Poetry: Melody of Being Animate (Emerging Writer from the West #EWF19)

When asked to write myself into my home, I can feel my anxiety flow through my body, the twins are awake now, my home has welcomed versions of myself, I am proof enough, those who know about this soul also know how it loves back, how it speaks softly into its name and firey into their homes first, I am a protector of heartbeats and each time they come to me I brave into a healer, a type of myself I have wished for the younger me, when I was younger, I cut my 4c the way I learnt to cut into my skin, learnt to fluently speak in poem then into dreams, it wasn’t until I forgave myself here, somewhere in my mind I had found a way into self love, taught my mouth how to care for my body, my body than taught a secret ritual to the soul, a half introverted half extroverted me, and in the middle of all my chaos, there, I found myself too, I was a born self taught dreamer, when I began to choose who I wanted to become I learnt the meaning of words without its terms, I closed my eyes, and changed the way I heard my blackness, changed the way I was being seen into a careless world. I swore, I swore this way was the way to never be, I swore to remember words like solitude in justice and how they meant out of my mouth, a black woman learning metaphors for the life of her, I swore to never miss mirrors, to never miss the way I stared into my 4c, it was never who I am to soften my hair, it was who I was becoming, to burn its roots, I learnt words that birthed bright colours, passed down recipes and double meanings, felt them in my mothers hands to my fathers voice, I saw my path crave words like carouage, like love, words like enough, words that meant more than skin deep, words that demanded my attention and more of my blackness, I found myself into a reality that taught me about nourishment, how to care for my 4c, how my coiled curls run so deep my mother sings your hair is rich and beautiful, how each time my mahogany was stripped away from me I claimed in right back, each time, and every, other time even, when my voice was chocked out of me upon stolen lands, I was a vision, claimed memories, learned them the ways it streams through me, my existence is the art of many seasoned generations, you can not fake this identity, you can not simply fake how my mother cracked her voice every time she cared to my 4c, watching her take time for my hair was an I love you, is was a take care of you, a forever feeling, her hands care taught me to love my hair even when I missed wash days, when I think about how it feels to have gotten here, how it feels to be this black, and this women, when I think about how my identity is questioned into me, like a locked home being forced open, their mouth speaking into pressed ego’s, like a joker game, I go blank, there is a truth heavy into me, when it comes to putting my soul into absolutes for them, it is only when I remember that each word are extensions of meanings I remind my soul that our home has never been one to follow rules or spectrums, rather acknowledge that they are there, and never the end of my written, I am a home that feels with the mind and listens with the heart, I am someone with contradicting senses there is always another way about my every extension, I know what it feels like to not belong, and to feel like you belong into a type of extension, I speak in only my reality and dreams, sometimes, a better me is growth, is spring in late November, meaning I can be this intangible too, is to accept me, is soft, is a love without trapped chains, there is always a way about everything, I know this, I know this because I know what it is to heal like you want to save yourself from yourself, I also know how my hair welcomes her texture into a room, how their hands have no welcome mat here, when I see my people being shamed for what they have had their whole lives appreciated first outside of my skin I remember why we speak so highly of us, why I speak so highly of us, why we love so highly of us, I know this, I know this because I know what it holds to be self and fire, my journey with my identity has always been becoming, has questioned my existence, a six part better self that begs a better me each day I am with, or without my depression-, let me sweeten your tongue for a life time, I am a Fire in the Rain, saga moja, in collateral beauty publication of me first, first, who I am, second, what I am becoming, third, when I become, forth, where I will become, fifth, how I will become, and lastly, why, I am becoming. So you see, my journey is a forever written.

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

17.04.17

Innocence: “..not weak, submissive shy, kind n gentle, all this, n much more, I miss the days where I could hear carefree whispered into the winter breeze, when spring bloomed with hope, sharing all our secrets to mother earth n, choosing to indulge ourselves in her beauty, I missed this, I missed being able to not give so much thought to dreams, enough to give it pardon free it’s possibilities n, not be scared of its what if’s wanted to be, the one who proves that dreams are worth never letting go that, when you feel defeated by it’s impossible alure this is, why its important to illustrate why you dream in the first place, being a dreamer n having a dream are two different innocences, dreamers are forever mesmerized by reason, for reaching the sky n, asking why the stars they see shine so bright, it’s finding answers when you have been told impossible, dream is, as simple as what you want it to be, I miss the days we talked about how fast we could glimce innocence in truth, rather bind to its opposite trait, not enough innocence, there’s, too much malice that fumbles without our own optimism, it blinding, catch this meditation, n…”

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

16.04.17 | 17.04.17

Struggling with reality: “..being forced to come to terms with being grown has a lot of constraints to its noose, they aren’t always the black jacks that fill your conciouness with clarity, with truth, being forced to realise that even though you yourself as a being have to choose some demise in order to grow, in order to change, back home, you’re selflove, you can only realise what reality you have as you watch it disappear before you desperately reach out your hands fast enough to catch its pace n allow it, watch it shatter into micro shooting stars, the way commanding wish to a content struggling reality, is it a combination of your worst fears, emotions, rainbows to fill in this mood, this grow, how do you grow without struggling in reality, pain manefests n changes people more than we would like to admit, it resonates penetrating so deep into our stream of consciousness until it awakes, until we’re comfortable with change, until…”

