They taught us
to treat rest like a reward
for our exhaustion
instead of a birthright.
Birthright
Tag: poetry
Black Joy
Nobody talks about society’s addiction
to black trauma.
How much more profitable
it is to talk about pain
than poems,
depression
than joy.
Like we don’t have feelings
just bad experiences
turned into songs
of sorrows
and spirituals
of reaching heaven
cause there can’t be no freedom
here on Earth for Black people.
Maybe this world still doesn’t consider us
human enough
to be happy
someone hand society a roadmap
for getting to know black people.
Tell them they can find us laughing
even when life is lifeing
cracking jokes and turning sadness into praise.
Tell them we are not just guns and gangs.
Our hope does not hang on by string
on some cracked-out corner
or trap house
Tell them how we dream.
Big Mama musta had mustard seeds
underneath the mattress
cause she moved mountains.
Food and faith ain’t never been hard to find.
We gone eat.
Talk about our love
our sense of community
our building
our builders
our beauty.
We’ve had a wild ride here
in this country
But it was not all bad.
Together, we forged a world of our own
found solace in the cracks
made meals from scraps
and carved out our own sense of enjoyment and purpose.
Tell them about how the cells of a black woman
saved the world
and the genius of a Black man lit it up.
Talk about how we bless everything we touch.
Tell the whole truth
that we are not made up only of pain.
Joy lives here, too.
You can listen to this poem on TikTok and YouTube! I’m @yecheilyah on both.
Black History Facts is back! If you’ve been waiting for a signed copy, this is your chance to get your hands on it. We are back in stock. Go now to: https://www.blkhistorybook.com/.
To Be Human
I have learned not to neglect the physical
because I live on the physical.
How can I ignore the earth when I was born from it?
Not the first womb.
Not the first place my human self called home.
And I have learned not to neglect the spiritual
because it is higher than the physical.
It will help me to transcend the works of my flesh.
Both important.
Both necessary.
Neither forsaken.
Oh nothing, just getting back to my poetry.
One More Game
From my eighth-floor window
I could hear hope bounce back and forth
on concrete loitered with crack vials.
Dirt-caked Nikes were like hands
reaching for revolution
in the air.
It didn’t get them out of the projects,
but Jordan would have been proud
the way these boys balled.
It kept their bodies distracted from the hunger
of not eating for three days.
Here, many children raised themselves.
Forced to grow up without grownups.
It’s a strange thing not to have parents
strange the way these kids parented
themselves.
Adults in small bodies
swallowing their pride for one more game.
They might not eat today,
but boy, how they balled.
This was inspired by the real events of growing up in The Robert Taylor Projects as a kid in early 90s Chicago. Head over to my TikTok @yecheilyah to listen to the poem.
Our 6th Annual Poetry Contest is on the Way!
Stay Glued.
Our Children
You are fourteen,
and despite the childish laughter—
the one smoother than the fresh coat of love
on a baby’s skin—
your mothers must warn you
that certain skin tones
won’t allow you to flash open innocence.
You are not allowed to purchase candy,
tell jokes,
or ring the wrong doorbell.
Certain histories won’t let you forget the present
or permit childhood to take advantage
of your fingertips.
Responsibilities follow you home
in warm booties, blankets, and prophecies.
If you had known that your existence
would give birth to a movement,
long before your feet hit the ground.
Before your mother’s pelvis
danced against your father’s,
and his kiss brushed upon her skin…
Did they tell you that you were born for this?
Did they tell you about the cries of Israel
when they reached into the heavens like hands
just as heavy as your parent’s hearts,
knocking against the doors of heaven
because too many of their prayers ended in question marks?
Did they tell you that you were destined for this?
That you had the freedom movement
stamped to your backside
like a receipt back to the soil.
Like your fathers had to spit their seed into a melody,
an Amazing Grace and Birmingham Sunday,
carving its lyrics and your names
into the history books of our yet unborn.
And while you rest
they march scripture on the bed
of your misunderstood self.
Let No One Censor You
Your written content
your voice
copy
blog posts
texts, captions
the way you capture feeling on the page
contextualize thought
empower us through emotion
breathe life into the human experience
remind us what it feels like to live
to remember
minister to our memory
and most sacred truths
the way you poet
your words, spoken or written is, power.
A historical document your grandchildren
will one day cherish
resist the urge to withhold words
hold them like you once held your babies
precious and true
their bodies snug in the crook of your arm
and the warmth of your chest
Wrap your arms around this text:
Your intellectual scholarship has merit.
Let it be a legacy for the next generation
Gift them this birthright.
So we may have a right to a better future.
Let no one censor you into silence.
Not even yourself.
In Case No One Told You
They say not even twins have the same fingerprint
which means there is literally no one just like you.
Even the ground is confused in the way that you walk
when you wake, the earth
quakes
and shudders, and the sun smiles.
It peaks from behind the clouds
illuminating heaven-bound highways
it is waiting for you
to let your own light shine.
Just listen to how the wind stutters your name
You precious one.
You rarity.
You delicate rock.
You towering mountain.
You are not only golden
you are gold.
Hair like wool
skin like silk
You are historic.
Your mother and father’s prophecy in one body
a history unto yourself.
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