Floetry From the Heart

           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...