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

17/4/16 – 18/4/16
A letter to my younger self
I don’t even know where to start, which wound to apologize for, will never forgot the tears that up to this day will never stop, if there was one thing I had to apologize for first, it would be for up to this day about the way you feel about yourself, that even when you were younger told nobody about your scars, that I was always there with you, for you, I told you I would never leave you, even that day when you fought with her again n you went downstairs feeling so much, you couldn’t tell which emotion came first, you took the biggest table knife you could find in the kitchen drawer, put your arm out, made sure your eyes were ready, took the knife helping it find its way over your bare skin, you were only 12, this is what you wanted her to understand, even though it didn’t make sense to anybody but yourself, you tried to make her look as you cried for all you insecurities, your broken body, the pain, the emotion that you didn’t understand, you tried to make her feel what you felt but she didn’t understand even when that knife scrapped your bare skin several times, she never looked back, she never tried to look back, it was at that moment you felt that she didn’t care, that it wouldn’t matter, that you wouldn’t care if your blood found its way to the floor, a puddle of emotion, when I think about how when you were little you tried to make sense of so many things, but nothing was working, nothing felt the way it suppose to, there so many things to apologize for n I’m sorry about them, I’m sorry that even up to this day you still cry every single night, I’m sorry that even though you smile its not enough to fix the emotional anxiety, anxiety, something you can’t stop doing, I’m sorry that there’s nothing to really be appreciative of, all I can say is that at least now, I’m getting help, I’m trying so hard to be better for you, I made a promise to myself to be happy, to try n be positive, its all so hard even now, but I’m thankful I’m here today, I just want to make us happy, make these feelings stop, I want us to move forward, to be happy, so I’m getting help for the both of us

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

13/4/16
Don’t disrespect beauty

I read the most disrespectful statement about my sisters, I just wanna let you black men who forgot your place, don’t know that a black body spilled herself for you, least you forgot the skin you wearing, disrespecting what god took time to perfect, how dare you forgot your place, how dare you disrespect like you don’t know that ain’t nobody but this black skin will always have your back, acting like black man n black woman ain’t the same blessed, ain’t the same sweet menlanin we praise, they praise, don’t you forgot your roots boy, don’t forget who brought you on this earth, don’t you forgot the colour god blessed upon your disrespectful self, talking like you worthy of so much she ain’t gave you, capable of carrying all this that society has given women with melanin bright enough, brave enough, strong enough, beautiful enough for you to act like you own, like you have the right to, how dare you, don’t you know disrespect when it assaults your narrative, never forget it is this skin that you are here, so best you know, before you disrespect yourself

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

4/3/16 – 5/3/16
M.B.A: Whats left

You struck a cord, turn me into love game, turn this jagged into self pity, look at what you’ve done

You play this game too often, I should’ve known it could never be this easy

Its moments like these, that teach girls that this is what they are capable of and it all stops right there, as they hand you themselves, you hand them blood thirsty, teeth, scars, wounds, trailing holes into themselves leaving emotional damage of where their trust in boys, men will mutate

Can’t  you see what you’ve done, taking broken and giving it a chance, her taking unworthy giving it a chance, look at this cult of broken hearts, pretty words with empty sounds

You’ll never comprehend, this is where and why us girls learn that our bodies are like diamonds, precious, before we even learn the meaning of our emotional worth

It is why they say do not trust, treat your body like you’re beautiful, you are beautiful, be self less, be blunt dager, be so much conversation, but never forget you are worth every worship, never forget it is them who suffer most when a good thing is gone

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate


19/02/16

M.B.A: Friend

Think about this, the way blood has been binding us together, but not really compatible, your truth full of lies, my truth full of so much ache, think about how, blood becomes friends, become family, think about us, think about how many years my body has been counting, each empty feeling, every flood of tears, my heart beating at each attempt, all my life all I’ve ever wanted was to be your friend, always thinking that I was to blame for the way my words became song, empty words, promises, for you to help me help understand you, understand us, why is it so hard, for 20 years that’s all I’ve been trying to do, why are you pushing what so rightfully belongs to you away, don’t you want me anymore, are you sick of hearing my tears, this violin melody that’s taken me years to create, I’ve learned how to create for you, for 20 years I’ve been dreaming, creating, singing, understanding, self diagnosed with depression, all I wanted was to be your friend, for 20 years, my body has no more to give, my heart feels like its being ripped out of this body, bleeding so much and all that’s left is just the rest, nothing left to feel, no more pain, my body is destroying in order to keep me alive, breathing somehow, it hurts, 21 years, all I wanted was to be your friend

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

12/07/15, 5/01/15
M.B.A: This is a letter to the future

Dear Future,

Don’t let me down, my kin are going to be living for the change that is yet to come, lets just pray together, you’d think living in this life would have been far better than being enslaved, but in this reality its practically enslavment to silence, holding fear too close, no voice to reach real help, my brothers and sisters left for dead in America, their poems becoming a calling for anyone willing to listen, how dejecting, even in this era being black is still a problem, being treated like beats that roam around too freely, dear future, promise me that we’ll be safe, thick skin is starting to sound like the definition of melanin, I need you to promise me that just becuase its been too many years to count that you still haven’t givin up, dear future, please have thick skin too, I know its tiering to hope when there aight much hope left in humanity, but please do what you can, praying for another black boy, another black body, to be safe n not be left on the pavment is that too much to as for, their lives meaning nothing to this world, a mourning that we’ve been singing for as long as melanin has been spilling its blood, dear future, we’re tierd too, but I hope that you grow our think skin, so that even when kin is still being violated, assolted, murded, killed, draging their black bodies statining evdidence to show the world their sins, pray with us future, because we arn’t done, we still have so much to engrave, so much black history correction is left to do, dear our people, future says don’t give up, I will always give you more time, I know its hard, but I will always give you more time

Entry 6: Its New Years Eve & I feel like I Need to Get Some Things off My Chest Before the New Year

Location: In my bed room listening to Neyo on blast So yesterday I was thinking about how much I’ve changed since I finished high school, which will be in three years after tomorrow. I couldn’t help but write down what … Continue reading