"textures" poems
#there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
overwhelms unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge
A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace
Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed
The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind
An emotionally enslaved heart
tarries, marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless
Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate; vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake
It's getting harder and harder
for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree
Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp
A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil
Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas
Jesse Stillwater
June 2018
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
Invariably,
You prefer to come
To me in the dark.
"You're more my temperature then,"
You once said.
I'm not much of a thermometer,
But I am the eurythmy
To each syllable you give
In such settled shadow.
A play of murmurs and fingertips,
You once named this.
Always I see a wreath in your hair,
In colors of Persia,
Textures of night,
And the soft blended lines
Of you I know
Infallibly.
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 11:26 PM UTC
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like that of a full moon
bringing light
from the One
who has commanded me
to wear it
to my face
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a merry-go-round
rotating with a joyful force
in places near and far
illuminating its power
a reflection of my soul
and inner beauty
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
the way whirling dervishes move
we're so high
aspiring nearness to Allah Masha'Allah
our act of wearing hijab daily
deserving of much respect
and Insha Allah
The Seventh Heaven
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a spinning wheel
many made
in different colors
and in different textures
each brightening the world
and when wearing it
like Khadijah (AS), Fatimah (AS), and Aisha (RA)
attracts attention of the best kind
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like Big Ben
I'm so high
dignified
a visible ambassador
of Islam
saying no to immodesty
and saying yes to our Majesty
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a halo
starting my day with Bismillah
and looking into the mirror
to carefully donn it
I remember
I'm doing this to help men
married and unmarried
from sinning
and to protect myself
from impurity and immoral acts
as
Hijab is my crown
for me a Queen
By: Najwa Kareem
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 2:42 PM UTC
Sorting boxes, packing clothes
Assaulted by the past
When you stood and said forever
You both thought it would last
A jewellery box, a trinket here
A gift they never used
A present from five years ago
You smile, a bit bemused
The boxes fill, the tears arrive
You know it must be done
It's the one part of a person's life
That surely isn't fun
Textures and scents surround you
They take you back in time
To a place before computers
When a phone call cost a dime
You fill one box, put it aside
"Donations" on the side
You can picture every item
That you piled up inside
You put them in there lovingly
You didn't want to let them go
By releasing them into the box
It forced you to....you know
Accept that you're alone now
That your partner is not here
That the life you built together
Is now remembered by a tear
You gave things out to family
Though you do not know just why
They will stick them in a drop box
And that just makes you cry
You picture them inside the clothes
And you hear their laugh as you
Put magazines and tolietries
Inside Box number two
You put aside some things you like
To remember better days
Though you know that in the future
You'll remember through a haze
Time will mar your memories
Keep the good times, wipe the bad
You'll forget about the smile
And this really is quite sad
It takes days to sort the boxes
Fill the others, pack them all
By the time that you are finished
They will almost fill the hall
When complete you think on
What is in the totes
There's clothing, jewellery, memories
And magazines and notes
You don't know where to take them
You balance on a knife
The question here before you
How do you give away a life?
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 6:10 PM UTC
There is a new fire
in my soul
its curves
wrap themselves
around me
sinuous
like a hot
slithery
sheath of flesh
snakes of pleasure
twirling in my deepest
womanflow
pumping inside
my veins of mesh
Those licks of flames
caress as they spew
they **** in my spirit
spit it out anew
undulating hips
matching my own
a middle east song
igniting my bones
suffusing my blood
with the raw, the bare
filling me up
with sparkling lava,
so rare
This combination
makes for a recipe hot
like a piquant ghost pepper
in my spiciest spot
Now let me weave words
Let me conjure your
liquids
let me drench colors
upon your eyelids,
my spirit's
proximity vivid
Let me drown you in
madness
in frothiest frequencies
of love
let this symphony play out
powers screeching above
and as this vivacity beckons
the soul in your eyes
our stormiest spirals
will spill out rainbow fire
and rise
for as we grow and reach out
there is a death of limitation
as freedom breaks out
in ocean-soaked
emancipation
Our mutual worlds
heal each other's hurts
as my tongue licks
your wounds
rejuvenation asserts
hot springs of
lifeflow
filling up cells
sensations of textures
a ringing of bells
So
as I weave this spell
around you
fear not that you
will disappear or
thine own self lose
for we have only to soar
as we
coax out
the muse
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
The flag, a white crescent and single star
on a field of crimson — kırmızı, not just 'red' —
tells of Islam. The men drinking beer and rakı
at pavement tables, even in Ramadan,
and the short-skirted, bare-armed girls,
parading with bare-faced confidence,
tell of other influences;
but at the appointed hour we hear the call to prayer
from the marble minaret, a slim finger
pointing to the sky beside shining domes
reflecting the vault of heaven.
