Tag: truth

Responsibility

Renaissance Mock-Up
Renaissance: The Nora White Story (Book One) is available now on Amazon

The so-called Black man, woman, and child have been mis-educated on several levels. We’ve been mis-educated mentally, physically, and spiritually. We have lost knowledge not just of who we are (the children of Israel) but who our creator is (Yah) and what our duty is as a people (a nation of priests). My job is to do my part to resurrect truths that have been hidden and glossed over and whitewashed for too long. Not only is this my job, but it is also my responsibility. We are responsible for what we know. If I sugarcoat or water down the facts, I am responsible for the miseducation of the so-called Black/African American in much the same way as a History teacher is responsible.

One reason I am an Independent Artist is because of the freedom to speak the truth as it is, not as people want it to be, and I cannot deviate from this. I am not here to tickle ears or to make people comfortable. That’s not what Yah has called me to do. I am a writer and that carries with it exceptional weight. For it is the writers of history who wrote the textbooks that purposely left out vital information regarding the so-called African American people. It is the writers of the world who left out information pertinent to the true identity of the so-called African American and have instead scribbled falsehood with the stroke of the pen.
It is not for me to force people to believe the truth. My job is not to judge or to condemn. My job is simple. My job is to state the facts as they are without regard to who it may offend. Otherwise, I would help to perpetuate lies.

 

It is up to us, the writers of the world, to write today exactly as it is so that our children can see history exactly as it was and are not, therefore, subjected to the same regurgitated ignorance that we were subjected to. It is up to us, the writers of the world, to hold ourselves to a higher standard because we are responsible for how the next generation will look back on today.

Yecheilyah (e-see-lee-yah) is an Author, Blogger, and Poet of nine published works. Learn more by exploring Yecheilyah’s writing on this blog and her website at yecheilyahysrayl.com. Renaissance: The Nora White Story (Book One) is available now on Amazon.com.

We Feel

Image Credit: Unsplash

We think and we feel and leak emotion in black ink in hopes to build bridges of commonality with others. Those who aren’t afraid to feel. To admit that last night had us hungover in our own feelings and that we sought to heal on paper. So, we sat there. Knee deep in tears from thoughts that marinated too long. The liquid-shaped hurt that rose from someplace we vowed to keep hidden for fear feeling wasn’t allowed. And still, we slipped up and let our thoughts hit the page where readers are left now to sit and mourn thoughts accidentally left on WordPress readers because someone left us a cracked smile. A “LOL” that came out just as twisted and crooked as reciting letters instead of coughing up a belly of laughter. You see, we don’t expect you to understand. You text in a language only your computer understands. For us? We cry out loud, dripping puddles of emotions we miracle into coherent sentences. For those of us who aren’t afraid to bleed real on the page. We feel.

Queasy

Photo by Oli Dale on Unsplash

 

Change is a sickly feeling

a nervous-like anxiety

fear of the unknown beckoning for patience

to wear itself  thin

stomach fluids swirl in the belly of futures

unknown

and yet I know the power of self-examination

of mirrors and of light

will require me to change

or let go completely

to strengthen

and to build up

to reject what once felt as close as breath

in my mouth

now a violent release of what had been

for what will be

who knew

new beginnings

could be so

queasy.

On Sacred Ground

Photo Credit: Dorné Marting, Unsplash

We planted songs

In cotton fields

Backs bent down

On our toes, our heels

Our voices prayed

When we could not

We planted songs on sacred ground.

Hope sprang from the callus on our thumbs

Watched as Massa sold our sons

Packed up freedom in the Mississippi dirt

Moved up North where pain wasn’t hurt

Silly us, couldn’t let it be

Thought strange fruit only grew on Southern Trees

Traded our crowns

In for concrete

Stopped growing our food

To buy our meat

Insects we traded for rats

Gave up the land

For the projects

Community tight, though enslaved we were

Gave up the land

To call him sir

He was after all, “The Man”

Suited and booted

like nobody can

But all that glitter, ain’t gold

Just because you don’t see chains

Don’t mean you ain’t sold

Stay true to yourself

Your history, your roots

Let no one come along

And steal your truth

Pay attention to what’s real

What’s sound

And keep your feet rooted

On sacred ground.

