keep talking about the dead?

Instead

Let’s talk about the dying living

What Daylight Brings

Erica — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 03:10:17 +0000

She’ll shoulder the world because that’s what people expect her to do

Through it all she’ll smile bravely

Gravely weigh the days concerns by how far her shoulders slump

Still, those around her will dump their problems at her door

As if more of that is what she needs

And she won’t heed her own advice

She’ll simply pick up the extra weight

Since she can’t wait on anyone else to do it

Through it all she’ll smile bravely

Waist deep in emotions she has to bury

Worry has become her constant companion these days

And come what may

She knows the world depends on her

So she’ll put on her best face

With all the grace of a woman who needs no credit

Because she knows that each night might make things easier

Day dreams bring temporary ease to her pain

And if it’s all the same she’d rather not sleep anyway

On any given day

Her eyes will tell you

Her load is heavy

Still she’ll get up each day ready

To take on the world

That resides on her shoulders

Poetry Eludes Me

Erica — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 19:59:38 +0000

These are the times when Poetry just won’t come to me and I’ll wonder if she ever really loved me…at all. I’ll stall thinking she just needs more time. Her rhyme demands space that I can’t give. She knows I can’t live…without her. So she’ll make me chase her and all attempts to replace her will remind me that she was made just for me. I’d gladly give a rib if it means she’ll never leave again. Even then she won’t feel like I’ve given enough. She’ll call my bluff and demand I give my heart to her and though I typically place it on my sleeve, it feels so much better in her hands. She is…all that I am. Still, she escapes me. Traces me with lyrical outlines often left unfinished. She remains unblemished in my eyes. Blue skies created in her image are all that comfort me. If only she would come to me…Poetry