This xanthous little xacuti was Typewriter Series #982.  Here’s me reading it to you.  That rhymed.  Also, big news…a lot of you have asked that I make little albums of these spoken word audio poems available for download and purchase.  So, I did just that.  Head to for instructions on how to purchase the first ever Audio Series #1!

This first offering is an “album” of sorts, 11 mp3 tracks of spoken words poems, zipped up and ready to be downloaded and listened to wherever you wish.  If you like this, I will keep going on them every so often.  Thank you.  All of you, for all of your endless support, always.  You help me live a creative life, and make all the time and energy I put into these silly words of mine worth it for so many reasons.  Hope you enjoy!

It’s always who you least expect
I met mine on a dating app
The sort of place I always swore
I would never find love in
And I would always tell myself
That I would date someone like me
Someone quiet and a little boring
An introverted type of person


I don’t remember why I clicked ‘yes’
He wasn’t even a girl
I had wanted a girlfriend
We didn’t end up talking for over a week
His little message popped up
And I had no desire whatsoever to speak
I re-read his profile: “roller derby, vodka”
What a charmer, I thought, this will go nowhere
He surprised me straight away
He likes to read
He even managed to hold a conversation
And not once seemed bored of me


It’s been over a month
I’m already in love
It’s cliché but how could I not
When he literally emits sunshine
Through the sound of his laugh
And has eyes that remind me of bottle glass
He’s ten times louder than me
And spontaneous and impulsive
Though we are similar we are opposites

It’s always who you least expect
They aren’t shiny and new
Like you imagined in your head
I wouldn’t have him any other way
Especially since he decided to stay
And I’m glad he came along
Because he taught me to love again

major key alert.

let go of the expectation
that this could become
than a quick fuck or
a quick fix or
a something to talk about
with the girls
on one of those retreat ass sleepovers.

you do not have to walk into this.
you do not have to accept
his half-smile.

you can run.
you can run far away
until your chest is pained
and your legs are a burning forest.

until you cannot hear
him shrieking into the night of your text messages…

until you cannot read WYD
and other wack shit niggas text when nothing
but legs are wide open.

until you cannot feel his shadow
creeping over your heart–
hungry for fuckery.

until you are nowhere
you can recognize.
until you are nowhere comfortable.

until you are nowhere,
with no one
and you feel your lonely
holding the back of your neck
like a casket…

it will be hard…at first.
but you will be safe.
you will still have you.

i know it’s been a while since you had you.
you may have forgotten what it feels like.

i want you to want…to remember.

i want you to remember love.

C. 2016 Rashawna Wilson

"People Like Me Don't Get Married"

In the beginning, I felt as if I could die in your arms.
You were withholding more than truth
and something from before, to have any
space or room for me— eventually I felt as
if I were dying for your attention.
It’s easier to put it that way and into
words that spark more imagery than our sex;
it’s casual and actually the truth—

So sick of making excuses of why
I only see you after five and on the weekends.
The silent acceptance of being mediocre
and why the sex remembers me of high school.
Pouring myself over you and
soft, little things you do— keep me pressed
into a woman too far gone to come back.

“For you I was a flame” and a dark matter
that complimented more than Starry Nights
and the pointillism we thought were the
dots to connect— but we completely missed it.
Overlooking the picture for the details.
I know it’s profound to say you were never mine
or courted the idea— it’s all the bigger picture.

It’s never safe to be yourself, even in these
progressive times with progressive values.
You’re never alone with honesty or another’s.
There’s another shoe waiting to drop—
so you, or they, can hit the ground running.
Before it becomes unbearable— take what’s yours
and reference it all as the past, or your art.

Tell the new women you meant better and wanted to do so, but the details got in the way.
Poetically speak on falling asleep in their arms
and how scared you were, when they were still
there after a few hours of sleep and fantasies,
and walking away from the greatest chance of
having a better picture of happiness.

It’s a shadow that only lovers see and reference
when you can’t seem to compliment your own
contentment, with the woman you’ve ached for.
You’ve longed for, or at least— have waited in
museums and galleries, to compare our sex to,
and why their clean lines and use of cool colors
contradicts their sunset rising, even now.

Lovers aren’t artists— or at the same time.
That’s a distinction not meant for pastels.
Weak as gnats and stronger than holding
onto the idea of her, more than a good time.
There are galleries and museums for that—
but I’m not for display or apart of that approach.
I want something deeper than the bigger picture.

lowering our voices
already husky from the night
when we’ve both had only
about two hours of sleep
in phone calls laced with
trust and light
help me out I called
you responded in kind
the very first morning in which
I didn’t drown
in the swamp that is now my bed
I reached out and
a hand reached back
together while the sun rose
we shared it all
across the expanse of our state
whispering into each other’s ears
and it felt like you were lying next to me
bodies never needing to be touching
but the closest
we’ve ever been
it was such a sweet relief to find you
our words graced with gold
the realisation of all things
breathing new life
into old bones
we’re so tired
so forlorn
but eyes ablaze with triumph
and on and on we go
battered and bruised
but together through it all
thank you

I was a stray boy who thought he knew love when he felt a tiny bit of admiration for that abandoned girl that showed her bones rather than words, skin instead of lies and revealed herself.
Then You came along, pulled me up from the depth of my own hell and sucked away the darkness that was boiling inside my overly guarded heart.
Made sure that when I look at the stars, I see wishes and dreams rather than lost souls over the horizon. That I see the gaze of that full moon as a sign of a glowing angel, so huge that our earth can’t hold.
You tried your best to let me know, that the sun is there as a constant reminder of better days to come, That the sea is there to wash away our sadness and That LOVE isn’t just a feeling of being overly attached.
You taught me, and I learned, learned that the whole concept of falling in love isn’t something to hate if you fall for the right person, I learned that falling doesn’t have to be harsh or frustrating, I learned that giving a piece of yourself to someone else makes you whole sometimes.
But most importantly I realized, that poetry doesn’t have to be sad, when you came along.
—  When she came along
Sometimes, when I use my mother tongue, I can still hear the colonizers speaking for me.

