You Are Not Alone

you are

that thing that goes bump in the night 

that childlike fear of a monster beneath my bed

i want to peek but the cover keeps me safe

i dare not speak your name in the mirror even once

for i trust not that you'll come

and i don't want to be disappointed

again

because, you see

im not afraid of your appearance

not afraid of your darkness

what im afraid of is stumbling alone through the places where the world wants me to be afraid, without your protection

again

did you know...

from the moment i took my first breath and hungrily latched onto my mother's breast, i knew?

i knew there was another hand that should've been holding me

a familiar hand, rough and calloused from labor 
yet gentle and soft as soon as it touched me

but that hand never proved faithful

not once

not twice

instead
your hands forgot me

neglected the life that God made specifically for them to tend

your hands have been so used and abused in this world 
that they now turn to use and abuse me

to use and abuse us

your women and your children

and we

we have grown accustomed to your absence 
and familiar with the pain that accompanies your presence

we expect it

we've accepted it

but i think you should know 
we relinquish hope half heartedly

at night we still get down on our black knees in our broken homes and pray for your return

and we try our best to fill your shoes because we still don't want to throw them away

don't you see?

we continue to try to fill your man-of-God-shaped void in our lives with strength not of our own 

and we keep trying to fill ourselves with cocktails of escape we know will only suffice 'til morning

because we refuse to give up on you

we are granted limited time and space to fully be women

and our children

our dear children

they don't feel safe enough to just be

children

we are weary, burnt out, frustrated, and tired in places only He can renew because it is not our place to be men

but i'm not mad at you, brother

not anymore

that would be selfish

and my desire for you doesn't scare easily

i know you are not the enemy

my passion for you to thrive within your destiny manifested in sound mind, body, and spirit stretches far beyond anything you can do to me

some may call me crazy but

every kindred filament in my body crafted by the hands of God

is instinctively reaching out to reconnect 
with you

our oneness is undoubtedly necessary and

the fervor of the pull intensifies each time i feel you pushing

i am a part of you

the ways you hurt me only draw me closer

as i am healing

as i am growing

as i am coming into my divine purpose as a woman

i am beginning to understand you

striving to

not take it personally when you take your frustrations out on me

hurt people will hurt people

and i see you

in a cliché of truth that still fights to consume me, i recognize 
you

you are hurting

and i want to know why

Black man
why are you hurting?

Time

it's amazing to me how a person you barely know can unconsciously effect you in ways that stick with your heart long after the thought has passed. to pick up the phone and be confronted with a voice that, at just the right time, emanates an energy for you that you didn't even know you needed is surreal. you think about him at a frequency that can be detected by satellites in orbit with the moon. your soul echoes messages over the air for his to come hither, and it does. your silent calls vibrate across many bounds, and he always picks up. as certain as the tangibility of his tenor, you are certain his existence oscillating with yours in a strange familiarity is no coincidence. so you dare not interfere with time traveling, folding into itself to make way for two souls to someday strike midnight together.

some would call a river dirty because it's brown, ugly because it's not blue. but a river is brown because it is supposed to be. it doesn't alter its appearance just because someone doesn't like the way it looks. THAT is beauty. THAT is confidence. there's something to be said about the way a river moves, rises, and falls whether we like it or not. rivers need no validation, like much of nature. the trees, the waters, the birds, the sea and the land animals, they were all created before we were. so, who are we to scrutinize them for living out their purposes? who are we to try to make nature appease us? we can learn a lot from the way nature behaves. or are we envious because we aren't equally as sure of ourselves?

Genesis

this journey through transformative creation of self, i wouldn't trade for any wage of this world. i am a piece of work, a piece of artwork painstakingly painted with each inspiration i'm gifted. dark hues that once pictured my blues have been renewed with vibrant yellows that sing songs of canaries. harsh lines have been subdued softer with a light that blends them out of density and into the texture of muddied misdirection, muting misappropriated passion. and as this picture comes together, i am blessed with moments of clarity to stand back and appreciate with all of my senses the many aspects of me. i am not of one matter of substance. i am not a centrally-focused, picture perfect portrayal. i am not scaled to size nor am i one-dimensional; i'm not even confined by the limits of matting or frame. but that's what makes the crafting of each soul unique. almost everything you can think of has been thrown at MY canvas, yet here i am hanging on. and i have the audacity to be leveled too, bold, a colorful interpretive dance of organized chaos seasoned in the middle of the night while everyone is sleeping. balanced by the hands of God by morning.

Blinking Cursor

it's the hardest thing to write about myself

to inspire and to motivate my

self

how can i be the muse to my own song?

pacing patiently i pull apart parts of myself, searching for stanzas

but i come up blank

without a "someone" to relate my rhymes to

without a "no one" to narrate hope for

with the spotlight pointed at just
me

my voice becomes a whisper

my soprano a deafening pitch of cheesy similes 
and forced metaphors

i'm discovering who i am

and i'm struggling

to write about it

Too Much

pieces of me far beneath the surface cling to your words 
like long lost friends

words you scribble on scraps of paper penned with my unfinished poetry

influencing perspectives deep within the recesses of my subconsciousness

without my permission

punctuating

accenting

completing

but

you're a stranger to me

a memory at most

a trivial trace of time

so why do your words loop and playback like a catchy tune i hum without notice?

how is your signature inscribed on my mind so vividly without my orchestration?

i don't even know what your handwriting looks like

like, how do you dot your i's?

before finishing a thought, do you take the time to 
cross your t's?

why does your silence resonate so loudly with my inability 

to sit quietly?

all of this supersedes sensibility

committing suicide to my pride like this

i'm too proud for this 

but there's something about you 

something about you that screams, "don't give up"

i'm just not sure if my growth is willing to stunt with a reprise

Be

i want to be

like the tree that grows through concrete

like the grass that grows through tar

like the flowers that bloom from seeds planted by hands 

never seen, i want to be

sustained by perennial purpose

and nourished with time and possibility

shooting through the earth in response to each season

able to let go of my petals with faith that the beauty 

of my remains will plant seeds of their own

bearing the fruit of lessons learned 

lessons to be shared with the souls that take the time to taste nature 

with their toes and bathe in the scent of creation i want to be

alive without worrying that i'm living 

unafraid as my foundation settles and shifts with tectonic plates 

creating cracks in my surface

unafraid solely because i'm too busy being grateful that the earth 

is still breathing

the pressure from each inhale stretching my imperfections

wider

longer 

deeper 

an interweb of connections spanning my core

they are not character flaws that need to be suffocated 

with dead matter

these cracks are evidence of movement

promises of change, fulfilled

space 

created for more life to grow right in the middle of what i 

think i already know

just like the tree that spurts through concrete

and the grass that emerges through tar

and the flowers that blossom from seeds planted by hands never seen

all reminding me that i can just

be