WARNING: Vulgar language

DISCLAIMER: I have grown plenty from this post, and I have just NOW chose to make it public. I was very angry, this was written the evening my boyfriend and I broke up - exactly 3 months before our 3 yr anniversary.

Who likes relationships? Anyone? Not I. If I had wings I could fly, far enough to live on my own. Why? Because these days men are so annoyingly irritant and irritat-ing, and though some claim to be different, they end up being the same. Fucked up and lame, I love you is what they claim. Sorry to burst your bubble, LOVE IS AN ACTION, uh oh, who the fuck's in trouble? He is, why? Bc he claimed to love me, at the drop of my first tear, and when was this, '06 was the year. Coo'd and caressed my soul with his will to listen,yet now somehow love was lost, he couldn't take the heat, so I told him get the fuck outta the kitchen. His goldi locks he may be rippin', out of his head until he's drippin, with sadness and dispair, and what, do I look like I care? Like I could give a shit if he's in pain? 3 years I've been walkin' in the fuckin' rain, where's my umbr-ella ella ella ay, there's nothing else I can say, ay ay, ay ay. He got me fucked up! Grown ass woman 23 years of age, my own car, my own place don't turn the page (yet), 4 year degree from an elite UC, I didn't get all A's, but B's get degrees! 43g income - can  you hold my card, I got hella bills cuz these times are hard. No I don't have a big ego, nor do I care about WHAT I am, but WHO I am is different bc I've lost who I am... Look at me, strong and sophisticated by the naked eye, yet I'm dealin' with THIS silly bullshit, my dude makes me cry. Verbally abused I can't lie, I'm disrespected time after time, and though I've begged for him to tame his tongue in the presence of mine, he's stubborn and ill tempered and my request? Declined. Strong and sophisticated to the naked eye am I, why the FUCK do I deal with this bullshit? Why does he make me cry? :*( Mascara runs down my cheeks, and I cry into my sheets, because my pillows are soaked, tears from every yesterday - my heart is  broke. Where the fuck did our relationship go? We used to sing, and play and talk all day. Now we fight and cry and argue the night away, say "I love you" to break the silence yet I can't keep up, say it so we can go to bed, yeah, our relationship is fucked. His ears probably bleed from my voice so loud, but even me screaming, i'm still screaming in a crowd, why? Becuase he doesn't listen, he hears me yet doesn't heed, unlike the old him, the one I actually need. When a phone call was out of WANT and not obligation - to check in, not feeling threatened but out of consideration. It's all been hateration! My mind fucks with me, and my mouth fucks with him, I'm not gonna lie, it's my most utilized sin, I can't help it, I've been fucked in relationships before, my ex nigga left me for ass, and my nigga now's a bore! I can't settle the score! What should be my bliss? Would I have rather been cheated on, or bored to death with nothing less than, this... 


I'm frustrated I know, yet my mind can't continue to boil every day. Sadness does not live here, yet I think I will grant it visitation rights for now. When it rains, everyone gets wet, yet this cloud only seems to hang over my head. 3 years... of waste? I have no idea, because my soul once thought he was my half. And my mind still believes love will endure, but this? Man, where the hell did shit go wrong? And why the fuck do I feel like this? Emptied. Hallowed. Stripped.

My eyes cry because my heart can only bleed. My feet walk away  because my heart refuses to leave. My lips tremble because my heart can only beat. My head shakes (in disappointment) because my heart is so damn weak.

I'm frustrated and mad. Above all else, sad. 

I don't want it anymore.

I'm done.


More of the like - Dboy/Dgirl business

Please separate the writers from the characters - it's poetry - a form of artistry. No physical connection - simply poetry. lol. And this was written in April (or May... or march? lol)

So... lately I've had this urge to begin writing. If anyone knows me well enough, and reads my blogs, they know well and good that, yeah, DESS LOOOOOOVVVES WRITING. I'm blessed with a curse, I know. Anyhow, I haven't had the itch to write in a while, and now I've become completely restless with my life as to where I'm going with it in my young years with the lack of extracurricular activities. Ever since I've tossed the tassle I've put on the AD-ult cap and I am bored miserably with life. So... after twittering suggestions on what my next creative story should be about Danny shoots out a great idea. Furthermore, he suggests a collabo. How great right? 2 heads are ALWAYS better than one. ;) Anyway, here's a glimpse at a previous "collabo" sort of piece we did randomly back in the spring. A little call and response poetry exchanged with myself and DBoy aka TamaIrieFilms. He actually peer pressured me into responding with name calling. LoL! No hurt feelings, I'm kinda glad. I'm always up for a challenge. ;)

View his myspace page at myspace.com/samoanspikelee and follow him at twitter.com/tamairiefilms. If you haven't noticed by the url, he's an up and coming film maker - check him out. 

