poems
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The Wait is Over
I’ve been working on this collection of poetry since I released I am Soul three years ago. So much as happened in that time that most of this year feels like it happened years ago. It feels like Kobe Bryant died in 2019, but then I remember that tragedy happened earlier this year. I have… Continue reading
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Do Not Write a Poem
Do not set out to write a poem. Strip yourself of all the education you think will make you a good writer, and undress all the fluff you believe constitutes a good poem. Write only what is in your heart at this exact moment—every thread of thought and every emotion you have not the courage… Continue reading
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The Black Plague
They treated them like The Black Plague. This walking pestilence ravaging the Earth. Walking all proud-like and powerful all royalty-like and purposeful infecting generations of people with its culture, music, dance, and cornrolls. This was a virus that needed to be controlled. They could not have this thing infecting people with all this hope. COVID-19… Continue reading
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#BookReview “I am Soul” by the Incomparable Yecheilyah Ysrayl
Originally posted on Forrest takes a Journey!: Book Review “I am Soul” by the imcomparable Yecheilyah Ysrayl #RRBC #RWISA FOREMOST, It has been a long time my friends but I hope you all have remained safe and healthy. This is a crazy time we are living in right now. I have fallen behind in reviewing… Continue reading
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SugarCoated and Springtime
They get tired of hearing it. Ain’t nobody got to say it, I know that they get tired. Tired of these distractions in brown-colored skin waking up from Valley’s with muscles and tendons all conscious-like. Uncovering the blood in the American Flag— Tired, tethered, and intoxicated with his story. Unraveling the color of bigotry on… Continue reading
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If My Books Shall Die
I read James Baldwin today and realized I was carrying his bones in the crooks of my arms, and that if my books shall die, then I have labored in vain. I have swam through centuries and ran years in someone else’s shoes, I have climbed mountains and crawled under valleys only to bleed death. I have wasted my time carving obsession into paper with invisible ink, Words fallen like stars on deaf ears. If my books shall die, then let me not be born. Take me back to the safety of my mother’s womb, the privacy of not yet existing if my works have been in vain. If my books shall die, then I do not exist. Not on the tops of your shelves, or faced down on kitchen counters, or underneath your children’s beds. Honor me in the palms of your hands and not standing next to Grandmother’s old picture in the living room— Grandmother is dead and I do not wish to die. Give me my flowers today and accept the life I offer you in the form of metaphors On silver platters, For I am feeding you with silver spoons and all you’ve got to do is eat… I… Continue reading
