Floetry From the Heart

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...

I Am N'gamè  (pronounced ING-Gaum-ay) The ancestors named me N'game' Birthed from dreams the Goddess sent messages, I unfolded and  was molded into existence.  And all the while my Blackness is political? They write white poems with tongues too tired to wrap around my name as if N’gamé is too much labor for a mouth that recites Neruda with ease. As if my syllables are a disruption instead of a drumbeat. And when I ask them to try, they sigh, call it “difficult, or interesting” as if my name owes them comfort, as if the flow of a poem should not be disturbed by the fullness of me.     From the breath in my lungs to the spelling of my name from how I enter a room to how I leave it without breaking. My skin walks in before my words do. My voice gets questioned before it gets heard. And even in silence, they’ve already judged my presence a protest. See, they told me: Make it easier. Make it lighter. Make it quieter. So I swallowed my roots and let them ...

  "I am the Diaspora" We Are the Seed and the Soil on this earth, first people created to permeated for greatness. I am the echo of drums carved in Congo wood, baptized in Mississippi mud, a bridge between continents and contradictions I am not from one land, but from the scattered stars of many skies. You see me and say “American.” But my soul knows rhythms that never bowed to borders. My skin, a patchwork of ancestry, my tongue, a multiverse of stolen dialects and survival slang. They stole us ripped roots from red soil , dragged kingdoms across Atlantic storms, and tried to turn gods into property, royalty into cargo. But we don’t disappear. We transform. From the cotton fields to corner stoops, from hush harbors to Harvard halls, we carved Blackness into brilliance. We built this country with hands still bleeding from the whips of its blueprint. But not just here Not just North America’s song,  In Brazil , we live in the samba and the ...

  "No Trust, Still" I stepped out. Not in confidence. Not in light. But in defiance. Of everything that told me “People don’t stay.” Of every door slammed in my face by hands that once held mine. I move not because I believe but because I’m tired of standing still in this dead weight silence where hope used to breathe. They say trust is a bridge. But mine was burned. Not by me, but by those who swore they’d never light the match. So now, every voice sounds like smoke. Every smile feels like a setup. And every hand is a trigger for the memory of when I needed someone and they left. This isn’t a poem about healing. Not yet. This is the moment before the scar where the wound is still fresh but I’m still walking. Because something in me still wants to believe. Still wants to see someone and not flinch. Still wants to give without measuring what’s left. Still wants to open without breaking. So I carry this shattered trust like glass in my po...

  “You Think You Know” You walk like certainty, shoulders carrying the weight of all the answers, a man forged in fire, pride and yet also spirit , unshaken, unbothered, untouchable. And yet I see you. Not the mask, not the voice that commands a room, but the silence when no one is looking. You think you know who I am, what I feel, what I need but you’ve only skimmed the surface, only touched the edges of a depth you haven’t dared to drown in. You love with armor on, fight with words instead of presence, and still believe you hold the map to this heart. But I am not a puzzle to be solved by assumption. I am a storm you’ve never stood in, a prayer you’ve never spoken with trembling lips, a truth that doesn’t beg to be understood but burns quietly, waiting to be met. You think you know. But you have no idea. ~ N'game' 🦋

Poetry is a love letter to the soul scribbled in silence, whispered in storms, where every line is a fingertip tracing the bruises we forgot to name. It’s breath made ink, a mirror that sees beneath skin, where truth and tenderness hold hands and call each other home. Where pain sings when your all alone. N'gamé 🦋

"The Beautiful Butterfly" I am the beautiful butterfly not born in beauty, but becoming it. I was once cocooned in silence, wrapped tight in shadows, folded into corners of doubt where even light feared to land. But don’t mistake my stillness for surrender. Stillness is a strategy. Stillness is strength disguised. And when I burst forth I burst like truth through the lies, like dawn through a night that forgot the sun was coming. Wings soft as whispers, but strong enough to part storms. Each pattern etched with pain I’ve transformed into power, into poetry, into prayer. Yes—my wings shimmer. Not in spite of my scars because of them. See, they say fragility floats, but I don’t just float—I fly. Through winds meant to break me. Through skies that never promised safety. I fly with elegance, because violence taught me grace. I soar not to escape, but to rise. Don’t mistake my gentleness for weakness. My softness is rebellion. My tenderness? A war cry. I am fierce in forgiveness, ...

