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 one 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 fo...

                                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 han...

"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...

“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 strength 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 be...

"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 ...