Tongues - Hello Poetry

My mother is a rose She blossoms and she grows The garden in her heart Once hardened, torn apart How kind is she The her in me The Mom I need Maybe I will never understand But I love my mother’s gentle hand Guiding life’s meandering roads Only she knows, there she goes How kind is she, the her in me The Mom I need, I love and see

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Jul 4, 2024

Jul 4, 2024 at 4:49 AM UTC

The Her in Me

My mother is a rose She blossoms and she grows The garden in her heart Once hardened, torn apart How kind is she The her in me The Mom I need Maybe I will never understand But I love my mother’s gentle hand Guiding life’s meandering roads Only she knows, there she goes How kind is she, the her in me The Mom I need, I love and see

13

You make me beautiful, Because you make me smile. My smile - is yours. That joy - also a reflection of you.

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Oct 10, 2017

Oct 10, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC

Untitled

You make me beautiful, Because you make me smile. My smile - is yours. That joy - also a reflection of you.

4

You can’t go through life so afraid of pain you don’t pull on the chains that bind you. You can’t go through life hoping to change but avoiding the things that remind you - of yourself. Shame is only the shadow cast by the doorway of breakthrough, So be brave and forgive yourself for all your mistakes. There is no real power in shame, for those who refuse to live in their chains. So be brave, be brave. There is freedom in grace.

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Jul 5, 2017

Jul 5, 2017 at 2:31 AM UTC

There is no real power in shame.

You can’t go through life so afraid of pain you don’t pull on the chains that bind you. You can’t go through life hoping to change but avoiding the things that remind you - of yourself. Shame is only the shadow cast by the doorway of breakthrough, So be brave and forgive yourself for all your mistakes. There is no real power in shame, for those who refuse to live in their chains. So be brave, be brave. There is freedom in grace.

8

If you were a book I would grasp you with each hand As I sink into each page - Your poetic quicksand. If you were a book - My favorite book of all - After years of gazing into you, Your words would still enthrall. When your binding is undone And your cover slightly torn, You would be just as lovely With your pages touched and worn. If you were a book, I would hold you close all night. I could read you without words; I could read you without light.

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Jun 14, 2016

Jun 14, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC

If You Were a Book

If you were a book I would grasp you with each hand As I sink into each page - Your poetic quicksand. If you were a book - My favorite book of all - After years of gazing into you, Your words would still enthrall. When your binding is undone And your cover slightly torn, You would be just as lovely With your pages touched and worn. If you were a book, I would hold you close all night. I could read you without words; I could read you without light.

16

<><><><><><> You're like liquid poetry A gasoline waterfall Pouring into me Until my engine stalls Tut-tut-tut-tsss But some words are Fluid and fat Caught in my throat Like phlegm *When I'm reading this one day, I'll wonder - was I alive here? I'll just be an untitled story Known only to myself.*

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Mar 23, 2016

Mar 23, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC

Untitled

<><><><><><> You're like liquid poetry A gasoline waterfall Pouring into me Until my engine stalls Tut-tut-tut-tsss But some words are Fluid and fat Caught in my throat Like phlegm *When I'm reading this one day, I'll wonder - was I alive here? I'll just be an untitled story Known only to myself.*

14

I don't believe in love. Because love, to me, Looks like screaming. I believe in the soft thump Of a hard-cover book thrown at my head. I believe in the gentleness of your hand As it flies across my face. I believe in the value of words That dripped like poison into my heart. My blood is ***** because You are in it. So I don't believe in family, either. But like a carpenter with a block of wood A sculptor with a lump of clay Here I am, with my craft, deciding - I will make a love I can believe in. With touch, with words, with a family - And it will be entirely separate - Entirely complete (like me) Without you.

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Mar 23, 2016

Mar 23, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC

I am Complete

I don't believe in love. Because love, to me, Looks like screaming. I believe in the soft thump Of a hard-cover book thrown at my head. I believe in the gentleness of your hand As it flies across my face. I believe in the value of words That dripped like poison into my heart. My blood is ***** because You are in it. So I don't believe in family, either. But like a carpenter with a block of wood A sculptor with a lump of clay Here I am, with my craft, deciding - I will make a love I can believe in. With touch, with words, with a family - And it will be entirely separate - Entirely complete (like me) Without you.

20

A rap song playing in this coffee shop tells me women are only good for *** I wipe off my makeup and pull down the dress draped around me like the softest chains. I am not like the women in these songs. Once – though – I tried to be. (Because we who were not free all believed in the promise and false security of striving and beauty.) I want to shake the younger me and scream at the men around her: She is not your American dream. She is a thinker. She is worth protecting. She is not this icon. I want to scream at the men who compliment my body and those who ignore me because of it at the boy from my freshmen year in high school (“You like her? But she’s so tall…”) I am not just a girl, even though I’ve been told, “Beautiful girls earn more money.” I’ve learned that I hold a different kind of beauty. Not the 5’8” skater-girl Nor the 6’2” glamour queen But someone between – – between languages and instruments and classes and battles – I put on my armor. And I will emerge, no longer screaming in anger, but quietly certain in my own worth. Not all victories are followed by blaring trumpets. Mine will be a silent one – but no less violent a struggle. My beauty does not define me. It will fade, but not my victory.

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Nov 30, 2015

Nov 30, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC

Powerful Women

A rap song playing in this coffee shop tells me women are only good for *** I wipe off my makeup and pull down the dress draped around me like the softest chains. I am not like the women in these songs. Once – though – I tried to be. (Because we who were not free all believed in the promise and false security of striving and beauty.) I want to shake the younger me and scream at the men around her: She is not your American dream. She is a thinker. She is worth protecting. She is not this icon. I want to scream at the men who compliment my body and those who ignore me because of it at the boy from my freshmen year in high school (“You like her? But she’s so tall…”) I am not just a girl, even though I’ve been told, “Beautiful girls earn more money.” I’ve learned that I hold a different kind of beauty. Not the 5’8” skater-girl Nor the 6’2” glamour queen But someone between – – between languages and instruments and classes and battles – I put on my armor. And I will emerge, no longer screaming in anger, but quietly certain in my own worth. Not all victories are followed by blaring trumpets. Mine will be a silent one – but no less violent a struggle. My beauty does not define me. It will fade, but not my victory.

38

Never trust what is taught. There was a time it was taught All black men were ******* Today it is taught That *** makes you free. I don’t believe what’s been taught. I don’t believe my society.

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Nov 11, 2015

Nov 11, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC

Is it true?

Never trust what is taught. There was a time it was taught All black men were ******* Today it is taught That *** makes you free. I don’t believe what’s been taught. I don’t believe my society.

7

Maybe I'll fit you like I was DNA-stitched into your heart. Then I remember - Hearts can be torn apart.

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Jan 15, 2015

Jan 15, 2015 at 1:27 AM UTC

DNA Stitched