Floetry From the Heart

  “Sanctuary of Trust” I have wounds I never showed daylight, Bruises beneath the skin that never bruised right. Secrets folded in the corners of my soul Origami pain Shaped from silence, Pressed by shame. There are parts of me Even the mirror has never met. Whispers I hush with laughter, Tears I rehearse when the world forgets. But I… I want to trust. Not just the feel-good, peac e-sign kind, But the soul-baring, storm-sharing kind. The kind that opens my rib cage like stained glass windows So someone can pray inside. I want to love without trembling at the hinge of vulnerability. To say: “Here I am,” unpolished And not fear abandonment will echo back. See, I have been The safe for too many confessions, The box that locked down brokenness To protect everyone else from its mess. But now I long To unlock myself. I long to believe That someone can hold the parts I hide And not shatter under the weight. That divinity don’t flinch at my darkness, That Spirit can dance in the very place...

  "WARSHIP" This is not worship… This is war-ship. Not just hands raised, but swords gripped. Not just hallelujahs, but battle cries in the Spirit. Because every knee that bows Does so in the face of fire, And every tongue that confesses Shouts through the smoke of spiritual war-zones. I don’t sing to stay pretty I sing to stay free. I don’t pray because I’m polished I pray because hell’s after me. Because demons don’t flinch at cute devotionals, They retreat at bloody knees, cracked voices, Tongues burning with Holy Ghost fire That can’t be rehearsed, Only lived. So I armor up. Ephesians 6 ain't a metaphor It's my dress code. Helmet tight, breastplate bold, Shield up for every dart flung at my soul. The enemy comes camouflaged In doubt, desire, distraction But I stay posted on the deck of my Warship, Eyes locked on the Captain, Christ crucified, risen, and still commanding. This ain’t just praise, This is strategy. Every song is a sword. Every Scripture A sharpened s...

                                “An Ode to Freedom Month (For the Black Woman Who Still Rises)” They call it Freedom Month But I been breathing resistance since birth, Born with chains echoing in my bones, Still taught my skin is a battlefield. Freedom, ain’t just fireworks in the sky, It’s the quiet rebellion of my grandmother’s eyes Watching a world try to shrink her soul While she still baked joy into cornbread and survival into lullabies. I walk in her steps, a Black woman in a white world Where I’m called too much and not enough In the same damn breath. But I know now: I am carved from cosmos, my hair holds constellations, my voice—ancestral thunder. Being free isn’t just a legal line, it’s the right to be without apology. To laugh loud in boardrooms. To take up space without shrinking. To wear my coils like crowns and speak truth even when it trembles. But freedom isn’t solita...

 "Ancestral Wisdom Speaks" I been walking with old ghosts, Ancestors in my bones, Whispers in hieroglyph tones Tell me: you ain’t alone. This ain't new, This is Nile-born truth, Papyrus scrolls dressed in melanin and youth, We the future breathin’ through a sacred past, Wisdom made for now, designed to last. They say: “Know thyself.” Not just your trauma, Not just your grind, But your divine design — the sacred thread in your spine. Walk in Maat, That balance ain’t a vibe, It’s the justice in your stride, The truth in your reply when your ego tries to lie. Your tongue? That’s a wand. Spell-castin’ with syllables. Speak light or curse yourself— every word is spiritual. Discipline is the altar. Your habits, your prayer. What you repeat is what you raise — so raise it with care. Honor your roots. You ain't self-made, You a harvest of prayers, A drumbeat of names. Somebody survived so you could dream. Somebody died so you could speak. So when you rise, rise humble. When y...

  "Motherless Child" I’m a motherless child... A shadow swallowed by the sun a flicker of warmth in a world that keeps turning cold. Born with a heart that was already grieving, a cradle never rocked, a lullaby never sung, but a spirit that somehow… still refused to die young. The echoes of her voice what did it even sound like? Were there lullabies buried in her lungs? Were there stories she might've whispered, if only time had given us one? Now it’s just silence the kind that screams, whispers that live in winds I can't hold, like reaching out to hug smoke always slipping through, always gone as if she never existed. I reach out, still alone. Still aching in places that have no name. Tell me… where does healing begin when the wound was there before the memory? She was never there to hold me. Never traced the shape of my fear with her thumb, never kissed the nightmares off my skin. I’ve had to raise myself from ashes, mothering the child in me with trembling hands, l...

"Black Sweat" Your skin, a dusk-drenched canvas of cocoa and cream, melanin-rich and dripping in moonlight’s dream. I trace your back  slick with sweat, each droplet a star gliding down the midnight of who you are. We glisten  Black bodies in motion, in rhythm, in sync, not just fuckin’, but feelin’ like soul-deep links. You thrust, and I receive. I ride, and you believe. In this moment, we be Black art, Black fire, Black sex with Black desire. Sweat be baptizin’ us, skin be choosin’ us, lips locked in the gospel of moans and cuss. Ain’t no shame in this sin, only freedom in the friction. We grind like we writin’ history with hips, in motion, in conviction. Your hands map my thighs like griots tellin’ truth  this ain't just lust, baby, this is proof: That Black love is lush, and Black touch is deep, and we still holy even when we don’t sleep. So breathe me in  thick as incense in a juke joint. Let the sweat talk. Let the skin preach. Let the thrust teach what the anc...

  O’hene’ An Ode to the Sons of Kings You rise each morning with the weight of the world on your chest. And still — You rise. Unshaken. Bold. Unfurled. Black man, you are strong. Resilient. Carved from stone and fire. Capable of walking through storms that don’t even bother to call your name. But you answer them anyway — with courage. A Black man’s skin...Your Skin is rich as soil — deep, rooted, royal. Each scar? A story. Each step? A sacred place. You don’t just carry history... You are history. Because your ancestors didn’t die — they dreamt of you and they dreamt of me . We are the promise they whispered in chains. You are the prayer they buried in cotton fields. You are the sunrise they never got to see. But I see you And I hope you see it every morning when you look in the mirror. You are worthy . Of love that sees you whole. Of respect that doesn’t shrink your soul. Of joy — not in pieces. Of rest — without guilt. Of light — without askin...