Lost & Found

It was too long ago to even remember what I had done, that caused me to have to stare aimlessly at the dried noodles stuck to the multi-colored construction paper hanging from the ceiling. Left with only the thoughts of what I was going to do after I was released from the classroom turned timeout corner, I sat there. I sat there until the class came back—until the last kid got nice and comfortable in his seat. I sat there until the teacher started to resume the lesson she had probably prepared the night or a week before. I waited until everyone had forgotten that they had went to recess with out me, and thats when I made my exit to the playground. I had somehow decided that since I was robbed of my recess, I would rob them of my presence during class. Without giving it a second thought, I swung on the monkey bars, and the swings. I played on the merry-go-round. I ran, and jumped in dead silence. This was new to me. I had never been on a playground where the presence of other kids didn’t exist. But still, it wasn’t about the play. It was about the fact that my teacher thought she could rob me, Teneisha Ta’shae Franklin, of having fun! Yes, my father was in the military, and yes my mother was as meanest mama I knew. Frankly, she scared the shit out of me. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to receive an ass whoppin’. I gladly accepted it, and continued to play in silence.

With the exception of my mother and father, I was the master of my universe. Despite the fact that when I was born my legs bowed so badly, I was prescribed braces to straighten them. It never deterred me. As a nine year old girl, I was fearless. I ran fast, jumped high and spoke loudly. I was confident, bold and daring. I danced, and I laughed with ease. I loved who I was, and never gave a second thought to who I would become.

Somewhere down the line—through the transition of puberty, adolescence, self-esteem, boyfriends, and womanhood—I lost myself. I was no longer that daring child I used to be. The once loud voice had been turned down almost to the point of silence. My speed had crept to a saunter and my confidence had dissipated. What had happened to me, is what I would assume happens to most people—life. But instead of moving on, it scared me enough to run, hide, and barricade myself, inside of myself. Leaving the potency of who I was trapped and unable to escape. I lost myself and lost sight of my own value. Essentially, my fight was gone, and I had died.

My state of being rested far from that which I had grown up with. I come from a family of women—at the top of the family tree were grand aunts, the HNIC’s—who had an abounding love for themselves. Dark skin, big-boned women flourished in our family—the anti-commercialism of the black woman—Gaps, gold teeth, flashy clothes, long, sharp colorful nails, coupled with slick tongues and foul language. And when they all came together they laughed with such guffaw. Ask any seven of them and they would proudly tell you, with their eyes lowered and their necks wound ready to roll, that they were the finest, sexiest beings on the planet earth. Looking at the shell of the person that I was, It was hard to believe that I somehow descended from this group of women.

Once I had lost sight of who I was, it took me too many years to get that sense of self worth back. To do that, I had to pull out boxes and boxes of shit I just didn’t need. I dug through boxes that still had grudges in them. I had a box that had that bad relationship straight out of high school, and that horrifically depressing pregnancy that lead me to have to fight single parenthood as if it were the cancer of my life. That box with anger, unforgiveness, and brick walls…that shit had to go. The sadder I became, the more these things were like anchors to my soul and in my life. So, what did I do? I followed Jay-Z’s advice. I built a bridge and I got over it. It was only after I had done so, was I able to begin to travel the road that would eventually lead me to reclaim what I had lost.

Looking for yourself is no easy feat—battles must take place inside the mind for sure. It’s like that old philosophical question: How does something as small as the mind control something as big as the body? Shit, I still don’t know the answer to that question—It’s kind of like putting Humpty Dumpty back together again. Sometimes you only have to walk a couple of feet to find the next piece, sometime you have to walk several miles, and sometimes you may never find it again. Its just gone. Thankfully, so far, I’ve found the laughter and joy she used to give me.


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Posted by on August 7, 2012 in Memoirs


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Lightening Discourse

I’ve been searching for you since 12.

Before I knew what you were, or, could do.

I’d lay in my bed and imagine.

My joy shocked with new life.

Arrows fly with intent. Careful not to bend.

A clean miss.

My thoughts hidden, with you in a realm of love


Once a crush now in full bloom.

We met, a time or two. Probably too long for you to remember I had once given you everything; time, energy happiness…It wasn’t enough

Thunderclouds form over our heads

We split. Two highways leading in different directions.

Never stop believing. We will meet again. Then, we will be ready.

After all these years

My heart still aches at your.

There, nothing has changed.

Thoughts keep my spirits new.

One more time.

Will you let me?

Bury my face in your chest?

Hide me from the stresses of the world?

