Greetings, Esteemed Readers!
Today, we are proud to introduce our 1st-place winner for this year’s poetry contest.
Michael Brooks is a spoken-word poet who turns lived experience, resilience, and reflection into honest, vivid performances.
His work uses rhythm and storytelling to connect with audiences and make room for voices that deserve to be heard.
But Michael can write too! His poem “Blades” scored the highest in Yecheilyah’s Annual Poetry Contest, 2026.
And without further chitter-chatter, I give you, “Blades.”
What if
I told you about
a little
Black boy
who used blades
to carve out
his name because
the world
kept trying to erase him
So he carved his way
out of the dark
with the same flashlight
the hood passed around
like heirlooms
Made a fist
with his hands
before he learned
how to write
Held a gun before
he was taught
how to
hold himself
In the clutch of a pen
he’d write into the silence
Like a
breath stitched
beneath his skin
Despite the downpours
in the breezeway
that doesn’t wash away
the blood
on the concrete
from the initiations
by the green box
where
hollow tip bullets
were called holy
The sky
was innocent
The storm came
from inside
the apartment
Violence was in his blood
before he knew
how to bleed
The sirens
sang the hook
while handcuffs hummed
Over a mother’s prayer
missing persons posters
hang next to
Flickering street lights
By nighttime
They all turn ghost
but still
papered every corner
of the neighborhood
Long story short
He survived the route
Between
the school house
and the package store
He made himself a witness
with a master’s degree
in education
What if I told you
he outgrew
his own casket
By 17
his tears
could dull a blade
By 19
the ink became too heavy
to carry
So he carved open
a chapbook
filled it with questions
his mouth forgot
how to ask out loud
questions his heart forgot
Like
I wonder if my voice sounds
like the man
my father prayed I’d become?
After all the tears
he taught me to hold
like a man
After all the pride
I inherited instead of his name
After I carved myself into someone
I didn’t recognize
realizing surviving
isn’t a ritual anymore
Maybe it is
the assignment
Because
What if my words can sew a Black boy’s wounds closed until the scar learns to heal itself?
Maybe
I can carve sadness
out of the hood before sunrise
And etch their names on
every street corner before dark falls
So the morning remembers
What the night tried to take
Daybreak asks:
How to cut out of a circle
without it becoming a noose?
You see
to hold a strange fruit
you need a tree
but in America
you need a ladder
In cities like East Atlanta
escape ranks among the lowest
a Black boy
can climb to the top
and still end up
buried beneath
The rungs
Somewhere in America
a Black boy is holding
a blade
and trying to
remember his name
While the world keeps
trying to disappear him
Let this poem be proof
that he is a survivor
I pray the ink finds him first
And he learns to hold a pen
the same way the world taught
him to hold his breath
steady like a pulse
Quiet like a scar
maybe he’ll shape a future
that finally learns
how to hold him back
maybe the sharpest thing about him will finally be his name.
– Michael Brooks, @___iammikeb
Tonight, we sit down with Brooks in an exclusive IG Live interview to learn more about him, his work, and the poem that captured our hearts. If you are over there, be sure to follow me so you don’t miss it!
When: Thursday, October 29, 2026
Time: 8:00 p.m. EST
Follow @yecheilyah to catch the live
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