Hi Everyone,

If you didn't get the poem I'm reading for Pan African, here it is.            

   TALKING TO MYSELF

I really don’t know why I cry

Invisible tears stopping by

I want to hide

I want to die

And I still don’t know why

I’m secretly talking to myself

Maybe I should tell my neighbor, Miss Jones

That when I wave to her, I think—this could be my last day

Oh, I have to get up out of this bed

But instead, I snuggle deeper under the covers

Far away from this ugly world I’m trying not to discover

What’s happening in my head—as I talk to myself-

I would have gotten up already

But my body just won’t move

I’m glued

Now if I tell my neighbor I need to go to a shrink

You know what she’ll think

That I’m crazy—as I talk to myself

Well, I just don’t feel like walking into that strange white place

To the smell of pity and rejection in my face

Where some man in white is going to tell me, without affection, that I’m not well

You see, he doesn’t know the protection of my bed

That I lost my job and Eric’s dead

He doesn’t know my bills stand a full foot tall,

And I won’t tell him at all--that dirty clothes are scattered all down the hall.

That my rent’s due

And I fell like I’ve got the flu

Now I know I should get up and cook

But all I got—is a pot of meatless stew?

What am I gonna do?

Oh, I’ve got to get out of this bed and stop talking to myself

But see, the last time I tried, my brakes went out

And I lost my grip

Then Tress pointed out those old mattress strewed all over the streets

Some Drive-by shot Phil’s little boy--like it some kind of joy

While the drug dealer was walking the beat

And this old building’s crumbling under defeat

Oh, I’m still talking to myself

 I’m talking to myself now about making me a strong decision,

No more hopeless tears to wet my pillow—no more derision…uh, huh.

I’m placing one foot on that angry, cold floor

Already I’m moving toward the whitewashed door

Humm.  It can’t be all bad

Not if someone can tell me what’s happening in my head…

Can save me from talking to myself and wishing I was dead.

‘Cause LIFE IS ABOUT THE LIVING!

This poem is written to eliminate the stigma that studies have shown Black people to have about mental depression. This poem was written to encourage AFrican Americans to seek professional and/or spiritual help.

I will be performing it on Friday night.  If you're in town, come by the Pan African Film Festival.  If you need directions, just e-mail me. If you're not in town, please pass it along to anyone you know who might need a nudge to get  help for depression.

God bless you today.

Martha Tucker

http://www.urbanclassicbooks.com

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