Tag Archives: Poetry

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.


Somewhere

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Somewhere we stopped fighting. The comfort of church pews makes one more complacent, mistaking stagnation for peace. Frederick Douglass said, “Once you learn to read you will forever be free,” yet we are still bound. Somewhere we put the books down, and picked up the remote, which is a moat preventing us from reaching our inner Kingdom. Somewhere we decided to conform, allowing greed, perms, and self-righteousness to become the norm. Glorifying the slaves that are loyal to their master, as they falsely rap about freedom with chains around their necks. Pridefully wearing blood-soaked diamonds stolen from their mothers hands. How dare you profit off the death of your own roots! Somewhere we stopped seeking knowledge. Work on the plantation long enough to send our kids to college. False history, deadly pharmaceutical industry, prison-industrial complex, laws that hold no true power. See these degrees ain’t nothing but a hex, inspiring you to climb the social ladder, only to realize that it declines. A world system that defines one as more valuable based off a piece of paper. Somewhere we stopped listening to our spirits, picked up religious indoctrination, which makes us fear God’s true voice when we actually hear it. Did our ancestors die in vain? Somewhere Martin Luther got traded in for hoop dreams, and Malcolm simply ceased to exist! Somewhere young women decided Sara Baartman’s enslavement was worth the payment, and five minutes of fame. Somewhere Willie Lynch succeeded, less melanin meant more heaven sent.

Somewhere we stopped believing in the deceit of these Europeans. Now when you kill one of us, we all start bleeding. Now is not the time to pull the wool back over your eyes. As Mr Heron stated, “The revolution will be live.” 400 years of genocide, it’s time the system died. The final hour has arrived, Ms. Hill, because we’re tired of them killing our prophets, Bobby. It’s time for the mental and physical liberation, Mr. Garvey.

All praises to the Most High, because somewhere.. We are free.