Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

13.8.19 | Lit up identity.

Imagine a soft voice of rain, imagine a warm space with two chairs sitting across from each other, I have this theory, that if I can’t sleep when its dark it means I am waiting to dream some more, there’s intentional placements about the night that gives me the most comfort, I can’t really quite explain it all for myself yet, I find the silence asks me about my most intimate desires without any judgment, I have come to crave the way it creates our intimacy, teaches me to ache for my own soul this way first, its an anticipated gentle conversation with my body care free of interruptions, I multiply myself the most here too, and rain candidly here in love too, these nights are my dreaming fables true alter ego-, But I do not judge her process, I make room for her passing, create necessary space for another type of love another type of me-, Night dreaming is a soul mate kind of home, it doesn’t always feel like anything yet just being seems to be enough, this is reminded into us both, sometimes gratitude, some affirmations, strings that held us back watching them melt away from our tree house warmth, life seems much easier in the dark for me, much lighter up here too, the familiar Melody of Being Animate breathes much intense in here, its as though I can know the true lust of words from this silver sky, this is the wake in my care that I can burn the most present, its a cold flame displaced near others without my really knowing, an air like there shouldn’t always be answers for everything yet, I am told my body adores my soul so my path is in everything that aligns with its patience, I’ve been seen to become watchful of my own, a mindful fixer upperer mad of loyal devotion, extensions of you don’t always have to make sense of things that bewilder your identity here yet, sometimes its enough to just let yourself get carried away by the rain, its not fair on your soul to deny yourself the will it desires the most even when it doesn’t match what you need, -More than often having what you didn’t want, is having what you didn’t know you needed, what our body needs is what we want-, This is my warm Smokey candle lit essence warped dreamer in the night-, Her only penetrated fear is herself.

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Poetry: Melody of being Animate

17.7.19 – Making decisions for the life of you.

I’m thinking its left for interpretation, I’m thinking be assertive this way in other parts of your gratitude, I’m thinking we are human so no one is safe from broken connections, gusto waves that do not serve our highest beings are simply interchangeable, I’m thinking we all have a default, we all come made unknown, how some of us are curious about what closeness is and some of us couldn’t care less, how our values could be so different we are not human enough or merely human though we see the world in colours, taste in numbers, how some of us couldn’t care less about honesty and others care more about their own hearts, how there’s a way about it all, and there is, we are all the courage to be disliked and some are consistent on using words that change their lives, this way is how I also feel the world, the choice is both a conflict and simple state of mind, nothing makes sense or it makes too much sense and the fear to cower is shown into us, of how unknowing has never been so apparent into our homes this harshly first, suddenly the thing about self is that we are all living proof, some of us haven’t awakened our beats and the rest, well, they are dormant, some sleeping along side them touching heads and who are we,- I’m thinking about being locked up in libraries I could read here forever, this small daydream of mine, I am not afraid to brake or disappear one day, I have to accept this will happen with or without my energy well protected, I don’t ever want to stand still stagnant in how my life is lived, I want to remember my life as the protagonist that lived her own nightmares, the girl who battled her mind and chose life instead of existence, I want to be the person I know I am capable of resurrecting she is dragon bodied belly full blue flames and purple magic re-birthed alike, a brave act each time she faces her self she it met with forms of darkness, her life is the constant commitment of unlocking her own downfalls her courage is the fussy ability of turning them into weapons of intuition, she likes the intensity of the pain that comes with this type of healing, most will not see the importance of this healer, she does not shame her scars, it is the will of her that scars her skin this way the most, this is how she keeps the spark in her life, every word, narrative can be flipped she knows this too well,- So that when I die, I can say I have lived a dangerously envious life.

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

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

7.6.19 – 8.6.19 | will you count me in

When asked about my more of blackness I am filled with emotion and blood, can feel my palms get sweaty a me watching their tone to my skin is me remembering that I did not miss any mirrors on the way here, this is a soul that is learning about her body and how it allows to take up all the air in a room, like all the elements of this blue planet done gone blessed her with so much ache, with so much love for what is becoming to be both black and woman, to be this black and woman, I am a black woman that has no shame into her own mind, will bare you her depression type 4 that has taught her how to love when death tries to do us part, be the squeezed hand held so tight calling out to soft hands look here, will count you in mississippi’s like, one mississippi, love yourself first before you love other homes, two mississippi, love how it feels to care for yourself first this world will not apologize for what it has done to you and when you have chosen a path that has reckoning of both identity and love it will be a gentle reminder of who you’re allowing yourself to vine into, it will be a prayer, a kind solitude that needs no reaffirming, a gift for the next gratitude into your home, three mississippi, do not force a you that is still healing, you have yet to unlearn and this is more than okay, in this world it is a must to hear your own voice with your eyes, touch your fingertips and watch your ambiance dance this is anthem enough, is to hear your voice and feel you’re enough, to love my 4c from a generation of royalty, of history and passed down recipes is to love me back harder, is to love this body, is to love me back into this body is to mean to know how to love back harder, so the next time someone asks you about your blackness too, pour them a cup of chai, welcome them into your soul, let them meet everyone at home, let them know this here knows what it means to dedicate a whole day to her 4c, let the guest you welcomed into your home know this here is going to be a while.