At five a.m. we hear it faintly through hotel double-glazing,
or at sunset, as a peaceful accompaniment to the spectacle,
and we remember where we are.
But especially at the midday hour,
when the voice of the muezzin echoes
over noisy street or market,
and from another minaret and another
the duet becomes a trio, a quartet
of different melodies, out of tune
with each other but never discordant
(in these tones the word has no meaning),
the faithful are reminded, however busy they may be,
that their God requires something of them.
Then, entering the cool calm of the mosque,
entering the quiet forest of pillars,
feeling through the soles of our bare feet
marble polished by the tread
of generations of worshippers,
fine-grained wood,
the rich softness of crimson carpet,
we luxuriate in the textures as they combine
with the formal floral patterns of the tiles,
the ornate calligraphy of the inscriptions,
the rich colours of the glass,
and we realise that the builders of these mosques
knew what they were doing, so many years ago,
how peace can enter the soul
through the senses.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
We are like two guitar picks
They are all so unique
Different shapes
Different sizes
Different textures
Different smells
Different feels
Different beings
But we
We are identical
Just like each other
And we play music that is so different
No one gets it
No one figures it why
But so it is
And only we can get what flows out of it
Strumming along in dischord
And harmony too
You’re just like me
And I am just like you
But we have our own guitars
And that is where our melody flows
The music all so complete
All so perfect
That it makes you just not believe
Coz things cannot be perfect
For nothing ever is complete
For beauty lies in incompleteness
And imperfection
And we with our guitars
Are just so ****** perfect
That it bleeds me to see us that way
If only guitar picks like us
Were left alone with each other
And never touched or disturbed
We wouldn’t get around to do anything
For the two of us
Are of the same kind
We can’t get music out of us
Or each other
Coz we are no guitars
And we won’t have them
Or anything else
But just each other
Two guitar picks
With the same lives
Touch
Smell
Shape and design
The only two unique
That no one else can match
That no one else can get
And there we lie together in the corner
No one to ruffle us
Just left to ourselves
And we lie there
By our sides
And we can’t play no music
And we can’t strum a song
Coz we are two guitar picks
Without nothing else
Without no guitars
But only ourselves
Which is just so ****** incomplete
And so imperfect
So mighty beautiful..
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
A word
Nobody knows.
It's a mental thing.
"A sensation produced in one modality when a stimulus is applied to another modality, as when the hearing of a certain sound induces the visualization of a certain color."
A confusion of senses.
But I don't think I am confused.
I just see farther than anyone.
For me;
I see colors
And think sounds, tastes, textures.
I see objects
And think gender, personality, music.
All the letters
Have colors, smells, jobs in an office.
All the numbers
Have heights, voices, fashion senses.
I don't know why it is
But it is a malfunction in my brain.
I don't know how to explain it
But it is not very complicated.
Everything has a color
A personality
A food
A texture
A sound
A taste
A smell
Associated with it.
Because everything is deeper than they look.
Because I am confused?
Because I can see.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
White, Yellow, and Brown
Different shapes, sizes, and textures
Curly, straight, and wavy
You look at your reflection and do not see it
You're brown
You’re slim, light, and skinny
Your body does not resemble what it means to be a woman in your culture
A Latina woman has curves
A Latina woman's skin glistens underneath the sun
She contains an inner glow that resembles the strength she holds.
A Latina women speaks fluent English and Spanish
The purr that rolls off her tongue when she rolls her “R’s”
Her accent is what blows men away
Her accent is seen as exotic and from another world
But yours is different
You look at your reflection and do not see it
There is no purr because you can't roll the “R’s” off your tongue
Your slight accent is what worries you
Afraid your accent is going to get you a stare instead of a wink.
