Floetry From the Heart

“Beyond the Veil” I don’t just see your face, I see the silence between your breaths, the tremor in your hands you hide when the world is watching. I see the wars you never declared, the scars stitched quiet under your smile, the places where laughter tries to cover what never healed. I see you beyond the veil of casual conversations, past the hurt that taught you to build walls, beyond even the joy you hold like a lantern in a storm. I see the fractures that let light leak out, the midnight thoughts that don’t have names, the moments you almost drowned but chose to rise. Your soul hums like a hymn too ancient for language, a music older than pain, resonating in the quiet rhythm of your eyes. And it’s beautiful. Not the kind of beauty they sell in windows or magazines, but the kind born of surviving, the kind that bends but does not break, the kind that sings even when the throat is dry with sorrow. I don’t see perfection. I see something truer the raw and unpolished, the s...

I owe myself an apology. For every discount I gave away like clearance tags on my soul. For letting people cross oceans with my heart in their hands, while they wouldn’t even leap a puddle for me. I am sorry... for the nights I forgot my worth, for the days I folded my shine to fit inside someone else’s shadow, for thinking love meant less of me, just so someone else could feel like more. But listen... I am not standing in that same reflection anymore. Now, I breathe in self-love so deep it echoes through my bones. Beyond each breath, I feel grace cradle me, like God himself whispered, “Daughter, your worth was never a bargain bin.” Now I love myself with a fierceness that needs no permission, no applause, no receipt. I give myself time to heal in the right places, with patience, with intention, so when love does arrive, it won’t be counterfeit. It will be the kind of love that mirrors the way I finally learned to love me ... richly, fully, without condition. I walk different now. Not ...

We speak in the language of breath, the short syllables between heartbeats ... your palm an atlas, mapping the small of my spine, your fingers bookmarking the places I forget exist. You do not beg for entry; you command it, and my yes is a fuse I light with my own mouth. Leather sighs. Rope sings. Our room is a cathedral of focused intent, lit by low moons of skin. Grip: measured. Gaze: deliberate. Every inch of authority you offer is an invitation I answer with knees that remember how to bend. The world outside thins to a single taut line ... your voice pulling me along it like a tide. I taste your decisions on my tongue ... salt and smoke and a promise I can’t refuse. My heartbeat is a drum under your thumbs, and you play it raw and honest until the rhythm makes me ache. There is ritual here: calibration of pain and pleasure, consent folded like prayer, the sacred countdown of limits named and honored. You place my edges like candles on a map, and I b...

It is Enough I was born in the shadows of sinners and saints, where mercy and madness sat side by side, where hymns were sung loud enough to cover the secrets but never loud enough to silence the truth. where in the same pews, sin and righteousness co-exist. I was raised in the house of God, not the spotless kind you see in picture books, but the kind where survival was a prayer, where faith was less about sermons and more about breathing through the storm. The blood on my lips and the dirt on my face that is the relationship I have with God. It is bruised. It is battered. It is not pretty, but it is present. It is not polished, but it is powerful. It’s all the relation I’ve got. And still still I hear the psalmist cry inside me: “The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?” When enemies rose like shadows around me, when betrayal walked through my door, when abandonment slept in my ...

"The Faded Anella Reborn" I. Anella, the dye of blood and birth, poured from the hands of African earth you colored our palms before we knew the meaning of red. Not red like roses. Red like revolution. A deep Red like memory. Brownish Red like the soil that swallowed our names and grew empires on our backs. II. They came with steel-tipped tongues, forked with greed and scripture, branding borders onto our bodies called it map-making, called it salvation, called it progress as if we were standing still. But even then, Anella whispered through the veins of griots and the lullabies of mothers humming futures into infants’ ears. III. Anella faded not gone, just smudged by imperial reign. Whitewashed walls tried to rinse her out with shame, with silence, with colonial ink scrawling “you are not enough” across our history. They thought pigment was power until they saw how deep color runs when it’s soul-born. IV. Anella is a phoenix in silk form— every time they try to bleach her, ...

] I am not your stereotype Not the "strong Black woman" trope you lean on, Not the docile damsel you dismiss. My kindness is not submission; It's a deliberate act of rebellion. I will greet you with warmth, But don't mistake my grace for weakness, because grace is given by the strong at heart I will uplift you, But don't think I won't check you, make you see through the third eye in 4D. Come correct, or don't come at all. Periot. I am the symphony of my ancestors' prayers, The manifestation of their wildest dreams, created right under the baobab tree, from the rib of their roots. And make no mistake, I am not here to make you comfortable; I am here to be apologetically me. with a liberated soul who speaks only truth to the darkness from the heart of light So, allow me to reintroduce myself: I am power wrapped in melanin, I am softness fortified by fire, I am the storm you didn't see coming, I am the calm after the storm, I am the revolution. I Am u...