and with each
blink she symbolizes
the metaphorical beauty
of her past,
dipped in the
historical blackness of
her ancestors, embedded
with the strength
and speech of
their pain, your
eyes, they speak
of generations, they
seek our liberation,
and often i
find myself fixated
on you, in
the same manner
you look at
me, the both
of you, so
brazen so beautiful,
so lo.
-e.
she is art,
and the sound
of her voice
resonates in my
mind, and even
though we haven't
met yet, she
is still, on
my mind, like
the ink on
my paper, the
words from my
pen, i believe
her name is
beauty, she is
my art from
within.
-e.
she is art,
and her beauty
is my canvas,
creatively painting pictures
with words as
she becomes my
brush as i
become her pen,
infused collectively selectively,
though there could
only be one,
like she is
my sunrise and
i am her
sunset, and together
we sit, under
the moonlight
under the stars,
at night.
-e.
she is art,
creatively and passionately
sustained within my
mind, strategically positioned
in that place,
a utopia, a
brave new world
for the dreamer
infused with angelou
and king, line
for line like
this poetic muse,
she is my
basquiat my banksy,
emitting tones of
beauty and hues
of hope, stranded,
like the images
of her soul,
so alluring, she
is art.
-e.
STILLness like BLACKness
this beautiful image
of mine, yet
i feel like
i am dying
and with each
day it seems
my lifeline is
only good for
the headline of
another hate crime,
and i know
my soul runs
deep like my
ancestors that ran
before me, but
we are beyond
a hundred miles
and running, and
still i find
my face pressed
upon the hatred
of the very
ground i walk
on, and with
the crack of
dawn comes another
crack in my
skull, another crack
in the wall
of protection that
doesn't protect us,
and with each
gun shot i
am filled with,
i am filled
with the tears
of a past,
present, and future
that hates us
all, emasculates the
very essence of
who i am
without probable cause,
and still, i
am black.
-e.
black like the
souls of black
folk when kaepernick
kneeled, like the
ancestry in his
veins planted on
the field, like
ali in his
prime he’s a
baad man, and
at times i
feel, choked by
the red the
white the blue,
pardon me as
i, garner america,
i guess we
just too black
for truth, equality
on the tip
of his tongue,
the savory of
racism, fourth and
long.
-e.