Floetry From the Heart

             To the Core of You I don’t just love you on the surface not in the shallow places where words float and disappear like breath on cold glass. I love you to the core. To the marrow of your becoming, to the quiet chambers where your truth hums even when your voice forgets how to speak it. I love you to the corps the army of versions of you that had to rise, fall, rebuild, and still salute the morning like survival was a sacred duty. I see your prophecy. Not the one the world tried to write over you but the one etched in your spirit before doubt ever learned your name. I see it in the way your mind stretches galaxies out of nothing, in the way your intelligence isn’t just learned it’s lived, it’s carved from experience, it’s brilliance that refuses to dim even when life tried to close the curtain early. And I love you there. At the core of your trauma not to reopen wounds, but to sit gently beside them and remind you that what trie...

           The Beaded Malkia A circle of stories rests in her palm Its not just a bracelet, but a quiet kingdom strung together in rhythm woven in memory. Each bead speaks. The amber glows like sunset on ancestral soil, warm, unshaken it carries the memory of fire, of women who walked through flame and came out named light. The glass beads, painted and imperfect, whisper of hands that crafted beauty from breath and patience art born not from excess, but from spirit. They are her laughter layered, colorful, never needing permission to shine. The pearls sit soft but unyielding, like her smile round, luminous, unbothered by the weight of the world. They do not crack under pressure. They become. The stones, earthy, raw, unapologetic hold the language of mountains. They say: I have been broken, shaped, pressed, and still I am here. Still I am beautiful. Wrapped around her wrist, This is not decoration. This is a declaration. She moves, and it sings s...

“Your Home” He walks through a world  that chews on his name  like it don’t deserve to be spoken whole  spits him out in pieces,  calls it survival. They weigh his skin  like it’s evidence.  Measure his voice  like it’s a threat.  Break his spirit in public  and call it policy. He carries that weight  on his back,  in his chest,  in the quiet places  no one checks for bruises. But baby…  when he reaches my door  he don’t knock. He can’t knock. Because I already told him  “This ain’t a place you visit…  this is a place you belong.” And he got the keys. Not of metal.  Nor silver.  Not something that jingles in his pocket. No  He got the keys in the way he loves me.  In the way he chooses me  even when the world won’t choose him. And me  I am the lock and the welcome,  the threshold and the prayer. I am home. A Black woman  with walls built not from brick...

I am not broken. Let me say that first. I roll just fine on my own, steady, seasoned, edges softened by time. But there is a space in me that is not emptiness it is invitation. Not a hole begging to be filled, not a crack crying repair, but a curve shaped by purpose, waiting for what fits without force. As we do it naturally... I don’t want to go into another year of circling the same days, calling solitude strength when it’s really just habit wearing a brave face. I want to move forward with some-one not carried, not completed, but accompanied. Someone whose presence does not slow my joy or rush my healing. Someone who rolls beside me at my natural pace, laughing when we wobble, patient when the road is uneven. I am not searching for perfection. I am searching for alignment. For the one who adds value to my spirit, who sharpens my kindness, who makes my silence feel full instead of lonely. If I walk into another year alone, let it be ...

We declare in the name of the Ancestors who survived what was meant to erase them. We declare by drumbeat, heartbeat, and holy fire we are STILL HERE. Not broken. Not borrowed. Not finished. Kwanzaa is not a holiday it is a homecoming . Umoja rises in the room. Unity not as theory, but as choice. As practice. As promise. I will not survive alone. Kujichagulia lives in our mouths self-determination naming us when the world gets it wrong. We speak ourselves free. Ujima... hands linked, shoulders touching. Because freedom is too heavy to carry solo. Ujamaa... love circulating like currency. We invest in our own because survival taught us how. Nia... purpose in every step. Every breath an assignment. We are not lost. We are intentional. Kuumba... turning pain into beauty, beauty into prophecy. We make something sacred out of everything. Imani... faith when the evidence is thin. Faith when the road is long. Faith in us. Now light the candles. Red. for the struggle that sharpened...

  We were fluent in the language no one teaches. No mouths moving. No sound breaking the air. Just eyes brave enough to speak what lips were too afraid to confess. Across crowded rooms, our glances found each other like magnets remembering their purpose. Blink. Pause. Hold. That was a paragraph. A tilt of the head that was a question. The slow inhale behind your eyes that was an answer that changed everything. We said  Are you okay? We said  I see you. We said  I know you’re trying. All without a single syllable leaving our bodies. Our eyes held secrets that would’ve collapsed under the weight of sound. They carried history, hesitation, hunger immeasurable conversations compressed into seconds that stretched like eternity. In that silence, we told the truth. We spoke about longing without asking for permission. We admitted fear without shame. We confessed love without demanding a response. Because some connections are too sacred to be spoken a...