A Solemn Emptiness Carry My Soul to Freedom 

Weary nights have plagued me. Constant. Destitute. My soul is left in the bondage of the indentured servitude of your desires and ignorance left. Drips. Drops of anguish ever bleeding through me. Death creeping ever closer as the darkness grows. Drips and drops breeding puddles that turn into drowning oceans. There is nowhere for the drips and the drops to go so they continue to inundate the soul. But today I have breached the sac, to you I give your ocean back. Leaving me empty as all I’ve known for a time is the weight of the ocean. But surely the breeze will penetrate the hollowed crevices in my soul carrying the echo metamorphosis inside.

A Departure From the Conversations Our Parents Have

We cannot live our lives to facilitate the social encounters of our parents. Our success cannot be confined to the parameters of “my son or daughter is…”. If we ought live this way, for a sound bite, we shall never find the truth of ourselves. Never have the courage to chase culture over chemistry and propose to write of sneaker culture instead of the classical civilizations of antiquity. 

Sistahs What You Say Sisters What Ye Say

Sistahs what you say we pray today? Sistahs what you say, today we rewrite the play? Sistahs what you say, we slaves today? Sistahs what you say, not my sistahs, no not my sistahs today, or tomorrow’s today. Sistahs what we say, no way no way. See me and my sistahs we can’t afford to play. That price is too high and in the world today, only pebbles we make. But I tell you, oh my sistahs they come to slay. So tell me sisters what ye say, this time will you fight for our freedoms yay or nay?

Voices Stolen In The Night

Hushed whispers go silently into the night. Our voices are left there, held captive. Our truths are comforted from under us. We are consoled and embraced, but who fights for our voice. Our silence becomes an internal report, a memo, notes on a family scandal. Why do we fear the outsider? Why am I relegated to find the humanity in a person who showed none for me? Why has reporting the crime ¬†become perceived to be almost as vile as the crime itself? Why am I bound by the thoughts of not wanting to put another Black man in jail or in trouble with the law? Why as I reach out to the authorities do I question if I’m doing the right thing? Why do I question my worth and my voice? Why did I ask myself if it is really worth it, was it that bad because he could’ve raped me or it could’ve happened more then once? Why have you taught me to hate myself? Why didn’t you fight for me? Why do I still cry for me but only oh so silently a fragile whisper in the night? Why did you make him right that day when you refused to fight?