Without Knowing Her You wanna touch galaxies in her thighs but never studied the constellation of her eyes. Speak of "infinite possibilities" like she’s some uncharted map but you never bothered to learn the language her soul bleeds in. You want to dive into the deep sea curves of her hips, crave the current, but can’t name the storm that shaped her tides. Wanna inhale her skin like sacred smoke, but choke when asked to sit in silence and listen to her mind combust. You marvel at the architecture of her form but ignore the architect the mind, the memory, the moment she became a temple not just a body. You call her "mystery," but never read the prologue, never traced the sacred texts etched in her stretch marks or the scripture sewn between her insecurities and strength. You want her body without dancing with her shadow, without facing the mirror she becomes when she loves. Without holding space for her stories that scream and whisper in the same breath. You speak of...

  For the Kueens Who Catch Me They call me wild offbeat, maybe a little too loud, thinking too much, feeling too deep, and loving like storms that don’t ask permission. But you you never flinch when my thunder rolls. You, older Black women from different nations, my walking, breathing, royalty you been through fires I ain't even imagined, and still, you show up for me with a love that don’t crack and a patience that humbles my chaos. You hold me in the curves of your arms like gospel, speaking healing into my tired soul with that tone that only women who been through the wilderness can carry rough and sweet like blues, soft like cornbread, strong like oak trees growing in concrete. You see me not for who the world says I should be but who I am in all my sacred, struggling, stuttering becoming. And you still choose to stay. Aunties, Mamas, Godmothers, Elders Queens in head wraps and halos, with hands that healed generations and eyes that can cut through my mask with one knowing glan...

Your Walk with God You... You are more than just man, you are divine evidence of what happens when the soul learns how to kneel before the throne and rise again, still holy , still human, but laced with heaven’s fingerprints. You carry God in your breath. Every word you speak ain’t just language it’s living water , refreshing the desert places of my spirit that I forgot were even dry. I’ve watched the way you love the Lord in silence and in sacrifice, how your hands build without boast, how your prayers reach places that even my tears don’t know how to go. And somehow by just being you’ve made me better. Not by force. Not by fear. But by being the kind of man whose life whispers, “This is what grace looks like in motion.” Your walk with God has made me want to walk straighter. Your truth has made me confront mine. Your patience has quieted storms inside me that I used to think were just part of being alive. You have shown me that love doesn’t mea...

Let Go, Let God  "In most cases holding on does more damage than letting go I know this in my head, but tell that to my soul."    I’ve been clenching pain like a lifeline, Fingers wrapped tight 'round the thorny vine, Thinking if I hold it long enough     It’ll turn into purpose, or peace, or love. But pain is not a seed that grows good fruit. It depletes and poisons the root.  And God’s been whispering, "Child, it’s time… let it go." “Cast your burdens on the Lord, and He will sustain you.” (Psalm 55:22) But I didn’t want to I wanted to understand it. To analyze the ache, To make sense of the betrayal, To replay every scene of my heartbreak Like I could rewrite it through regret. But all it ever gave me… was heaviness. And God… God don’t speak through chains, He speaks through release. Through peace that surpasses Even my trauma’s loudest screams. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28) My test...