Me on the other hand, yeah I'm just tryin' to get back into my lyrical game. LoL. Been on the injured list too long. Typically I write really dark poems about silence, solitude, hatred and such (my outlet to keep me from being emo I guess?). LoL, I know, shocking, but it's so true. Occasionally I'll write a love poem, but, that was all when I didn't know what love was, and yearned for it. Now I know what it is... anyhow, I'm not really accustomed to the trashy romance novel poetry as to be read below, but I figured I'd give it a try since DBoy served as the gateway. Words are pretty powerful - entrancing almost.


DBOY: I awoke this morning with a smile on my face. No matter the circumstance i am blessed to have dwelled in her grace. Slightly I retrieve my arm from under her temple that I held tight throught the night. I tramped into the kitchen to fix her a breakfast meal her grandmother couldn't compete with, dressed it up real nice and served it to her with delight. She awoke from her slumber only to gaze into my eyes, I was all she wanted for breakfast; we connected, in between each other's thighs. Did we confuse love with lust? Each thrust shifts us farther from the answer until there is no answer, no question asked, only a smile on her face because she dabbled well in my grace. 

Dess: Though there had been no answer from her, she laid back basking in the nostalgic love of her First... had she taken this breakfast "love" a little too far? An event that terminated in the bedroom yet commenced in the car? My my, what a promiscuous girl she had been, caved in by the sweet tasting words of his sin, an adulterer, the scarlet letter he hid up his sleeve. She, a sideline lover? She'd soon become peeved. But, lightly, she could care less, the pleasure was sweet. Engulfed by the sugar of sin dripping from his lips, she smiled and turned to stare into the emptied abyss. Without the slightest notice of her fried eggs and ham, she did not retract her butterfly dragon thoughts of her man, a man faithful, and loyal, deserving of gold - undressed with the scorned letter of a story already told. See, this breakfast casanova was only eye candy in the distance, like the last wonka bar on the shelf she snatched him with the quickness, rustled in the car and soon became restless, moved it to the backseat and soon became helpless - overcome with the disease of lover's amnesia, love WAS confused with lust after she dosed up on the anesthesia. A night nurse, with a thirsty curse of lust, often she'd throw out her relationship built solely on trust. Steady she'd fiend for what she didn't have, not realizing she had greatness without needing to grab. Will her confusion of love and lust carry on? She attempts to unconfuse it every morning at the break(fast) of dawn. 


Like I said, i tried. LoL. I miss creative writing. 

Tryin' to get my groove back.


Dboy/Dgirl buisness

More poetry from DBOY and Dess. :)

Before you read this, I want you to know that I created some verses for dramatic effect. Please do not be too alarmed, 98% of this speaks from true insecurities, yet, with a humble heart, I gladly accept who I am.

We both speak about different conflicts... :)



Deep into my mind I wrestle, like Jacob and God, all night - I fight - I am she and it's She versus Her. She can speak volumes that reaches God's front porch, mocked and scorned by a spectator that with his gavel has already adjourned on the preconceived notion that She is... "different".

People see me and think SHE. She is different. She, talks “white”…  sounds funny and smells weird, and is sometimes odd and particular with what she says. She, is “tainted”… kissed and smothered by the sun’s rays, scorched lands of the Sahara desert would seem fitting for her origin. She, is lacking - in athletic talents that have been strongly exemplified through all 3 of her brothers, the apple does not fall too far from the tree, yet She was thrown to the waste side. She is of an unknown aesthetic make up, uncommonly identified by naive minds who are without knowledge of her kind. Are you mixed, with black? They commonly ask. She thanks them for the compliment, but no, she is not Black, Puerto Rican, Indian, Mexican, Pnay or any of the above.  She is Samoan - or is she not?

