the one for me: live.

an autobiographical account of my relationships - representing my half of several combined truths. in reciting this poem, it is not my  intention to villainize any of my exes. nor myself. these things just happened. besides, to quote the deliciously awesome anne lamott, "if people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better."

The one for me…

The first one was a dealer.

I guess cause Nino Brown was in -

I ain’t pay much attention to what happened at the end

Cause I wanted the things that only money could deliver

So I sold my soul to the lowest bidder

Plus thought nobody would mess with me

As if my name was Keisha from that same city

But the reality is

We had little left to spend

After his brand new rims

And crazy run-ins

With other women

All he left me with was the child that we made

And a permanent scar on the side of my head

Like a tee shirt from a place

You go on vacation

To never forget the consternation

From one of those times

He messed with me.

So then I chose the nice good guy

From a good family

With deep pockets

And even deeper secrets

Like the one about the

Black girl with a babe

Dating their youngest boy

He called me by my middle name -


So they wouldn’t know that she was me

Stuck somewhere in make believe

Pretending that our relationship

Wasn’t built on the bullshit

We told one another

And everyone else.

Next up was the professional black man

Don’t even know how I ended up with him

'Cause "Rachel don’t date them."

But to prove everyone wrong,

I made him Mr. Right

Although I never really loved him

Barely even liked–

‘cept maybe at night.

Well, the ones that he was there.

You see, his flash and his stance

Things that captured my glance

Created distractions

And attractions

To so many others

I almost forgot who I am.

But when you mix the ego

Into issues with daddy

You might drive yourself damned near batty

Fighting a bunch of other chicks

Battling the same kinda shit

For something

Amounting to absolutely nothing.

So, last time, y’all I chose me a surfer.

Not just for his hot bod,

But because I’d reached a point

In my life

Where I thought I could just

Go with the flow

But what I didn’t take the time to know is

That when waves are plentiful

Surfers tend to seek

The next biggest one

Even while riding

The wave that they’re on…

So this time y’all, I’m holding out for a farmer.

A diligent man, good with his hands

And is patient enough to

Know that love takes time

So we ain’t got to rush

A man who can produce and provide

With not much more than

A coupla seeds and a pinch of fertile ground.

One who knows that

Land with a harsh past

May need a little extra work

But that don’t take away its worth

Because his turf is the earth

And he plays in the dirt

Shares intimate relations

With Mother Nature’s creation

And won’t spread himself thin

Beyond the fields he lives in

you see, a farmer might be seen in a pair of dirty jeans

But it’s his heart that’s clean, y’all…

'cause a farmer ain’t some

Johnny come lately

Fly by night

Secret undercover

Unappreciative of what he has

Type of lad

Nah, he’s a stick with it

Cultivate all kinds of 'ish

Outside in the daylight

Sometimes through the night

Whatever he can

Kind of man

His heart’s full of gratitude

His soul’s in control

Commands the utmost respect

For the life he’ll unfold

With this woman awaiting his imminent arrival

Her heart and mind in total alignment

No longer living in that mode sometimes called survival

This time y’all I want what’s mine in

A man of substance who is

Real & Capable

Local & Sustainable

Flexible not breakable

With love that’s unmistakable

He wants to

Grow with me organically.

Support our dreams emphatically.

Hold it down romantically.

And I mean only with me…

Planting in tune with the cycles of the moon

Through those high and low tides

Man, fuck that ride or die

Cause the street dreams and the ones in between

Never gave me the things that I really need

Like stability, humility, complete availability

From the man with some land and a shovel in his hand

The farmer, y’all. That’s the one I want for me. 

 © 2014 - rachel m. walls