Tag: poems

I Promise You a Woman

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I promise you
a woman.
You see I know what kind of girls you’re used to
I know that
little black girls can’t appreciate you like I can
see
I know that
those little girls you’re used to
doesn’t know what you’ve been through cause
kindergarten fingers on small hands don’t know how to hold you
like I do
see
she pushes buttons on your heart like that
cause she’s not hip to the fact that a man
can lose focus too
but see she’s just a little girl so
she plays catch with your emotions
cause she feels that if she hits you hard enough
you’ll start coughing up tokens for her to play games with
see
I know that your body to these little girls is merely a myth
and every trip to your mouth is a quiz enveloped in living water
that she ain’t learned how to swim in yet
so she apologizes for getting lost in your kiss
and every vibration of your body simply doesn’t make sense to her
and every word of truth coming from your lips
is like a puzzle that she ain’t figured out yet
you see she’s insecure because what she’s selling has failed
and its cause the way you love to her is reminiscent of fairy tales
see
they mistake my trust for you as some kind of façade
don’t know what a real man is so they think you’re a God
to me
mistaking the heavenly embrace of your arms for wings
cause I told ‘em I’m willing to fly away with you
mistakenly discerning that you grant me wishes like milky ways & stars cause
they see me praying for you
but that’s because I’m not a little girl
so wishing upon stars we don’t have to
but your mind they can’t dissect
and your ways are hidden from them like the life of insects so
she dismisses you as too perfect & she ain’t ready for all that yet
you see I know
what kind of girls you’re used to
but what I promise you
is a woman

I promise you support sweeter than any tea you could fathom
you see I promise you words of love
not temper tantrums
I know what kind of girls you’re used to
so I promise to appreciate every inch of you
Because what I promise you
is a woman
I promise to be strong so when it comes to bearing my burdens
sweetie you don’t have to
because I promise to help and not hinder you
I promise to cry tears on your shoulders
so I can properly communicate with you
And I promise to bear soldiers and little soliderettes for you
And I promise that temptation won’t attempt to temp you
cause aint no way little girls gonna love you the way that I do
you see I promise
not to walk in your shoes
cause I’m woman enough to know that you’re the head of me
but like the neck I support you
I promise not to distrust you like they do but we gonna talk about it
and when were done
I’m gonna feed you
cause I know that I can be satisfied by the same living bread
that satisfies you
So I’m gonna love you
Beause what I promise you
I promise you
not a little girl,
but I promise you
a Woman

Dear Hip Hop…

Who Willie Lynched your mentality?
Who put you under a spell?
Why you let them teleport you back to slavery?
They could have at least made it look good
didn’t have to hang you on the block
in your own hood
from your own trees
could have bridged the gap
between the souls you “sold” for rap
could have at least duct taped pieces of the truth
so you didn’t look like the signs of the times
didn’t have to trade your crown
for nursery rhymes
spill your blood on the ground
like wasted time
look how intoxicated you are
don’t know the difference between what truth and being real is
Is we being real?
There’s a reason that last line ain’t grammatically correct
gotta spit truth a lot truthful than that
since when did speaking the Kings English
ever define being black?
since when did we become something called Black?
what is that?
if you gonna spit truth
you gotta come much harder than that
and much deeper than black
you see even your conscious rappers
ain’t wrapped tight enough
can’t baptize deception in muddy waters and call it clean
can’t metaphysical the spiritual
and call it revolutionizing the struggle
can’t call it consciousness if you still sleeping
but rebellion the only thing around here get played
and you the only people around here being played
why I still hear rappers remixing they own graves?
who put yall under a spell?
don’t know why prison statistics don’t start with the prisons
outside of jails
but then again
I guess we can’t all spit truth
the records will never sell

We Trust

Born into the ticking clock of innocence
a hurrying forth of second hands
to match the inhale and exhale of lung
we sing truth against the fragile voice of newness
and taste of the refreshing sound of belief
Trust
it is the automatic gift life births us with
against the cold relentless winds of the skies
of experience
of living
we lose sight of this gift like we age
the only circumstance in which increasing numbers
is representative of loss
a slippery lyric of experience snatching away
our inherent decision to bend
a revelation sung to the instrumentals
of life
not as gentle
not as soft
not as giving as naiveté in childhood
we learn not the automatic taste
of confidence
but the wisdom of serpents
to discern the shady tongues
the coated lips of deceit
against the cold relentless winds of life
of experience
that teaches
that we cannot trust every breathing entity
for these winds are not so trustworthy any longer
for they have grown old
and have known lies
these lungs do not sing the song of genuine
for that we trust now like serpents
and wrap ourselves
inside the delicateness of the dove