She is cut and bleeds red and white stripes, navy blue and white stars - and only the tail feathers of a bald eagle. Though she has the blood of her ancestors that reigned the Navigation Islands she is bred AMERICAN SAMOAN and is plagued with the disease of being, plastic - and because of this, she fights. She did not choose to be conceived in the mainland, yet she is grateful for parents that sought the American Dream . This double edged sword of raising children in the mainland results in a child with better opportunity, yet lacking so much in enrichment in their true culture - or was it just She? She was taught English first, a blessing and a curse. She thinks back to the lack of ability her father had to communicate in the military when he joined 30 years ago. Straight from the rock, he read lips and followed the leader with commands - dare he have his children follow the same suit when their time comes? Hell no he replied, and thus he kept She from it. "No Samoan spoken in this home" he claimed, and the rule reigned over all 4 of his offspring. She's thankful for his protection and guidance, but still carries the burden alongside with her father, knowing that She is still, without. 

She doesn’t fully understand the fa’alavelave. Perplexed in the mind, she questions the exchange of monetary gifts she helped present. She cannot sulu an i’e. Fe’aus await her hands for service yet they are too busy trying to keep her lavalava from falling.  She cannot read the Tusi Paia without a snicker or snare and I'm not talking candy and drums. Trembling lips fail to pronounce the long "A" on tam'a - she turned Father into a boy - and she is pierced with the glare of an elder woman that questions, "You don't know Samoan?". The language of her ancestors. She hangs her head low and she replies with a faint "no".

She vs HER.

She wishes she were Her, the Teine Samoa who was raised with the birthright of her sisters bred from the fresh soils of an island paradise. Her who is able to carry the si'i and bow at the right time and angle to present a love offering to God's chosen messenger. Her who can grace the stage with an awe-struck presence of purity and beauty to represent her aiga with the headpiece of a princess and the title, Taupou. Her who can communicate with without tugging on her mother's i'e for a translation. She struggles to be her.

I am She, and She is me, but I so long to be Her.

I've wished on every star in the sky to be pleasantly presented in the eyes of my people, yet my lack of confidence and eagerness to portray only finds me disappointed and flustered with the outcome. I'm not without knowledge of my kind, I'm just born into the new age generation of being American Samoan. I am not as strong physically as the teines and tamas that labor in the simplicity of life of the cultivated fields in Samoa. Yet I am strong mentally like those that refused to labor at the commands of the Germans during the colonization of Samoa. I am not talented with the athleticism to carry a winning team to the 'ship of a volleyball match or a football game. Yet, I have sophisticated my talent to write that can carry minds far beyond the courts of our Maker.
The final round in this battle with She and Her is tapped out by Me. Overwhelmed with frustration, wisdom overcomes. I realize that, as She fights to be Her, She bruises the essence of not Her or She... no one else, but Me.


DBOYYYYY... show 'em what you workin' with!
(I am a prisioner on the inside, as well as the outside) I can paint a piccasso of the courage it must take one to live the life they want to live; you see me, that is not quite what I did. Instead of facing ridicule and humiliation from those held immensley close to my heart, I live the life more suitable on the outside. But inside I'm in prision doin life for not snitchin, on myself. Surely my cell gets conjested causing little signs of truth to seep out of open crevices'. Shawshank redemption is near but the consequences of escaping I am not able to inflict upon my wounded soul. Wounded & Conflicted by culture, religion, tradition, and expectations, my mind and my heart duel for righteousness. Despite exhaustion, Insomnia forces me to play out the screenplay of my imagination, the very script I long to live. I become engulfed with the protagonist, bringing the character to life. Critics are spellbound by my performance referring to it as a delightful tour-de-force. However, the only 1 critiquing me, is me. No 1 has inspired me with true friendship to allow so close, even those few who have heard the truth uttered from my speech. Fatigue of a facade leaves me in despair. Enabling the prisioner to become intoxicated with power over me. Consider this his playtime on the field. Rebellious toward me for my actions, he creates havoc within my conscience indulging in his vices creating emotional bliss for him to weaken my decision. Fucked up way to live, I'm sure. But to loose those who love me would be unbearable. So do I live the life I want? Or do I live the life I know? I know, I know, its my life, I should live it and be comfortable in my skin. The walls I built to keep my prisioner inside are roaring. The echo increases with every thrust. You can't keep the innoncent caged up forever. The inmate chained to my soul can no longer remain destitude. Slowly and securley I feed his thirst. But what will come of it? Truth? I and I can't handle it. But like the sun, the truth always rises, and my prisioners one wish is to live where the sun always shines.