FROM THE VAULT: Chrysanthemum Tran - “Cognates” (WOWPS 2016)

Performing at the 2016 Women of the World Poetry Slam. Chrysanthemum placed 12th overall in the tournament. HELP SUPPORT BUTTON POETRY.

you have to fall in love with the things around you because when its 3am and you’re up crying alone, giving up all hope. sometimes the only thing that’s gonna keep you here is the stars. and that is enough.
—  you don’t always need a grand reason to stay, let the small things be enough.

introducing my official new favorite social media website ♥

it’s just a really chill community to post poetry, stories, prose, etc in a really visually and aesthetically appealing way :)

whether you wanna post rants or use it as a diary or short stories it’s pretty much designed for anything!!

follow me @lexi (yeah thats right, you can get a really good username right now because theyre almost all open) and share your stuff with me!!

[website link]


“Equality is a fairy tale you tell your children at night before you build walls in your sleep to keep out anyone that doesn’t look like you.” (x)

psychic: *reads my mind*
me: This piece💩 is entitled “The Same Parts"🍆🍑 People👫🏽👭👬🏽 at the party🎉 and I’m wanting to dance💃🏽. Other ugly-ass bitches🐶 ain’t standing no chance❌. Dudes👴🏽🎅🏽 looking at me💁🏽 like they want to get in my pants👖. Come on, bitch, see me👀👁 with ‘em hands👐👌. His back on the wall. My ass🍑 on his hUMP! Grinding for a second🕐🕑. His stuff’s getting thick🍆😱. He doesn’t know it😏, but I’m getting firm too😂😉. His boys🤵 really need to know before calling me boo👧🏽👻. Because what you see👀👁 isn’t always the truth🤞. Because, baby👶🏽 boy👦🏽, I’ve got all the same parts that you do.🍆🍌😱
psychic: what the fuck

kurt cobain in his suicide note wrote, “it’s better to burn out than to fade away.” and the more i think about it, the more it strikes me. would you rather slowly lose your light? like you’re the night sky slowly losing its darkness as the morning comes around for the sun to steal away all of your brightness or would you rather be a wild fire taking over the forest and slowly being put out?
—  to burn or fade away

he says he’s dying and i want to hold him to me, not out of some sort of sick fantasy where i save him but because he’s a part of me, because our scars match each other’s escape hatch dreams. he looks at me and smiles when he’s telling me he’s sad because he doesn’t know how not to make a joke out of everything because he lives in a chokehold and if you imagine the noose a necktie you might make it out alive.

what i’m saying is that recovery is less of an island and more like a bright spot in your imagination that isn’t a speeding train but rather a fluctuating plane so i know

i know that your fingers burn from holding the rope and that tomorrow feels like hands coming up around your throat

but believe. the dawn always brings us closer to the day we shed our fake friends and move out of this town and learn to love ourselves wildly. pretend like we’re ghosts if it means the punches go through us so long as the hole seals up we’re good. what i’m saying is live. if in the marketplace you feel your heart race because cereal reminded you that you’re broke and hopeless, it’s okay. break down on the side of the road or in your class or staring out your living room window. the good news is that someone out there is a mechanic and no you’re not an object but i promise you’ll meet someone who’s gone through what you did. i know because i am one of them.

what i’m saying is that recovery isn’t a destination, you’re not either out in the ocean or safe on land, it’s a choice to keep swimming even when you’re sure you’d rather be drowning. what i’m saying is that it’s not a linear equation, it doesn’t resolve itself quietly but rather spirals out, sometimes into infinity. the good news is that you get stronger the more you keep trying, the more you make choices between living and dying, the more you take steps not away from a bad past but towards knowing that bad past is behind you. it stays a part of you. and that’s okay. it’s good to remember the smell of the grave because one day you’ll be outside in the rain and you’ll realize that you only envied the dirt because it was sleeping, that some part of you really does enjoy breathing, that if you stay

it’s messy and it’s exciting and sometimes it hurts more than poets can say

but if you stay

one day you wake up and maybe it’s not great but it’s finally okay.

Will I have black skin in heaven?
Will my nose be this wide?
My mother doesn’t have an answer.
She rocks me to sleep with slave songs
passed down through the pulpit,
and when I am baptized
there is blood in the water.
I never find God in a white cathedral,
but I always smell Jesus in the sidewalk cracks
when white boys shove me down.
Jesus, too,
must have breathed dust.
Forty acres and a mule, says my father.
Forty lashes for a fool, says my mother.
In church camp, I am taught gospel songs
and then rain dances,
for the days when God takes too long to answer.
Some days God is called Olukun
or Agayu.
The gods all share a table.
Black is power, says the pastor.
My mother has black diamond skin,
but my father’s is pale, like an empty raincloud,
so I fall somewhere in between.
When my mother says I would’ve been a house slave
while she toiled in the field,
I can’t tell which one of us she’s ashamed of.
Black is power, says the pastor again,
and plays Amazing Grace.
I’ve learned to make music
from goatskin drums and broken bones.
I wonder if I’ll be black in heaven.
My mother doesn’t have an answer.
But it would be a shame if
I’ve spent a lifetime learning to survive in this skin
just to have Him take it away.
—  Will I Be Black in Heaven?