Afraid to speak you stay quiet and become discrete
You look at your reflection and see
brown sugar that’s sweet and fine
Your skin contains different specks of color which makes you different
The sun captures the qualities that you contain within.
You look at your reflection and see
A woman that speaks the language of romance
The language that distinguishes you from the crowd
The language that brings you strength and courage
The accent you once feared would bring you shame is the same one you have come to love.
You look at your reflection and see
A woman that has grown internally to love herself for the way she is
you contain the inner glow that resembles the strength and knowledge you have attained.
The eclipse has finally passed the sun and your time to shine has arrived.
White, Yellow, and Brown
Different shapes, sizes, and textures
Curly, straight, and wavy
You look at your reflection and see
A Latina woman.
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 6:13 AM UTC
The great dialectic remains between fate and free will.
I'm prepared to defend the notion that fate has a bigger hand
Without seeing into the future we are unable to change it
The forms textures chiaroscuros and chromes are painted into each of us as we descend into the world soul
and discover we are not merely posing cameos
directed by each other's projections
All souls are evocations,
layer upon layer of archetypes
each of them
prayers and yogas
all irreducible fluctious desires
voluptuous nymph or curmudgeon
hero or *****
As depth accumulates
we give each thing a name
we live and unfurl destiny
both good and evil
This fate already forged into our souls.
Only in destinies weaving finality,
even beyond the grave
are we melted down like snow in divine rays
of effulgent light, and pure spirit
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
You will always be to me,
Surrounded by a dark, black, flowing sea –
Its waves and textures enticing me.
For I, a sailor so obsessed,
My fascination with your ocean in unrest,
Has me completely possessed.
In a beauty so limitless,
From its roots to its depths.
I drown in it fearless –
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 2:02 PM UTC
I will sit here
forever, me
Just wondering why
the blood in
cracked veins
Turns to ink droplets
and became words
on countless pages
This isn't pain
That was not love
Either way
we are F R E E
as animals
Is this an Ancient
Marmalade Sky
and Champagne Rivers
Where we will
float away to
something louder
Then a prayer
I am sewn back together
with no anesthetic
But my insides tucked up
Gloss and clouds
Our memories are worth
every penny
With colours and textures
we are floating away
Under Marmalade Skies
and
Champagne Rivers
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
Have you ever stood outside
On a cold and windy day
And felt what the wind tastes like
As it moves along it's way ?
Have you tasted wind in summer
Hot and sticky in your throat
Have you tasted it while fishing
Standing on a sailing boat?
Have you tasted wind and liked it
Just before a summer storm
As it flows down past your gullet
Is it beautiful and warm ?
It is a simple gesture
Standing, tasting moving air
I don't think you'd really notice
Until it wasn't there
Esopheagal cancer
Stops the wind inside the throat
the simple act of tasting wind
Is now something in my note
Now, think of tasting wind again
Try tasting through a mask
You try but cannot taste it
It's not a simple task
Enjoy the feeling of the wind
Remember how it tastes
Different seasons, different textures
It's a feeling not to waste.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
With ideas in her head,
she acquires ingredients from creation.
She picks up some bread,
some meats and some crustacean.
With purchases in her hands,
she assembles them into her curation.
Each ingredient has a plan,
that's all part of her preparation.
She cook in her pots and pans,
dishes of her imagination.
Juggling flavours and textures,
from experience and experimentation.
She host her friends regularly,
not any one group particularly.
With smiles, laughter and her kitchen art,
everyone sense the generosity from her heart.
She is the artist,
the scientist,
the chef,
the friend
and my wife.
Jan 4, 2020
Jan 4, 2020 at 5:39 AM UTC
liminality;
barely there
ask if it matters
care if you dare
believe in impossibility
mind framing liminal spaces
places of liminal mind-frames
filaments between contexts
capturing subtleties as moths
liminally reaching inwards
map of a shady threshold
twilight netherworld border
between now & everywhen
cusp of crisp discovery
intangible as of late
liminal during daylight;
stars, fireflies, lanterns
night itself being liminal
colors need brightness
shadow for textures
whispering worlds
peripheral vision
vibes and feltsense
inner underworlds
embracing hell
reversing it
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
The fuzzy purple blanket under me,
Like fur caressing my skin,
So soft, so sensual, like a soft massage.
