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Monday, January 27th, 2020

The crux of spiritual efflorescence originates from the seat of the soul. The self is the nexus to transcendence. Humanity has historically looked outside of itself for the change it hopes to sire.
        
We must ameliorate our ailed cognition before our words can wax healing. When we genuinely ease the suffering within, light shall exude & emanate from our entities. Therefore, introspection, a spiritual mandate, is enquired from the firmaments.
      
Though pain can at times burnish a fervid sting upon our sensory crux, we must allow this to penetrate us fully. Before the healing can genuinely burgeon, angst must take its course. Moreover, layers of hurt must be processed before reaching our luminescent heart.
      
The Heavensward loves us aeonically so: Jah, the Cosmo- Plexus of Empyreal Love. Therefore, trust that in the silence of solitude, our spirits will be dovetailed with the Most High God. The Great Apothecary knows our maladies. The God of Freedom is also conscious of the instant upon which to unfurl manumission.
      
Liberty, or much of freedom, finds its inception upon the Mind's Sky. How can we be free unless we truly fathom it to be? What a fallacy, a probabilistic impossibility! Without awareness, one cannot seize that which is rightfully —their birthright.
      
Trust that you are free and always be just so. When you do, no soul will be able to expostulate otherwise. Belief, therefore, is power, is emancipation.
      
Love endlessly. Liberty never leaves the one who bathes in the Baptistery of Esprit d' Amour. Know your worthiness to honor, heartsease, what's more, the grace, the virtue, & the excellency of life. Carry on, surrender naught, fight the fine fight, run fully the race. —Se' lah.


Rise Heavensward,

Transcend fear & doubt,

Banish all hesitation,

Elysium is Within,
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

-Anaïs Nin

"Now Jehovah is the Spirit, and where the spirit of Jehovah is, there is freedom."

-2nd Corinthians 3: 17

“A man is not called wise because he talks and talks again; but if he is peaceful, loving and fearless then he is in truth called wise.”

-Gautama Buddha

"There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love."

1st John 4:18



By Sanders Maurice Foulke III
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
I'm a black man , I'm the essence of toughness
My roots are deep like the mighty baobab tree
Once a chained slave, today I stand in greatness
I'm a black man , I'm a proud man and I'm free .

I'm a black man , once the master's possession
I have scars stamped to my soul but I'm free
Once a cotton picker , I now have a profession
I'm a black man , a very proud man and I'm here.

I m a black man , the first born of mama Ebone
The black Goddess , the true mother of humanity
Once upon a time in jubaru, I sat upon a throne
Where my queens and warriors all lived in unity.

I'm a black man, I will always be the best runner
Shoot me if you will but my black soul fears no guns
Once like Garvey, today like Usine and Obama , I'm a winner
I'm a free black man and my soul hosts a thousand suns .
If Heaven is pure and white , just like Obama added some Blackness to the White House , me and my black soul will be in Heaven too !
Becca Faith Oct 2017
When I met you in the pub that night,
The movement and the way you sauntered over,
It was so clearly pre-defined.
The way that you held your hand out,
The over the top air kiss,
Too effortlessly refined.
 
Later into the night the drugs imbibed,
Drinks convivially consumed,
The space between us lost.
Time disappears down,
Some rabbit hole,
At some unsaid noir mutual cost.
 
The pint shoved with jovial force,
From the slick wet bar,
Into my waiting hand.
The coked-up person,
Backing me into a corner,
Reassuring me that they totally understand.
 
And whilst my malnourished ribs,
Are digging uncomfortably,
Into your hard ***** floor.
There are things that I would,
Say to you,
If bravery mistook me for more.
 
You consume me with,
Your entire world,
Whilst mine just ebbs away.
My voice gets quiet,
And agreeable,
I forget that I had anything worthwhile to say.
 
This world takes the very guts of me,
With every wrap of drugs that I see.
And that girl slipping away in the mirror,
Is becoming so very different from me.
 
With every drink fuelled choice,
Each line of drugs,
Each night that I see reappear as day.
The feeling submerges,
From the depth of me,
That this life is not ok.
 
Whilst I can try and lay the blame,
Of my gradual downfall,
At the feet of some charismatic few.
It’s some personal emancipation,
That will allow me to start my again life,
With a sanguine view.
 
As I disappear down the rabbit hole,
For what I tell myself,
Is one last epic fall.
I hope that the person,
Who appears on the other side,
Is strong enough to walk away and leave it all.
misty Jul 2017
the cold would send little snow drops
trickling down my spine
dancing and singing praise to the moonlight
gestures of repentance despite knowing my damnation I continue to sit there, looking for my salvation
But with the icy cold drops, that warm me
and a look back into my bitter stained history
i have released and accepted what has always
been known to me
that salvation and emancipation has only been a dream
Amy Perry Nov 2016
If being stripped of liberty,
We owe no responsibility
To tethering our ties
To a system of lies.
Insanity, defined,
If we choose to read,
Means working to thrive
Through ways we won't succeed.

The system is broken.
Turn off the machine.
If doubt has not awoken,
Ask yourself, please:

Do you question many things
That you hear spoken?
Do you admit your own views
May contain false notions?
Does our culture retain
Unnecessary devotions?
Is government improving,
Bringing peace across oceans?

Emancipate from demands
Of societal bands.
Renounce the commands
And requests that don't stand
The test of your ability
To reason with civility.

A question is a "quest I on"
Not a destination.
It leads to many places.
Go ahead. Try it on.
Something I wrote a few months back. Might as well post it now rather than never. Losing a poem hurts.
Lisa Lesetedi Jul 2016
What is to come? 

From a world where our children are given guns to play with, 

It’s not the squirting of water,or release of plastic bullets, it’s the message we shoot into their heads .

Triggering violence from adolescence.
Planting seeds of hate,
And watering them with spilled blood .

Waiting for the fruit to ripen, but it never does,

Now we have the taste of bitterness lingering on our mouths.

That bitterness stays on our tongues ,
So that when we speak, that’s all that comes out.

You see Somehow the fruit is never as sweet as when it’s forbidden.

Sugared by sin,

Borrowed from thy neighbor, because when it’s sin there’s always enough to go around.

What is to come?

From a world where we are told to express ourselves , but within the guidelines.

Told that the world is your canvas , but restricted to only the color white.

It isn’t as pure as it seems.

Underneath the white paint lies splashes of read , gushing from a black body.

There is no canvas, all we are given is a painted picture, of what perfect looks like.

So that we Erase anything that doesn’t fit the image. 

The slightest difference is reason for war.

Be it the quantity of melanin

Be it religion

Be it Gender.

What is to come?

Of a world that is only tolerable through the shade of intoxication .
Where pills serve as capsules of happiness 

We are our biggest enemy,

Our pain is self inflected.
If this is what it is ,to be human 

What is the cure?
Lisa Lesetedi Jun 2016
2am juices,

I’m pouring myself onto this canvas 

Let’s have a glass..

Off myself uncensored…

My canvas black and white

Like stars in the night

Can you hear them shooting?

Splashes of red, gushing out the wounds

Ancestors rising out the tombs…

What are you willing to sacrifice?
They say life is a gamble, except somebody already threw the dice..

We are slaves to the forces …

Married to a chosen fate ,without room for divorces…

You see The canvas …has been painted

All that’s left, 

Is for you to open the doors that frame it..
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