Let me slide my cheeks over your warm skin.

While I listen to you tell me stories about the lightening that rises and falls from the sky

Feed my mind with your thoughts about nothing, but something

That is everything.

This, is happy, This is home.

Hold me tight.

Before you leave again.


Posted by on March 15, 2015 in Memoirs


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The Missing Piece

If I had to be honest, I would probably die alone. Though I am sure many have endured harsher things in life, I ask, is there anything worst than experiencing life with the absence of love? With the absence of a companion. Denied the opportunity to give up and receive every bit of energy you own, physically and mentally. To roam this earth alone, unattached and then die with an empty heart, is not just a fear of mine, its one of saddest fears I have ever encountered.

A slow, silent death, one of the most torturous kinds. To know more about the darkness than the light. Craving the sun. Light fades from the skin.

Quicken my spirit. It matters not where the touch comes from as long as it isn’t a figment of my imagination. Even patience in this fictitious realm grows weary of recycling the same thoughts.

Love was better than this. It was supposed to be happier, frequent, easier. Can’t get right… Marriage proposals flying off shelves like free two for ones at the local chicken and waffle joint.stars

Big and boned, hand in hand,

hopscotching in the spring.

A bird met a bee.

A frog became a king.

I asked the keeper of destinies if these things were anywhere in the cards for me. He’s still looking. I don’t even know if He brought the right deck. SMH. My patience has melted into a thin layer of penetrable ice. More sad thoughts, more pressure, leaking faucets spiral out of control.

Favor and its reciprocal are obviously operating on separate wavelengths. Did I read it wrong? Is the answer in braille? I gaze at the stars, watching the positioning of my feet, checking for the great big white X, or maybe it’s big red button. Hoping my blessing will bust through the atmosphere like Superman and fall from the sky in meteor-like fashion. I will so wait.

But for how long?

I hear the universe has the ability to conspire. Will it ever agree to a tangible happiness? Will it agree to time? Time to love, laugh, kiss, and lay? Will it agree to make me forget the decade of dead years? Will laughter smother the tears causing me to forget? If  time won’t turn back, perhaps it will agree to stand still. Just until… Then let it begin again. Complaint won’t kiss these lips. But gratitude will gladly lick them. 


Posted by on March 9, 2015 in Creative Writing



It seems like love is the only thing I ever talk about. As if I know nothing else. As IF, my mind isn’t filled with growing storms, and flooding problems of hurt anger and disappointment. As if at the very moment I try to solidify my presence in this world, the floors beneath my feet aren’t crumbling. I have so much more to do than worry about you. Nevertheless it is always there, knocking. Finding new ways to introduce itself; finding new names to call itself. Silly me. I reciprocate by doing my best to hold it somehow; in my mind and heart, and if I could, in my hands. I fear my fingers to this keyboard is the closest I will ever get to it.

I don’t know why I talk about it so much. Is it because it is so hard for me to come by? Am I repellant of love? True joy–without love. Will I ever really know it? How it looks. Like the sun and the moon, it comes, and it goes, but it never stays. It never lingers long around me. I wonder why that is. So, i’ve finally stopped counting the number of time I have asked why? Why is it that some people get to experience a lifetime of love and others linger in solace. I heard somewhere just recently––I think it was a commercial––that we as people are not meant to be alone. For years I have dwelled in silence, alone, and untouched on a continuos basis. You know who else is untouched in this world? Prisoners.

Love is an anomaly. The act, the people, the feeling…that is probably the reason it intrigues me so. We are at war love and I. I think it started when I was around 16 years old. Not sure which of us started it…that is just what it is, and what it has always been, and looks like gonna be. An incessant battle I continue to lose. The fact that we are fighting doesn’t stop me from admiring its qualities.

I pray that either I find it, or my heart gives up and gives out. In a case like this, aspirin, or cough syrup won’t relieve the aching heart trapped in my chest. I never want to feel again. I lie in this bed, surrounded by an air of pain, and hopelessness pleading a heart vasectomy. I have grown weak and tired from asking, and wondering. Rip the tubes of emotions from me. Find me a new purpose. A new matter to obsess over. I am sick of talking about it, yet and still, it is the only thing that feeds me joy and pain in the same stream.

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Posted by on October 14, 2014 in Creative Writing


Month 2



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Posted by on October 13, 2014 in Memoirs


Silly me

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Posted by on September 16, 2014 in Memoirs



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Posted by on September 15, 2014 in Memoirs


Locking week 2 (selfie)

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Posted by on September 9, 2014 in Memoirs


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