Floetry From the Heart

Let me tell you about a mother with no name... A mother who went places no soul should ever map. A mother who walked through hell with her bare feet and her heart wide open just to drag her babies back. See… Pain didn’t knock on her door politely. No. It kicked it in. It came screaming. It came unforgiving. One child Her child woke up one morning to a body that betrayed her. Legs that used to dance now locked like doors that forgot how to open. And this mother… this mother learned to lift more than weight she lifted worlds. She lifted hope. She lifted her child's spirit even when her own was collapsing. And her other baby… God help her her other baby got shot. Not once. Not twice. Eleven times. Eleven bullets like punctuation marks trying to end a story she refused to let die. She sat in hospital rooms where time stops breathing. She held hands that shook like falling ceilings. She bargained with God, with nurses, with destiny, with whatever for...

 TO THE ONES WHO STAY  There are people in this life who don’t share my blood, but they carry my spirit like a soft lantern they keep lit even on the nights I lose my own fire. These are my people my good friends, my chosen kin, the ones who step into my life and love me like they’ve been rehearsing it for generations. See… some folks are friends by title, but the real ones the ones I’m talking about they love you in verbs. In action. In that “I’ll pull up right now” energy. In that “you don’t gotta explain…just breathe, I’m here” consistency. These are the friends who become family, the family who become home, the home that become sanctuary. They’re the people who look at me and don’t just see who I am they see everything I survived to get here. They know the chapters I don’t read out loud, the pages I burned, the margins where I wrote prayers in handwriting too shaky to share. And still, they stayed. Still, they loved me. Still, they he...

"Displaced Love" A type of Love that wanders is Grief it is not a thief, though it feels like one. It can become unwanted in the night time, pull the air from your lungs, leaves you hollow a room where echoes stay and live. But listen closer that hollow is not empty. It hums. It vibrates. It aches because love has no place to go, displaced  See, grief is love, exiled and wandering, a letter returned with no address, a song with no ears to catch it, a prayer that ricochets off the sky. It hurts god, it hurts because it is proof that you have touched something sacred. The ache is the evidence. The heaviness is the monument. The tears are the altar, and painful reminder of loss And though the wound feels endless, healing does not mean forgetting. Healing is the scar, the reminder carved deep that love once burned here, bright enough to leave its mark like a brand. Grief bends you but it bends you toward tenderness. Though it may start at anger and sorrow...

Power To the  R.E.V.O.L.U.T.I.O.N  Revolution… ain’t just noise. It’s R.E.V.O.L.U.T.I.O.N. Rising Every Voice, Opening Light, Unleashing Truth In Our Nation. It’s the sound of change before the world can name it. The moment before thunder realizes it’s about to split the sky. But listen closely… you hear that middle word inside Revolution? Cause every Revolution is an Evolution a shedding of the old skin, a remembering of what we were before fear taught us to shrink. Evolution is the quiet fire in the bones of the brave. It’s the shift in the spirit before the march hits the street. Revolution hits different when you realize it’s not just about breaking chains… It's about growing wings. See, Revolution ain’t destruction It's Rebuilding Every Vision, Opening Love, Uniting Truth Inside Our Nation. It’s rebirth through fire. It’s evolution in motion. It’s the ancestors whispering, “Child, rise you were never meant to crawl.” Revolution is what happens when grief grows...

I been fighting so long, my prayers sound like war cries now. Every “amen” feels like a weapon I barely know how to swing and still… I swing. One battle after another, storms stacking like unpaid bills, grief collecting like interest I never agreed to. Every time I think I can rest, life whispers, “Not yet.” And I’m back in the ring bare-knuckled against shadows that know my name. I’ve learned silence can scream louder than any siren. It echoes in my bones, those lonely nights when my heart won’t stop aching, shaking from the pain. People say, “You’re strong you got this.” But they never see the part where strength looks like curling up in the corner of your own faith, whispering to God through tears, “Please don’t let me break again.” There’s a kind of loneliness that doesn’t just ache it hunts. It waits until your chest is hollow, until you start to believe that peace must live somewhere beyond this life. Then...It starts whispering sweet invitations to the nothingness, c...

  They say, hurt people hurt people and I believe them. But the question that gnaws me hollow is this: why do I keep choosing me as the target? I don’t throw fists, don’t spit venom, but I’ve learned to bruise myself in quieter ways. Like cutting sunlight out of my own sky, like shoving daggers into my own reflection with words sharpened by shame. I tell the mirror stories that are half lies, half curses, and I swallow them whole because the echo in my head still carries my mother’s silence her absence, her stillness that screamed louder than any slap. And my father’s rage the kind that made walls tremble and left me convinced love was a battlefield I’d never survive. So I became my own executioner. I set fires in my chest just to watch my peace burn. I build bridges with trembling hands only to strike the match before my feet dare step forward. Every time I try to hold myself, I let go first. I hand out love recklessly, emptying pockets that were ne...