Growing pains…not the ones that hurt because you grew 3 cm tall and everyone at thanksgiving noticed. No, the ones that hurt because your nephew is 17 now and “the system” no longer see him as a kid but as a ****, a beast old enough to take bullets from the back but can’t envision him as the next Obama or the next Mansa Musa. Can’t seem to accept my blackness, **** they barely accept the jews. Growing pains…not the ones that got my hips spreading and my ******* developing. No, the ones that allow you to be thankful somehow, that your daddy was a rolling stone and taught you the ways of the play book, so you could be ready to read through any ******* men feed you. Like, “I know you scared but don’t be baby cause I got something to ease you.” Ruining your fairytale of loyalty, fidelity and men. Growing up to only find out you have daddy issues.
Growing pains, when you realize your narrow-minded perspective as a child gave you false hope as an adult. Thinking I wanted to be like my parents when I grow up. I just had an epiphany, I’m just like them, and that’s what ****** up. Living to metamorphosize into a greater being not just to break this generational curse but to live up to my expectations rather than finding out what’s worse.
Growing pains, digging up the emotional trauma. Discovering my triggers and healing from the past that no longer serves me. Having to navigate my own way to the destination. So, you birthed me, gave me beatings, personally prepped my platter of mental disarray. But I don’t blame you, mama. I forgive you…because you only taught me what you knew. And you taught me what not to be and from that I only grew like a mushroom that flourishes even through **** and still possess a magical hue.
Growing pains, realizing the elephant in the room was louder than any silence I have ever heard. For years, accepting everyone’s lies that turned into words that turned into truth that turned into hurt. Shaping me, molding me like clay, into a prisoner of their society. A prisoner who had to break free. A prisoner held captive for wanting to be an individual. What some would consider a pariah but really just a lost soul looking for a reason to breathe. Making use of this breathing container encapsulating the forsaken child within. Hidden in brown skin. Waiting to feel the liberation.
Never thought a therapist would be an essential part of my living. Never thought in a stranger I would ever find healing. Never expected my mental to be depressed or my feelings to be addressed, I’m just holding on to what’s left like a hoarder I’m obsessed but living that life I won’t progress so here it is…. I…. confess.

When my mind is full
I watch my thoughts
I realise crosses
are really the same as noughts.

I watch my breath
fill up space in my chest
and pacify my ego's need to protest.

Control is not a prerequisite
of a happy soul.
The same way your 'other half'
is not a prerequisite to your whole.

So once in a while let it all go
receive yourself,
the highs and lows.

Don't 'empty' your mind
in attempts to unbind
unwind, rewind, or realign
for how can you?
When you've no idea
what you've just declined.

So when your mind is full
and paints your heart grey,
become mindful of the fact
your thoughts make you that way.

Dylan’s roof covers your house supposedly,
But you can’t go through the front door,
you don’t even have a key.

You see, Dylan’s roof covers your head
ever so reluctantly
But Dylan won’t kick you out,
you were brought here to work for free.

Dylan doesn’t like you
or anyone with your complexion
But Dylan won’t admit it,
he’d rather ‘serve and protect’ his brethren.
By serve and protect I mean swerve and reject.
Any responsibility for a bullet in your chest.

You see, Dylan’s roof doesn’t just cover 52 states
It covers millions of your reflection
that share melanated traits.

The windows under Dylan’s roof give you a glimpse of your potential.
Freedom and happiness.
You trace the future with a stencil.

After some time,
Dylan’s roof will start to dissipate.
The rains of your liberation
will begin to precipitate.

The seeds that were planted
by the ones gone before us,
will start to germinate
in the fields that once tore us

Unearthing a few grains of soil could create sinkholes
Or create more solidarity
The ones that grow and stand tall
Are ripped out and harvested for sustenance

We live in it
grow in it
sustain it.

Our bonds are like packed soil,
porous but poreless
in appearance
a state of perpetual disturbance

With every handful forcefully taken
endless grains fall in on themselves.
To save face
save race.

The wind doesn’t blow through their hair like it does the others.

It meanders through the curls of our melanated mothers.

It carries heavy accents infused with both love and suffering

over badly connected telephone lines

and the language barriers of anglocentric confines.

It navigates their thick 4c forests

as do the rigid combs they brandish to govern expanding crowns

that sit above scalps which resemble

the most polished oak.