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

Drafted love letter (receiver: self) | 13.3.19

A loose cannon mind, vulnerable to life this is how she lives, fearless and freedom in her spirit birth-right, she has exhausted everything that has buried her and shown her what chances at life could be like, there is no room to be scared of things that she can or can not control, she gives it justice, she is not scared of anything or anyone but herself, this here has been a careful failed attempt at so many times there is not enough that could amount to all the wrong that has gotten her here, effort is a representation of her soul, don’t get carried away by what you see in her, she is both conflict and solution in human form, she has these still scars that she says make her who she is and everytime they ache she is reminded of who she has been, her story is a forever written, she has undying bound to herself first, there are many ways in forms of her anarchist mind, her heart is titanium seasoned in spring, let love in and allow love to leave this is also how she has learnt herself a fearless freedom fighter, she is not censored to candy or chocolate she more like a futuristic drug, she has this will about no regrets so everything that leaves and enters her mouth is honest and forgiving, there is malaise in this type of living too, there is simply no time to allow for these types of external growths to clean her slate of imperfect favorites, she is a carried generation of women that have healed her soul, how often is it you get to see a being this untouchable, vulnerability is nothing to be scared about when you’re in love with affirmations of growth, of self, in love, into change, from heartbeats, and fall for heartstrings, we’re are all a heartache away when we await these better selves, this a breath and a slice of cheesecake with a cup of water, its looking in the mirror and unlearning bad habits from old habits, its recognizing yourself at all times, is to stand firm when you add sweetener to your coffee and feel eyes, remember the word choice it will give you full comfort to know this is a type of you that is an absolute finesse to conquering who she is first, talk your shit, you have waited your own long ago, treat yourself to your dream.

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

blue headphones in talks of identity (more)| 2.3.19 – 3.3.19

Where are our limits, when we are dissatisfied from the oceans our emotions come in wave thrust along side our thoughts, must they always decide on one, I say I don’t feel equipped enough to answer the future, where do we want to go when we ask these questions that are as mischievous as our twins even the most intelligent parts of our body do not have the answer, what parts of ourselves do we have to set on fire first in order to attempt these cinematic occurrences we have been put up upon, I tell my body we must come to an understanding this is almost childs play, forgetting our souls have roamed us before we even noticed they were here, watching fire burn we’re using words in attempt to signal and spark this conversation a cycle we’ve been plotting enough to brake narrative like, how do you see something if it is simply not there, my mind tells me countless times if you see something that is not there it is also teaching yourself to see more than what is simply visible, my heart teases me about its compassion when the twins are around, using words that are familiar to our palate we’re only ever lost for words by unconscious consciousness, we are still art critics learning and unlearning a cycle of generations, brave enough to fail as many times as our body can resurrect, lessons have no identity blue print, we are all teachers in progression, there is no perfectly put layers to one of the hushest nouns defined, it never really ends it only ever really begins, and this, this is how one of the unsociable inspired ways of more.

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

30.01.19 | My wish.

A conversation with my father and he is telling me flossy words I wished I heard when I was listening to his, wondering if this was the same care he would give the other half of his heart, he always tells me comfort and pillow talks of its okay wished he wishes he could do things differently with us and I want to ask him how it feels to have half of his heart, wishing he praised her the same way he praises god, we’re from two different generations and I wonder how he got to being here, want to see where all this came from, he talks in his own reality and I am still left with questions of where half his heart is left in him, is he okay leaving that kind of warmth this way, where would he ran to, he tells me mental health is important because he found me still up the top of his house one day, I remember it so well since then I wonder whether he knows it is two and not only one, 10 grams away from unstable stability, the children in his life are in half and his blood line is nowhere in this house but in half, I wonder what he dwells on, he talks about death so often I can feel the way he repeats it, this is not the first or last time, I know what it feels like to repeat death into your being so it becomes a familiar taste around here, wonder about his lost and found demons so in half about these waters, the fire in me is blazing bright blue while all the waters try to calm me from the outside, Im not sure if this is the right way to go about it but I let it happen anyway, a panic hits and I am in half most days, wondering what my whole see’s me as, I am half fire half water, whole, where thoughts go when they are misplaced in its home too, my truth is a natural disaster unsafe and serenity, a contradiction of human kind, I take my shot of Kenya coffee close my eyes and whisper mantra’s in the name of love and think, maybe its not so bad here, being a misfit this way too.

