Saidda Carter is a performance poet and songstress. A Houston slam team alum, Saida has earned a reputation for invoking her creative Orishas to throw lyrical darts at the 'man'. She has graced every and any self-respecting microphone in the city.
This is her letter to a friend, anonymous, of course.
Dear Friend,
I apologize but I’ve done it again
I choose not to ‘go out’ and decided to ‘go in’
Spirit called today
And I ignored your call
I didn’t want to hold the phone
I just needed some time alone
Drift to other worlds absent of time-zones
Prepare to take notes for the moment spirit spoke
I just feel like hibernating
Not into explaining my whereabouts or plans for the day
Nor clarifying who spirit is and what spirit had to say
Or reiterate that everything in my world will be ok.
Ouch.
I don’t know where to begin
I’ve somehow done it again
Showed my true self and lost another friend
I just needed some time alone to
chase my own thought swirling amidst the smog
for they’re known to quickly disappear
like childhood dreams unfulfilled
like wisdom from ancestors when you can’t hear clear
like fleeting musical moments connecting you to alternate spheres
This feeling moves me.
I just want you to know that I loved you
Sometimes you step on a toe or two
Unintentionally, I suppose
Misery devours my company
But I’m really trying to grow.
I’m not where I’d like to be
Not so sure that you’ve noticed.
I’m trying hard to stay focused
Today my books came to life
Cursing me whilst attempting suicide
Jumping from the top shelf, sacrificing their life
Yet my body interfered the fall
Fell to my knees, praising their existence
Begging each book for forgiveness
Message to the ignorant-
I needed to catch up on my reading, my seeing, analyzing what I believed in.
And so I did.
Choosing books over my friend.
Dammit I lost one again.
She couldn’t understand.
How one contentedly turned pages buried in dust
than converse over a new shirt, dude or a new purse?
It always turns out this way.
Me not being able to explain
I hate hoarding the blame yet I just feel like hibernating.
Last night I heard my paintbrushes crying
So I went to comfort them but they mocked me and started hiding
Paint bursting from bottles, lids went flying
My body became the canvas, arms outstretched,
They crucified me.
Tuscan red paint poured from my side.
Brushes crowned my head.
I bowed and apologized.
In calligraphy the paint replied, “Why has thou forsaken me?”
After 3 days of explaining truthfully, I was then set free.
Friends bloom and die in certain seasons
Resistance to change is the deadliest disease
Never again- forsaking artistry for anything
Never again- feeling guilty for tapping into my chi
Never again to ‘go out’ when spirit said to ‘go in’
May the right people henceforth gravitate towards me,
May I decipher what’s good for me before it reaches me
For what does it profit a man to gain the world and forsake his highest destiny?
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