By © N.M. Leepsa, 2018
After Frank O’Hara /Roger Reeves/Ocean Vuong/ Haley Mitchell
Category: Spoken Word Poetry

Leepsa, you can reach the sky,
And shine like a star,
The path looks long, but it’s not too far.
Do believe. Your willpower is your ticket to reach your destination.
The train has already left.
Each station brings new experiences, not the crowd of hurdles.

Another Note to God

I cry and break down a lot
I lie and say I'm okay when I'm really not
I reminisce and look at my wrist at all the scars I've got
When you took my mother at 10 months the heartache started
God bless the souls of ALL the dearly departed
Please tell me is my child up there?
You taking her still doesn't seem fair
I get depressed and won't come out for days
God forgive me for my vengeful ways
Daddy beat me I blamed myself
The pills and therapy, I tried to get some help
Ended putting my heart back on the shelf

Life after R*pe

Men make me sick
I almost wish they didn't exist
Who could ever predict?
A tragedy such as this
In my own home
While alone
Tears soak the same pillow where he once laid his head
Everyday I am forced to sleep in the same damn bed
Where I once drew blood of my attacker
Why did I shower later after?
So the only evidence they had were my clothes and his blood on my sheets
He was released after a few weeks
I found out the news and tears watered my cheeks


“It’s your body's’ way of protecting you.”
I was told
as I felt the singeing handprint of my mother burn into my thigh.
It’s my body’s way of protecting me.
I remind myself
as I feel his hands all over me
in the middle of the night
when i can only think about the yellow street light
that filtered in
and cascaded over his large frame
like water pouring unexpectedly
from the sky.
“It’s my body’s way of protecting me.”
I explain to the one person who can touch me


whiskey lips
peach wine tongue
pink nails dragging
hard muscle
long deep sigh
breathe in
breathe out
language all our own
pure pleasure
one final kiss

Of sweets and Paris...

I remember Paris, Oh! So well,
went there so many times as a child,
 the gabled windows at Montmartre,
and the Seine’s whispers mild.
The Pont du Alexander in grandeur,
and the blinking Eiffel lights,
Champs Elysees taking my breath,
and merry laughter by the nights.
Notre Dame of Hugo’s Hunchback,
the signs of intellectual ferment,
the story of fall of the Bastille,
still evoke my childhood dormant...

Things were great

I stopped listening to music the same way
I could only find sadness in songs
Even in the happy ones.
It had been this way about 2 years
Then one day
You took my hand
I used to love being alone.
I used to take care of everything on my own.
Things were great.
Things were good.
I used to love being in my room
Watching a movie
Listening to a song
And sing along
Things were great.
Things were good.
In my darkest moments
I would crawl in my bed
Listening to music

Creation of the Golem

He floats toward me
like debris from a Shreveport wreck,
and in a last ditch effort to ban his jetsam
from washing up on my shore and decomposing
on freshly clean sheets,
I create a profile before god and country,
list six things I could never do without,
six things I don’t know what to do with,
tap my keyboard three times and post selfies,
bait to catch the wandering eye
and the charms of a local Lothario,
a blitz flirtation that leaves me watching
Netflix on most weekends, stuffing my face


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