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

Unfinished sanity.

An obituary, a proclaiming of myself its desires and teeth, over spilled secrets to the body we are the careless mischievous twins our childhood warned us about, this soul has been hidden too long, kept sacred sake from the mad hatter of this world didn’t see all the chaotic mismatched tones, our reflection has been undone, kissed away broken, I have allowed the attempted red carpet stained skin blushed shy of my blood welcomed love back into this being first, when you teach your body how to brake and rise each time you’re forced into your own chaos and to remember this healing, you’re rise from it all, a careful dreamer with black magic, kink royalty of unlearning and learning the mind, it has always been you and the mind, never the other way around, becoming is not new you’re the calm in it all heard time and time again over all the doubtful noise, your capacity was never the enemy, we glory preceptor to exist in this body together, harmonies our animate, create art from its process how many more can hear this type of healing too, we are the unlearned insomniacs with life lines that challenge realities, what it means to be this light and to bring us to the red table too, our fight been called down upon too long, those who underestimate the anarchy of the mind have not seen its true form, don’t know the strength it takes to at ease this mind when bad days become uncontrollably unpredictable and after your blood, we are the survivors of the past 27’s, the melodramatic panic manics that don’t know sleep, creativity rise wake with the sun and dawn the moon, we’re in constant rotation of solutions and impossible possibles there are no boundaries to this chaotic healing, when love, is attached to its meaning, we’re the cliché unstoppable, how many more rise to this reality and are able to call self survive of this captive psyche.

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

These nights I find my sleep has not changed, my problem has always been the difference between my remedy telling me that it could be my personality and not this illness, sometimes I get confused, I remember my heart broke somewhere between your personality and this illness I can’t remember which part took its own life first, I’m kept awake by the problems with myself that I can not seem to fix that stay with my breath and follow me into bad decisions and lost words that are careless and still know how to break even when they come from kin, you can still taste salt, you forgot why you thought elsewhere in the first place, these things just come out you’re looking for help and guidance most a mouth to band-aid them too, sometimes its so hard to stay soft when you’re this ill and lost, there is no beginning or end, it’s a mix up, a false habit you’re trying to erase out of your system these decisions are still plaguing the body and you’re trying to find the correct outlets but your body just will not survive so you give it what it wants even though you know it will hurt you, you become this light that trusts so tirelessly when you see a temptation a way out, and after all this, you’re are left with its echoing words of what you keep telling this body over and over again, what does self-respect look like when you’re ill and stop being 10g away, how do you get your super powers back when you’re watching a wreckage smoke from the inside, how do you save yourself, what does that look like from inside the burning building, you’re a metaphor for yourself how you excuse these decisions, swear you never meant to hurt the body this way, swear you will not do it again but where does it end where do you stop, where does this kind of harm end for you, have you given up, if not what now, what’s next for a girl who has lived until 23, writes from her bedroom window, cries her own love song, doesn’t change her mistakes, and is trying to survive her mind, what happens now, how does she not give up-. What is your answer? What would you tell her?

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

im i crazy to call identity love.

A self-proclaimed psychosis narration of formatted words to meditate the mind, and at ease the body when bad days are uncontrollably unpredictable and after your blood, breathe, emotion of space that moves within the body is to exhale this frustration of uncomfort attempt to sit with its unjust child like, like adulthood manifested trauma, crazy, another word that is meant for you but is misplaced in connotations, boundaries, and this mental, discomfort, is to sit with it, to watch your own unsolved chaos a black super woman animated hero, like woman like survivor, selflove, you, what is yours, selfcare, you, a super power, irritable irrational behaviors that maneuver in and out of this body like permission to self, like it was normal, what is normal anyway, self, who do I see myself as when and without this state of mind, an actual metaphor of this is the rain, a contradiction of identity and misplaced answers that hit this heavy are to never be forgotten, identity, notice how quick you’re to save your name next to love, identity has always been love, others, there are no others, they are my precious heartbeats each pulse is remembered into my being this way, relationships remind me of flowers in the spring, and the rain, three of my favorite human languages this, its no secret now, habits, loving harder is to admit its self in and out of me these heartstrings are internal external loves, fixing our broken hearts for the sake of our identity, souls, are both in complicated super power love and care, heartbeats is compassionate black super woman a pulsed warning of heartstrings words aimed like identity, self, relationships, always this, it is no secret now, a psychosis narrated formatted words to meditate the mind and at ease the body, when bad days are uncontrollably unpredictable and after you always, always this goes back to love-, lullaby. black woman. identity. heartbeats. and maybe heartstring now too.