Floetry From the Heart

                                    Metanoia  ( is the profound transformative change of heart and mind and energy just like the butterfly changes)  ​Listen. They told you, change was a coat you could just put on. A new coat of paint, a superficial shift, a resolution at the turn of the year. But they lied to you. Real change? Real shift? It demands a funeral. ​Metanoia. It’s not a makeover. It’s a dismantling. It is the midnight of the mind where the old constructs must shatter, where who you were must lay down and breathe its absolute last, because you cannot inherit the dawn while you are still clinging to the dark. You have to die to change. ​Look at the butterfly. We love the wings. We write poetry about the flight. But we skip the violence of the sanctuary. We forget that inside the ribcage of that chrysalis, there is no magic wand. There is only a quiet, absolute d...

             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...