Soft black fuzzy pillow under my head,
Like a cloud, soft but supporting,
Cradling my head in its arms.
Colourful Tinkerbell blanket covering me,
Soft like velvet, rubbing my bare skin,
A cocoon containing me, to change to a butterfly.
Tight thong embracing me,
Holding that precious centre,
My well of nectar, held in a sweet embrace.
Soft cami covering my ******* my tummy, my back,
Soft on my skin, like a hug, a firm embrace,
Containing my, constraining me, freeing me.
Tight shorts hugging my hips,
My ***** my thighs, Peacock, teal, jade,
Bright and conforming to my curves.
All the textures surrounding me, holding me,
All bring contentment, like heaven,
The textures of my second skin of sleep.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 7:54 PM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
Somebody call Ben Affleck
We got phantoms in this *****
This endless haunted mansion
Their presence pervades
No company
In this lonely labyrinth
Only phantoms
The only figures resembling humanity
Are the corpses of those before
Who couldn't navigate this torturous structure
And of course, the masquerading phantoms
My soul they aim to puncture
I tried closing my eyes
But I just kept running into walls
I tried sleeping through it
But I just sank deeper into the basement
When I attempted to join the phantoms
You were there
You waited until I was hanging there
On the rope
And eviscerated everything
Lycanthrope
The rope in shreds
Your heart then fled
Leaving me alone again
Lying in my exhausted blood
The phantoms sensed my desperation
And took advantage of my disorientation
So I ran to the darkest recesses of the basement
To retrieve my blindfold and sledgehammer
But is my hammer powerful enough?
Will visual impairment abstain the trickery of ghosts?
I put Sisyphus to shame
With the determination I utilize to demolish these walls
But the phantoms are devious
They ***** new facades
Thicker, sturdier, with odder textures
I destroy them all the same
It just takes a bit more time
And time means nothing
To a man who's sole purpose is knocking down walls
And cowering from apparitions
Yet a man means nothing
To a time ruled by phantoms
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
The western sky sweeps
Darkness to back yards
The dawning east keeps
Designing with hues
Mornings greeting cards.
Nice to see the crews
Active in writing
Fresh magic haikus
Deep in creating
Textures and sinews
With unique mixing
Of color and lures
Interspersed musings
On honeycomb verse
Soft snowflake rhymings
Draught on fragrant wings
Beams of rainbow waves
Fuse sweetness and light
Deeds of Devine Inc
Wrought in suntan ink
Duty with delight
In morning twilight
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 10:16 PM UTC
Here comes The Change
That has the range
Of emotions
And demotions
And devotions
Of a perilous populous
That likes to raise a fuss
When they eventually learn who I am
And treat me like I'm the Son of Sam
To be specific
They discover I'm gay
And begin to filet
My mentality
In totality
For fatality
Merely by acting differently
If my sexuality isn't the first thing people know about me
I get to witness The Change
Like a dog with mange
I am shedding my hair
While screaming no fair
Because of the shift I see
Because of the **** I need
To make my heart bleed
There is a steady bellowing burdensome baggage
From those that want to ****** some *******
So I search for weight lifters
But only find shapeshifters
That become great grifters
When The Change occurs
And The Change burns
So The Change turned
Me into an interdimensional changeling
And an unintentional rage king
After they use words like flaming
Because the results are so draining
It becomes hard not to hate people
Who are inspired by hate steeples
They say I'm going to Hell
While I notice the smell
Of being buried in their banal ****
While they play their greatest hits
That are as unoriginal
As they are cynical
They say I'm a degenerate
An embarrassment
A parent's lament
I want to change into a carefree bird
Instead I stay in Hell with the herd
Wanting to escape like Lupin the Third
Rather than be oppressed like the Kurds
But there is no relief
Only re-grief
When changes aren't permanent
But The Change is
There's an illustration of my life
That will change your perspective
The picture is in my words
When the painting is what I choose to say
And the canvas is your mind
Whose textures I could never imagine
So I jump off a cliff blindfolded
Expecting to be changed once I land
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:13 AM UTC
Curious, oh so curious
Like a new born canvas
Eyes with the blankest slate
Ready to be coloured in
Born with the adventurous thirst
Of finding the perfect medium
Wander and wonder, my child
Try different shades and textures
Learn to speak a thousand words
To build your own inner picture
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
blood from our wounds paints a picture
admired only as it hangs on a wall
smell, touch, taste, and sound
all futile in this moment
sight only, is what guides us
far away we stood, admiring the red saturated strokes that told our story
an impasto of textures, you didn't need to touch to understand
reaching out
we watched paralyzed version of ourselves
fall into recollection
of the pain, the joy, and the solace we once knew
Nov 3, 2021
Nov 3, 2021 at 3:39 PM UTC
Festive morn, I crossed with thee
Embellished silk shines with whirling elegance—
Of translucent textures and fine fragrance
The royal formation— that anticipates a chance—
A romantic browse of catered acquaintance.
