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...

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...

This is not just a friendship. This is an arrival. The kind of knowing that feels ancient, like our spirits shook hands before our mouths ever learned each other’s names. We laugh... not the polite kind, but the soul-loosening, tear-in-the-eye, bend-at-the-waist laughter that reminds me joy is holy work. With you, silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels listened to. Like God is sitting between us, nodding. Our conversations don’t skim the surface... we dive. Into our purpose. Into our pain. Into our prayers. We speak truth without bruising each other, hold mirrors instead of stones, correct with compassion, and love with intention. That’s agape. Love that doesn’t keep score. Love that stays... Love. that. says, “I see you fully...I do. and I’m not afraid.” You honor my becoming. You respect my boundaries like sacred ground. You celebrate my light without trying to borrow it. And in your faith your devotion, your way of loving God out loud from your soul... I am reminded that b...

“The Weight Of" I. The Soft Openings I am the kind of person who can cry over a panda and a cat sharing a bowl of sunlight, two creatures that don’t even speak the same language but still understand the vocabulary of gentleness. That kind of softness does something to me It opens a door in my chest I didn’t even realize I’d locked to survive. Some days, wonder sneaks up on me like a child tugging my sleeve saying, “Look. Look at how beautiful the world can be.” And I do. And I break a little. And I heal a little more. II. The Weight of the World But being sensitive I mean really sensitive is a job with no clock-out time. I watch the news, and the hurt of strangers clings to me like smoke in my clothes. Every headline is a prayer or a warning, and I carry both because my soul doesn’t know how to travel light. I feel the tremble behind every mother’s voice, the shaking in a city after sirens stop, the quiet of a community trying to remember how to breathe again. And I wo...

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 Her 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 for...

 TO 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 handwriting too shaky to share. And still, they stayed. Still, they loved me. Still, they he...

"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 Black man 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 unpolis...

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, ...