You are one of natures most beautiful flowers.
Still growing bit by bit, watered from the roots to blossom into one of the most beautiful smiles.
Spread to receive each and every blessing that comes your way.
Embrace every inch of sun that lights the way.
Let today be one of the most beautiful days that you've had in a while.
Don't be confined by the ceramic ***.
Spread your petals in every direction that you can

To hold and acknowledge the representation of all things pure.
The gift of a black woman.
In picture perfect representation.
To hold the world in the palm of her hand. Your hand.
To birth all things beautiful.
You are the beholders of the universe.
With the patience and the endurance to witness the woes of stress.
To keep it all in stride.
You yourself are a living testament.
From the womb of resilience comes man.
With a duty to provide
To worship and protect the gift of our Queens.
A crown of wool radiating warmth.
The worry of pacing feet, cooled by the lapel of warm embrace.
From her mouth comes the food that nourishes the soul.
Around her tongue swirls knowledge of the universe.
The way her eyes connect with the stars.
Interwoven clouds that form the cuff of her crown, your crown.
With hair spread beneath her neck.
Flawless skin made of silk and honey.
With ripples of brown sugar, the moon, stars and cocoa.
Beneath her lashes lies the imagery of what she dreams most.
Her hands like the *** that brews the stew that warms the soul.
So much strength can be found. The way she holds her wrists steady.
To tame the cosmos that align against the beads of her bracelet.
Her talent , her embrace.
The way she gives herself as the wind.
Looming a sigh of relief.
Through you all life is formed.
Without her, Without you,
We'd all surely die.
Not knowing which way to go, baptized again by the palm of your hand.
This is a simple reminder to remind you that nothing could surpass you.
Beautiful black woman

Believe that around every corner lies a blessing in wait.
Believe that with each and every waking second that there is something to be uncovered.
Believe in your dreams, whether your wide awake or lying there in deep sleep.
Trust that there is nothing that can hold you back.
No matter what spirit, what circumstance that arises.
Your spirit vibrates at a high frequency. With the know how and ability to overcome adversity.
Though patience is labeled a virtue and the label reads as is.
It's one of the greatest gifts that goes misunderstood along with time.
If read long enough perception changes. 
The things that we may have overlooked, or come to us at a random moment that brings clarity to things otherwise we take for granted.
Sometimes it takes going on a long walk or just taking a moment to yourself.
Believe that the answer to everything you seek lies deep inside of you.
For peace of mind is Divine, and sometimes hard to obtain.
The things that constantly add up, watching our hands overfill without knowing what to do with the pieces thats already been given to us.
Whether it's a job, the people we face on a day to day basis or life in general.
It is at these very moments that we feel our way through, rather than rely on thought alone.
The world is built on a catalog of ideas.
Why not reach deeper into yourself and expound upon your very on catalog,
As this life thing only comes around once.
People will be people, things will always remain things,
But memories.
Memories always stand the test of time.
If something doesn't feel right, search your spirit.
There you'll find an abundance of knowledge in a deep well.
Always believe in yourself, always find that light that pushes you that extra mile.
Always believe that through any circumstance.
You have the power to change and manifest to life what ever you dream

I slept to wake with open ears.
Let alone, following a certain feeling that led me to believe that I was missing,
To walk a path that led to what I figured I'd treasure most.
A slow walk to me, to you.
Missing the hint that given enough time, all things change.
Learning to open the bright red door without looking back to whom I once was.
Continuing to walk forward with the hint I was missing something.
I convinced myself that I too was a reflection.
That not all footprints are forgotten.
The threshold of a long lasting impression.
Positioned under a wooden frame.
Bulging hinge.
The twist of a ****.
I sort of imagined that it would always be like this.
That self realization where I'd no longer feel I'd fit.
The hinge of an closed door,
That feeling that something or someone is missing.
The perception that time is always on your side.
The sting of a slammed door, sleeping only to wake with a sudden rise.
Left behind in that odd space found between each second.
Pacing back and forth.
Realizing
The amount of time it takes to unlock physical freedom.
When actuality.
I was the door that stood between myself and what I desired most.
A slow walk to me, to you.
With a helping hand, not all impressions are forgotten.
The blank creaking expression of doors and the ones we love

She was a small town, swollen with life.
A miniature seed spread wide in the palm of her hand.
There is no place I'd rather be than here.
Her face motioning a smile. Flat eyebrows.
She opened her hand sharing a piece of her town with me.
This small town rooted in the palm of her hand.
A commotion coming loud from the center of her palm.
Mid-traffic jams in steady motion.
She promised that it wouldn't last long, this commotion.
That everyone travels at one time or another.
That she stumbled across this place and never left.
Leaving it just the way it was.
Allowing the tourist to take as many pictures as they'd like.
This small town covered with music and lights.
She motioned the band to play something mellow.
This small town of hers, welcoming me to sit closer and listen.
Motioning them to play something a bit slower.
Long tones of rhythm and blues.
This was how she was.
The lights dimming a bit lower in her eye.
I saw people gather at tables, taking their seat to watch the band.
The pupils of her eyes wide and full.
Comfortable in their skin.
This was her perception.
Of course I on the outside still I heard the sound.
Coming to a complete stop, I grasped her hand tighter.
Holding on to every moment fearing that it would end.
The instruments, the vocals of long tones played by steady fingers, paused lips.
We wandered in The parking lot of open hands.
Hearing the music, walking somewhere where it wasn't so crowded.
We witnessed a wedding. The coming of grins coming together closed mouth.
Actions spoke louder in the reassurance of promise.
She wouldn't have it any other way. 
Promising the town in a night of closed hands.
She too stood on the outside.
Waiting on the bridge to lower, crossing over to my side of town

Happiness consists of effort.
It doesn't have to be perfect to be a token of appreciation.
Steadily available to be itself.
No matter how weird or silly things can get.
During these times we are tested with the vanity of our self.
Finding it much easier to walk away from a simple misconception.
It is important not to get caught up in the reflection we see.
For then we become unappreciative of the blessings around us.
Not recognizing ourself in the same image we perceive as happiness.
With a single view that things are only as bad as we allow.
Not realizing the depth of which when and how we fall.
Confusing the physical with a mental permission that effort alone is not enough.
In a combined effort of feeling whole.
The perception of how we see the ones we love becomes their world as well as our world entirely
And their expression alone is priceless

Within you is a great harvest.
One filled with wheat grain and honey.
Within you there is no pain or sickness.
This is where the greatest gift of all can be found. Planted, along with root free of toxin.
Protect yourself from those whom take just to take.
Be wise in the time of famine.
For every hand that reaches hastily isn't in true need.
They seek to abuse and leave you robbed of everything you hold dear.
Leaving behind disease, infection.
This harvest of great proportion.
Selfishly taking to leave you with nothing but emptiness.
Alone in a stretch of clear field.
Your grain and wheat scattered, littered to dry in spilled honey.
In enough time wounds heal.
In time this bountiful harvest will grow back.
But never will the land rid of the memory of everything once pure and wholesome.
Be weary of those whom seek only to trespass.
They too come with pretentious smile and promise to never leave