As I swipe to slant,— Thy arms braced my shoulders— and uplift me—
In awe of my still,
Slipped palms of thy distant longed—
In the halls of hide and seek—
Despite the fragments,— Thou aimed to break the lines,—
Chasing this harmony,
Unravelling the elflock sway;— to clutch the Orchid; Until she stays..
Jul 2, 2020
Jul 2, 2020 at 2:56 AM UTC
Drawing things I cannot see,
Listening,
Keenly,
Too the strange things,
Coming from,
the albino dressed pavement smoothed,
Bedroom walls,
Braille textures,
slipping like termites,
or a strange smell,
dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent,
on the ceiling,
Braille raindrops,
escaping from your,
soul window sill,
fog,
gets in the room,
and we light cigarettes,
purple scented totem poled candles,
with out near future,
melting,
and dripping on the wooden counter-top,
which we dip our fingers into,
sticky like petroleum,
sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped,
tree limb,
which we tasted,
which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed,
like the melting candle,
like the sapped,
broken kansas public tree limb,
and i,
took off your,
orange dress that you stole,
though only a few dollars,
i called bonnie,
you called me paradise,
though we danced gleefully,
in the slums snout snarling broken home windows,
pot-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise,
inside the blue 80's oldsmobile,
with the stereo turned low,
low like the quiet hummingbird song,
of making love,
in the cold night,
under trees,
that was old,
and had probably seen many lovers,
come and go,
as its Fall leaves grew wings,
as its,
winters balding scalp,
scattered away,
like a field of dandelions,
or the birds,
that flew from nests,
only to fly south,
or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums,
sat on telephone wires,
at the intersection,
where two lovers planned paradise,
in the back-seat,
of a blue Oldsmobile,
and the night,
holy night,
and i,
**** mind wonderer without wings,
or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker,
and Her,
white as stars,
dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra,
in the sky,
far,
far,
far,
even the highway,
has no exits,
to see this performance,
So i sit on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
with a Fools smile,
as I,
watch beauty,
from the Key-hole,
that is,
Solitude.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
are we really woke as much as we all claim to be?
or are we woke to ease our minds, which ain't reality?
of course we've signaled heavy change, i won't deny that's true
but let me have your ear for now, give you another view
are you really woke because you post a rant on twitter,
but bop to Chris Brown's music even tho we know he hit her?
are you really woke cause you were born into the slums,
but if you make it out,
you forget where you are from?
are you really woke because you claim to love black hair?
but only like the softer textures, is that really fair?
are you really woke 'cause you admire that 4c?
but put down girls who have relaxers, wigs, or wear a weave?
are you really woke because you claim to love all people,
but if ya boy is gay you will denounce him at the steeple?
are you really woke because you say you know what's right,
but ostracize your fellow blacks,
simply cause "they talk white?"
are you really woke because you claim to love all colors,
but date a darker women? yikes! you'd rather find another
are you really woke because you claim you've got insight,
but if i am depressed, you say that mess is for the whites?
i bring up all these issues not because i hate my own
i bring up all these issues just because they're never shown
and if we are to grow and prosper,
thrive and shed our past,
we need to have these conversations,
make sure that they last
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 1:59 PM UTC