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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.


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.


Blind

It must have pained them to see God manifested in black bodies. 

That these angels they chose to chain, were the Christ they claimed to praise.

 The vitality of these foreign souls. 

To be able to inhale: blood, maltreatment, slaughter 

and exhale: grace, perseverance, life. 

It must have pained them to see that the Sun would touch their skin, and choose to stay. 

That in spite of the lashes, their spines never gave way. 

It must pain them to see. So they keep them caged, clip their wings, and miseducate. 

It must pain them to see the dirt on their hands. And rather than wash them, they look away, continuing to claim ownership of blood-soaked land. 

Yet what is even more painful, you see, is our dependency on them, to set us free.


Dawn

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You’re the proof that angels are real.  Wings that not only shield, but inspire me to soar higher. I pray to attain shoulders as strong as yours, and a spirit that’s as humble.

Black, Woman.

In a world that dishonors its Mother, I’m in awe of your wonder. Thriving no matter where you’re planted, even in the most unfavorable conditions, you can’t be uprooted. Beautiful flower, your presence is a blessing I too often forget to thank the heavens for.

I couldn’t have asked God for a more glorious dawn.

Happy Mothers Day, Ma.

To: Wendi Nichols Gregory


Soul Atlas

I’m just trying to grow fruits to honor my roots. Ancestors were planted in different lands, molded by different hands. But the Truth stands, One Spirit resides within.

Some will make me an enemy, because I don’t choose friends. Peacemaker, no matter the skin shade, or religion, we were all crafted with precision. No ideology, it’s Love I’m following.

From Madagascar, to Scotland. America to Africa, slave owner to freedman, indigenous to explorer. The blood in my veins sees them as all the same. Different stories, binded in the same book, my looks are just the cover.

I had to search my soul to discover why I couldn’t choose a side. Genetically modified, the remains of my origins sleeps in different graves. Yet through me their spirit is awake. I am intricately sewn from different fabrics, so that they may finally exist in One Peace.


The Death of Western Christianity

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Christians Christians Christians. This post is a very good example of why Christianity is on the decline in America. It is not on the decline due to moral decay, nor due to people straying from the “straight and narrow.” It is on the decline because people have opened their eyes to the Colonial/Crusade/Pharisee-based indoctrination that Westernized Christianity is so diseased with. Christians will point to the bad seeds of a certain group of people, in an attempt to prove that Christians bear more fruit, and the only fruit. Yet it is clear that this is not the case. The reason that Christianity, or Catholicism, is so far spread throughout the world is due to posts like these. The propoganda that people of other cultures or religions are barbaric and need “saving.” It is what soothed the consciences of the slave traders, the crusaders, and the rest of the power hungry, bible thumping, land stealing Christians of the past and present. It’s a sad case of shining false light, for many Christians are sincere in their efforts, and are only doing what they see as best. Nevertheless, there has arrived a time that these Christians fear. The church, as we have seen it, is dying a slow, but needed death.

The current institution, that we falsely label the church, is having its tables turned over, because the true children of light are tired of the many robbers parading as pastors and popes. They are tired of graceless evangelists, who use fear-based conversion tactics, who preach a message of freedom, when they themselves are bound. If you want to truly be as Christ, then feed the poor, forgive someone, pray for your enemies, and uplift someone.

I will end on this note: When you go into a neighborhood, another country, or next door preaching of Jesus with your words, and promises of heaven, and that person rather not hear it, it is not Christ they are denying, it is Christians. As Gandhi stated, “I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”