"Undress Me" Don’t take off your clothes yet I want to undress your silence. Unbutton the guarded places in your voice, let me hear what your past has whispered when no one else was listening. Undress me with your truth Let me press my palms against the windows of your thoughts, watch how the light changes when you speak of your dreams, the ones that never made it past the paper. The ones too wild, too tender for the world’s blunt hands. I want to touch you where no fingers go in the cathedral of your mind, where your logic meets your longing. Show me how you think, how you build your truths like bridges even when your own weight is too much to bear. Your soul… I want to taste the pages of your becoming. Read your story aloud until I forget where my breath ends and yours begins. Trace your pain with my presence, not to fix it just to witness its shape, hold it like something sacred, because it is. Tell me about your mother. Tell me what broke you, what mended you imperfectly....

  “Mouthful of Meteorites: An Ode to BMMNM” You Rhythm in resistance, voice like a war cry carved from thunder. You crack the silence wide open, spitting syllables that shatter lies like the truth got fed up with whisperin’. I hear you In cipher circles lit with fire, where your words don’t just rhyme, they resurrect . Dead dreams get a second breath when you bless the mic. You said: "Sound is a weapon—I aim it at the system." And bruh… I felt that. Because when you speak? It ain’t rap. It’s reckoning. It’s revelation wrapped in rhythm. Each bar you drop ain’t just art it’s architecture. Blueprints for liberation. Each beat a brick in the path to freedom you been walkin’ since day one. And I remember when you stood on that stage and said: "I ain’t here to entertain, I’m here to awaken." And the crowd ain’t cheer. They listened. Because real spit don’t need applause it catches souls in silence. Your verses? They ain't just verses they holy scripture. A psalm fo...

"Seen" Let me be seen not just the surface sheen but the sacred scream beneath the silence. The me I’ve buried beneath laughter and light, the raw, the cracked Lalique  aching for touch that doesn’t shatter. I am not just skin and story. I am scripture a verse etched in scars, a prayer whispered through clenched teeth at midnight, begging God: “Please, send me someone who won’t flinch at the mess.” I want to undress not just clothes, but centuries of a guarded soul, pull back the armor I wore like second skin because this world taught me survival meant silence. But you… You walk like you’ve met divinity and shook her hand. You look at me like the moon looks at the tide not to own it, but to move it. You hold space like it’s holy ground, and I wonder... could I pour myself into your open palms and not be dropped? I want to speak to you in truths too tender for small talk. Tell you how I flinch at love because I’ve only known it conditional. Tell you I cried during a song once,...

Just a Moment in Time He is not mine. ..nor was the last... nor the one before him who lingered too long in the corridors of my mind, whispering sweet philosophies like borrowed lines from a book we both forgot to finish. You see, no man is mine. Not even the ones who touch my thoughts with the gentleness of knowing. Not even the ones who pull up a chair in my psyche, sip slowly from the chalice of my intellect and call it "communion." We connect yes. Words like bridges. Ideas like wine. The buzz of thought, shared in late-night dialogues, our minds entangled in something that feels like forever... but always smells faintly of temporary. And when they say, "You're different..." I smile like a woman who hasn't heard it before, because I have been the spark in too many thunderclouds to mistake a lightning flash for something that stays. He. Is not. Mine. Not in body, not in bond, not in the way his gaze lingers a second too long on the architecture of my knowi...

“The Underlying Truth” By  N'game' There’s a saying I live by etched deep like graffiti on the soul of my silence. And it goes like this: "The Underlying Truth Reads:  What a person believes determines how they live, and how a person lives reveals more clearly what they believe  regardless of what they say." Let that sit with you. Not skimmed on the surface, but swallowed whole like truth with no chaser. 'Cause everybody’s talking these days, Spitting doctrines with hollow tongues, Preaching peace while waging private wars, Wearing crosses but crucifying with their judgments, Talking love but laced in control. See Belief ain’t what you post, It’s what you practice. It ain’t just what you preach, It’s what you persist in when nobody claps. Belief shows up in the choices you make when comfort costs you your convictions. Do you believe in justice, but only when it favors your kin? Do you believe in grace, but only when you’re the one falling short? Do you believe in ...