Mind Boggling...HerStory

Sometimes looking through my old poetry, its hard because it takes me back to the time of when I wrote the poem. The emotions of that time return, and I become handicap in that moment. Tonight I came across, Helpless. March 17, 2005 was a hard day. It was St. Patrick's day, whoever knew a day so lucky could become so unlucky. (I guess I'm not Irish though). HELPLESS Helpless. What could I do? Nothing, but think how cruel, She’s only eleven, Still barely a baby As she cries and cry, And I lie and lie, How is she doing? She is doing okay is what I reply, Helpless. What could I do? Nothing, but wish her pain would quit, Constant pain, bones split, Helpless. Left to watch her cry, As she look to me for aid, I look at her in shame, Because there is nothing I can do, I am left helpless. Helpless Kristyna Cochran

City’s finest Made to protect and serve, But all I see is tears and hurt, Weather its blue or black, The uniform either cause us To run or to attack, Not to run because we are afraid, But because we feel less protected, And more violated, Singled out as a suspect rather than victim, But who’s the victim, When they take their stick and beat him, Use their pepper spray as if it is air freshener, Spraying it on us as if we smell like rotten cheddar, Their gun used as a play toy; the dartboard, And we’re the bull’s-eye, Ignoring our cries, though at one time, We all had the same cries, They were once us, Once in our position, Now that they are in such a “higher” position, It changes their perspective, Trying to impress his white friends, So, he beats down the black man, Psychically and emotionally until he becomes unconscious To the ways of the badge, Everyone meet your city’s finest.

Tip of the tongue It never sat will with me how one can converse, Let alone enter a relationship, with an individual, Who allowed anything but the truth jump off his tongue, The most powerful entity, The brain knows what the tongue don’t, The tongue says what the brain won’t, Resonating more pain than a hundred pistols, Killing more souls than missiles, Piercing hearts as these negative terms rips it apart, Just words, just words, That’s absurd, No, it’s the last thing you heard, The first thing you hear as you exit your mother’s uterus, Words mean more than pineapple upside down cake on Christmas, More than hearing I love you for the first time, And wondering if he meant it Those sticks, those stones that hurt your bones, Is the effect of the repeated usage of words that beat you down mentally, Until you subconsciously become that word, and beat him down physically, A cycle that won’t stop until you cease to allow word

I am who I say I am I am me I am whatever I say I can be I am what my naysayers and doubters Say I am not, I Cannot will not arrive in my thoughts, I say I can, and I try, Make an attempt, giving one-hundred percent, Must not stop, I must persist I done this for me Affirmation from others there is no need I have faith, I believe, I am who I say I am I am me. I Am Who I Say I Am Kristyna Cochran

            As I ponder on my future husband. I wonder what he would look like. What nationality would he be? Of course I have a predetermined notion of what he looks like, like all women or men that imagine their perfect partner. I imagine him to be tall, but of course everyone is taller than me, yet taller than the average male. I also enjoy a man with hair; dreads, braids, ponytail, or just out hanging, it all appeals to me. Outside of being tall and having hair my preferences are open from there, though I guess lack of odor (smells nice), and dresses nice is a given, however I do not discriminate in terms of race, cultural backgrounds, or other factors. Well I do forsake that he be goal-oriented, a spiritual man, and driven. Though I may have my predetermined beliefs of what I believe of man to be to me, only God knows who he has for me.             I have always thought of myself as a traditional person with traditional values. I have always wanted to wait until I was married t