Truth

Truth is not debatable

for integrity defends itself

it is not held captive to the dogma of religion

or held bondage within the framework of theology

it is not trapped inside the walls of College classrooms,

or oppressed by the lips of Baptist ministers,

It wears no stars of David

Sings no Islamic melodies

Truth is not religious

And yet is no atheist

Truth has always been

And always will be

It is neither canonized

nor done away with

not stolen away

or traded amidst the bowels of slave ships

truth is not lynched,

nor shackled against the cages of fear

it refuses to shake hands with deception,

and will never embrace the arms of uncertainty

because truth is always certain

It is sure to be like nothing you can ever imagine

but be everything you’ve ever hoped for

Truth is limitless

And humble

Needs no acknowledgement

And yet wears a crown

Truth needs no confirmations

and yet rules

wears no flowing garments

Is lowly

and yet royal

accepted by the faithful

and resisted by those who are afraid.

To Write a Heart

How do we trace the outlines of the invisible?
where despair won’t touch you gentle
and secret won’t fingerprint its way out of chest
and won’t poetry its way out of fear
the darkened cave of mankind’s deepest secrets
and treasured desires
the place he enters through the mind
tucking away all inner thought
inner being
inner wish
inner fantasy
that real self
hiding in thought
a storage place for his hopes
his hatreds
dreams and guilt
a peeled off echo of coming and going and knowing better
this is his resort
his vacation away from himself
his place of residence
he lives here
inside the cave made of chest
the place he thinks no one will ever find
can we write the heart?
take it beating
bleeding
and dripping with genuine
soaking with regret,
and repentance,
and expectation,
and nerves all tender like
hanging suspended in the air
or on the closet hooks of his thoughts
under the bed spread of memory
flowing back and forth like waves
we stand knee deep in his tears
our clothing soaked with his love
and his hatred too
can we contextualize the heart?
twist it
turn it
influence its shape so that it fits on these lines
can I drink your thoughts?
so that you relate to lyric
and your heart fits the silhouette of this pen
and puts a dent in white paper

To Lose a Friend

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From crayons

To paper

To dreams

To memory.

We tied our wanting into a bow

And placed it on each other’s laps

Where neither trial

Nor thunderstorm

Could wash away our fairy tale.

Did not occur to us that neither plastic bags

Nor happiness

And not even the future was strong enough

To hold us.

We were brave.

We were warriors.

We were safe in each others ears

Promises to each others secrets

No one could tell us any different.

Calendars did not lend us its eyes

Did not carve reality into the sticky notes we placed

On our destiny’s

We merely rode on the backs of memories

We created out of air

That smelled of hope

And lullabies

That felt like oxygen to lung

Breath to life

Truth to wisdom

But that bled deception underneath the surface

Of blue lines

On white paper.

That smelled of jasmine

Now shattering glass

Hopelessly pasted together

Encoding our hearts in one anothers chest

We opened up

Fearlessly vulnerable.

Stored our futures away

With the ease of speech

Letting them hide behind our eyelids

Trapping falling tears into bottles for fear

Of losing sight of the other

Amidst the blurs it birthed

When doubt crept in.

And we held onto these bottles

Like we babysat the others gaze

Too naïve to understand

That there were no guarantees

That we must not put our hopes into fallen stars

And wishing wells

For now we bleed

Both apology and need

For our broken wings

Pierced diamonds

Both myth and martyr alike

Legend to sacrifice

Do you know what it’s like to feel every twist

And turn

Of a dying bow?

To be undone?

Shackled to the worst part of your life story

Prisoners to the memories you created

In each others smiles

Now dangling regret

In the sky.