Monthly Archives: April 2017

Felt

Sometimes the chords in your throat 

have not yet found the notes to play 

the thoughts lingering in your soul.

And sometimes the words are too heavy, 

and your tongue does not yet have 

the strength to carry them out.

And that is okay.

Silence is okay.

Some things are meant to be felt, 

not spoken.

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It Was You

Truth is deeper than answers.

Are you a whore?

A thief?

Or a product of a broken home where love was just an Imagination in the hands of a father’s Temptation to leave. 

His seeds now only watered by a Mother’s sweat and tears from years of having no Son to lift the burden of floods that have unearthed our ancestors graves. 

Slaves to a system of oppression that only finds us worthy in courts. Golden State or State Penitentiary. Different, or equal to bloodstained cotton that clothed Caramel children. 

Cacao beans are too bitter to taste, so we add milk and sugar in hopes that sweetness can erase the pain, dilute the hate. 

But I prefer my coffee black.

Black as the space between my roots and petals. A place that’s filled with unanswered questions, and suggestions of distant leaders whose spirits are still screaming for freedom. 

Why are we still chained? 

Why are we still caged?

And who swallowed the key?

It was you.

Yes.

You.

Now spit it out. 


Muse

​I found her covered in open wounds, that were bandaged with insecurities. 

The pain of the past often bleeds out in shouts, and tears of the soul that judge what my intentions were about. 

False thoughts that are caught, but never grasped. 

You see.. Love is a task, that we often treat as a hassle. Conditioned to believe it is conceived from princesses, and castles. 

But Disney is fiction, and I’m afraid you don’t comprehend the diction in which my actions speak. 

A war that I may be destined to lose, because my heart is marked as the enemy, when it’s fighting to beat for you. 

Will this ship ever reach the shore? Because we need solid foundations. And I need you to see that the dirt on my hands is from me planting seeds, in hopes that we will grow. 

Are we a flower that sprouts on a warm day in the middle of winter? 

Right place, wrong time. 

And as I read between these lines, maybe it’s my ego holding you for this art, not my heart. 

Maybe you were right.