This Hair Will Not Apologize

Dread-Locs-and-Sister-Locs-Hairstyles-For-Black-WomenYou can reason all the reasons
Why I embraced the nap
Call it kinky crap like kitchen naps
Cause it no longer snaps, crackles, and pops
There are no more cracking chemicals back there
But Kings fight private battles here
There are wars taking place here
There is strength here
There is healing here
water proof and tied and died and stuck up
This is the only place to be stuck up
To be Israel
To be Egypt
To be Africa
To be Nation
We are nation here
This is covering
There are warriors prepared for battle inside these naps
queens imbedded within the cords of this scalp
the ropes in this scalp
there are ropes here
No more laughing firecrackers to crack open the coils of these bonds
There are bonds here
Long lasting and dedicated bonds here
Battle Axes live here
A bundle of twigs
Not easily broken
this hair will not apologize
so there are no sorry’s here

Write Me a Picture

A blank faced lyric
how dull is the stare of a ball point pen
bleeding empty
This collection of words all myth in mouth
colorful descriptions
that cannot pierce the skin
or cut the bone and tendons of image
What lay beyond the composition of a word undefined
What triviality is a tasteless meal
What kind of food is this
What scarlet
What fine silk
What significance are thoughts under ball pointed pens
that have no pixel
And cannot paint
That cannot walk across the bottomless ocean of sing
Cannot sing this gut
What rebellious tongue
What confusing blood from bleeding pens
Something strange these destinations duplicate
Copied vision
No fire
No engines and bare fist
No fight beyond the pretty
No pretty beyond the picture
twisted mouths
no open minds
Do you mind?
writing me a picture
viewable beyond my eyes
write me something I can see
with my gut
and feel underneath my skin
no just sound good
no just feel euphoria
but write me a picture
beyond ball pointed pens
and pixels

Courage

Close up portrait of a young african american woman looking out window when working on laptop

I know that it is never easy

to wear scarlet letters on your skin

to take history

and C-section her calendars

for the stories

that didn’t make it

until you find the authenticity

of truth

like consciousness

beautiful

but delicate

see through

and cutting

like shattering glass

piercing the spirit

and slicing through flesh and bone

so no one looks at the news the same

but for those of you

who have cherished her summers

kissed her springs

embraced the coldest winters ever

and dared to wear her degradation

on your lips

for your courage to find the other pieces

of her

the parts society is too fearful

of hearing

she bathes in your smile

because you loved her, truth

saw her delicate

and fragile

torn between the additions

and subtractions

that multiplied her sorrows

until her parts were divided

ripping her reality from the pages of scripture

like confused tongues

and babblings

snatching her away

from the breast of wisdom

like coal painted faces

minstrel shows

whitewashed genesis

cream-colored pharaohs

but she is not interested

that you feel sorry for her

history

she needs not of your pride

not of your bonafie hustlers

in prophet suits

not of your street corners

not of your liquor stores

not even of your religion

for her stone coated roses are too heavy

to place upon your caskets

for even in death

you have honored yourself

above her

truth

needs not of your chocolate bars

for history is tired of eating

she is sick

to the brim

with prophecies

and worries

and concerns

and birth pains

over those who wear her burden

like the colors of their skins

but she is thankful

that they have chosen to rather be humiliated

than to deny her

and this poem

is for all

their bravery.

When We Were Colored

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I…
I remember when we were colored.
Proud I was of this “African American” staring me in the face.
Cause see
no one could tell me
that even if this dark skin could travel many seas
I couldn’t sniff a whiff of this American dream.
My skin tone a mere distraction
stacked tall with affirmative action of pity and lost hope
Back then,
when none of these psychotic nurses could tell us
that we were only colored because of the curses.
And this is not just my story
it’s his-story
when we were colored
and our minds were locked down,
enslaved with some of the heaviest chains of emancipation
but ask a group of students who look like me
about the father of many nations,
and I guarantee you zero participation.
Cause we were colored
And when you’re colored the truth is blinded by reflections
visions of spiritual malnutrition
and pretend faiths that we are afraid to admit
still exist in us.
Because the truth of the matter is that many of us are still colored
And I have to say it has nothing to do with color,
but shades of old men and women rearing ugly heads from the grave
once more
to remind us of our worldly twins
who
refuse to stay drowned.
However the secret lies inside the depths of men’s hearts,
for these old men rise up because of our thirst to keep them there
in the past
when we were taught to reverence their forefathers
instead of our own tribes
when we were soldiers
when we were toddlers
back in the day…
when we were colored.