On this seemingly fruitless journey, we have been waiting.

Haltingly going neither backwards nor upwards-

Floating between the intermediary of who we dreamed  to become

and

that which our reflections mockingly produce.

we make gods of our bodies

and starve passion through the unwritten literature of our souls.

we are searching,

searching perhaps for that which we lost long before this journey began.

searching greater still, for that which our hands have not formed

nor our minds fathomed.

And They tell us-

that we are dreaming larger than we can become-

Because becoming has never been

in our power-

 

On this Separation

Mother, now that we are separated by these large waters-

And by crackling fibre lines-

that sometimes transform your humming voice into unfamiliar muffles.

But Mother,

Now that we are separated-

I feel somehow unable.

You have never asked me to carry your burden

But suddenly

I feel heavy.

The weight of the unknown-

balances unsteadily above

me.

It is only now-

that I realize

I have been navigating this world through

you.

And Mother, I am ashamed to say-

that all this while

I secretly thought it was

you-

who had needed me most.

Never truly acknowledging

Your strength,

until now-

now that my own lack of-

mocks me,

and is hastily demanded to

stand

upright

alone.

Mother, we are now separated-

by these man-made borders.

But separated still-

by so much more,

that I cannot-

define.

 

Along the lines of truth

And they keep telling me: my Black is beautiful.

As though this new revelation should surprise me.

Shock me, into

appreciating my existence, and to be grateful for my borrowed space.

and time.

How do they know I do not bow to my temple of blackness daily?

and pay homage often to the struggles whitened out in history texts?

They encourage me to accept my wide heavy hips and thick thighs.

They speak in weak tones of expression of inner beauty and imitations of color blindness,

Who are these that dictate what my reflections should sing?

Those who trap my stories in a box

Those who describe me as one thing.

One beautiful Black thing.

Why should i be defined, aligned and understood?

they teach me to know myself, while

always fearing i will recognize the lies behind their borrowed truths

and hand-woven sermons

Having produced an image of me that they find palatable and comfortable,

they clip my wings and demand i soar.

Mother, A wonderful Headache you gave me

And Mother,

You only ever taught me to love and to be true,

Assuring me that this was enough armor to meet the world with.

And Mother,

You prepared me to hope in the stars and pray to the winds.

And Mother,

You promised that faith could conquer all battles.

And Mother,

You made me understand the pain of others before my own.

And Mother,

You taught me to sooth the wounds on the backs of my foes.

And Mother,

You showed me that wisdom would always dwell in the rows of cornrows that lay upon my head.

And Mother,

You sang the hymns on the misery of wars un-fought.

And Mother,

You decorated my childhood with stories of the evils of men.

But Mother,

You taught me to be silent too soon and

too often.

You were beautiful before they told you

You were beautiful before they told you.
Before they molded you into the temple of their becomings.
All you see now is a price on your soul.
But please take a moment to realize,
that the broken pieces are not a mess.
And as the sun falls into meditation;
as it makes intercourse with the moon,
translating the words pressed over your heart,
into a melody we never thought to listen to-
You should hold tight to the webs of faith set before you.

You were beautiful before they told you.
Your blackness is a narrative few will choose to understand.
It is not an apology nor a monologue.
The beauty of your kinks and locks in conversation with the curve of your breast,
Requires a special appreciation.
So do not despair,
when you are sold below the price of beauty,
on a market which places perfection as a necessity.

You were beautiful before they told you.
You are not an idea nor a single thought but rather a discourse of many colors.
I could tell you this until the end of time.
But do you see it?
You must resist the desire to desist from breaking free.
These chains that print self-loathing over the bridges of your ancestry,
Have blinded you.
And now the shadows in your eyes,
make it impossible-
for you to feel the sunshine,
dancing under the soles of your feet.

When we came in the name of peace

We came in the name of peace, in the name of all good and godly things.

How it all began we neither cared nor did we remember.

It was a union between fire and ice.

A meeting of the Cairo’s and the America’s.

It could not have been fathomed, believed by any.

Was this union blessed? Had the prophets fore seen such a thing?

“Sinners!!” some cried out on the street.

Do you remember that time?

It seems in our minds we had created our own world.

Ours was timeless. That’s what I knew they thought.

I once woke up to the laughter of an old woman and I thought I saw our ending coming.

 

So how did we get here?

There was a time when we knew we could survive this.

We were so sure of our ability, to love, to hold, to cherish.

But our make-believe world has broken down.

The power is out and we are left to grope blindly, as darkness mocks our existence.

We didn’t anticipate the possibility of falling out of our utopia.

When the unimaginable happened we could only watch- immobile, unfeeling—numb

How could we have known that we would one day walk on opposite streets?

Were our minds supposed to contemplate the possibility of this once impossibility?

We thought we came in the name of peace, in the name of all good and godly things.

A path of indefinable pain was the one we finally trod.

The Human Fault

It is the gift of life that has been reduced to a curse by our feeble minds.

Searching for existence, we realize our utter inadequacies.

While born to walk on land, we pray to fly.

We bind our hopes and dreams to love, hoping that this will be fertile land to instill the growth we desire.

We toil unceasingly, never realizing the true simplicity of life itself.

It was beautiful before but we damned it in our hearts.

After the fire burnt the destruction i thought i saw the holy trinity rise above the ashes.