WHEN YOU’RE SEVENTEEN
U Don’t Know
what you’re doing after school
when you’re seventeen and just seen
two planes crash into buildings
during 3rd period Geometry
FRIENDS, FRIENDS, FRIENDS.
Friends,
how many of us have them
times when tragedy strikes
and the homie you expect
is nowhere in sight?
THE SUNSHINE
Everybody loves the sunshine,
especially this baldie queen
straight outta chemotherapy
AWARENESS (Poem)
I’m learning to stop comparing
the self I am today
with the self I was yesterday.
HOW BEAUTIFUL IS THAT? (Poem)
On crisp breezy mornings,
the yawning branches speak to me.
They say, “Darling, you can do anything.“
SWEET VICTORY
Beauty standards are not for anyone’s protection,
nor are smiles because you’re supposed to be polite.
It is a losing strategy to be polite.
I WAS THE SEÑORITA (Poem)
One day when I was walking,
walking to the fair,
I ran into some trauma,
almost took me out of here.
DARK-SKINNED 80s BABY (Poem)
I felt blessed to see Alex Wek
til’ her blue-black shine
was compared to mine.
Middle schoolers must be crazy.
BEHOLD WHAT I LEAVE BEHIND (Poem)
By the time my cocoa-colored compassionate soul clashes
with God’s marshmallow skies,
chocolate-covered steam
will rise and shine
ZZZZZZ ZZZZZZ BUZZING (Poem)
Zzzzzz zzzzzz buzzing,
the 1 am “Hey big head” texts from tempting ex-boyfriends threatening abstinence.
“It takes consistency to be with me,” they say,
then pray the Rose of Sharon won’t mind
SAFETY GHAZAL
My heroes are negroes older and blacker than me.
Fermented melanin plus God is medicine. We still safe.
WHY I AM NOT A HIP-HOP SONG (Poem)
And frankly, I’m tired
of being “hard as hell” like LL,
would hate to get shot like 2Pac,
and I’m way too private
to yap about my WAP.
WATERMELON DAY (Poem)
The textured, soft blood-colored juice is a reprieve from the mocking we’ve received. We throw away stereotypes like rinds. Leave that mess for the flies.
A HYMN FOR ROSES (Poem)
Me, as beautiful as I am,
ain’t nothing but trouble.
I pour out libations through tears,
call on Ancestors to prune fears,
chase illness away with my prayers
LIVING WITH 3 RASTA MEN (Poem)
“Dreadlock no live in a tenement yard,”
and they no longer stay on the same redlined street
where an old Karen drove past me, mouth agape,
asking sharply:
“You’re moving?”
I AM A POET BECAUSE
It’s lonely as hell here.
Words don’t just
up and abandon you
the way people do.
DEAR CORY (Poem)
Sir,
I admit that I joked more than twice
that you only have two facial expressions:
surprised and resigned.
WE ALL SING DOWN HERE (Poem)
We all sing down here—
sing the praises of the rich
and memories of being poor.
This drame lyrique has no beat
What Flower Represents You?
What y'all thought was dead, Spirit brought as protection. Each challenge I overcome becomes my legacy. For future generations, my beautiful family, they are everything. When I see beauty, it's merely my reflection shining back at me.
This spring, my driveway will be purple. Aligned with my energy. My gardening is offering.
What Are You Trying to Prove?
"Every time I get sick, it feels like God is telling me to slow down and reevaluate my intentions. Recently, I’ve been asking myself: What am I trying to prove? Am I falling into the same patterns of overdoing it, trying to 'do it big' instead of focusing on the simple, meaningful parts of my work? If you’ve ever found yourself stuck in the cycle of striving, ask yourself this: Who does this action serve?"