The Words That Could Undo Us
The words you carry are heavier than the night.
I see the storm gathering behind your teeth,
the lightning of a truth you’re afraid to release.
Hold it a moment longer— let the world stay still before your voice reshapes it.
For even silence has its own pulse.
The air between us is thick with meaning, a thread pulled tight but not yet broken.
Some truths are more powerful when they hover unspoken— warm as breath, sharp as longing.
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Part not thou lips,
Part not thou lips, for I can hear the truth before it’s spoken.
The breath you hold trembles against the silence, a confession waiting to break its own chains.
Let the moment stay whole— unbroken, unruined, a fragile truth balanced on the edge of your mouth.
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Full Circle
It came back
like a storm we swore we’d outgrown,
a shadow stretching
from wounds we never let heal.
The circle tightens—
old words in new mouths,
old fears in new clothes,
old lines redrawn
as if time never learned its lesson.
But every return
reveals the truth missed before:
a circle can be broken
the moment someone refuses
to walk it again.
The wheel turns,
slow and grinding,
pulling yesterday’s ghosts
into today’s light.
The pattern repeats—
the same cracks in the foundation,
the same weight on the same shoulders,
the same silence
where justice should speak.
It comes back around—
the prejudice,
the power games,
the quiet cruelty dressed as order.
History did... |
“I’m Forced to Be What They See”
They hand me a mask
and call it my face,
pressing it tight
like I was born wearing it.
They script my lines
before I open my mouth,
then act surprised
when I tear the page in half.
I am not their shorthand,
their shortcut,
their story told in one word.
I am the whole sky —
and they keep trying
to fold me into a box.
They carve a silhouette
and swear it’s my reflection,
never noticing
how the edges don’t fit.
I walk with the weight
of names I never chose,
shadows I never cast,
stories I never lived.
Still, I rise in my own outline,
soft where they expect steel,
wild where they expect calm,
true where they expect myth.
I am not the mold
they keep pressing me into.
I am the hand... |
What’s the “Tea”?
The truth you sip slow,
the rumor you stir twice,
the heat that fogs the glass
before the words even land.
Some stories don’t spill—
they steam.
The kind that burns tongues
and exposes intentions.
The kind whispered in corners
but felt in the room.
Say it plain—
truth tastes better
when it’s not watered down.
What’s the “Tea”?
A quiet pour of honesty,
warm and unhurried.
A confession wrapped in steam,
floating between us
like a secret deciding
whether to be spoken.
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Voodoo Palms
Under the voodoo palms,
the air hums with secrets—
old magic curling like smoke
around the roots.
Every breeze is a whisper,
every shadow a warning,
every heartbeat a drum
calling something ancient
back to life.
Voodoo palms don’t just sway—
they watch.
They hold the heat,
the hush,
the half?truths you tried to bury.
Step beneath them
and the night leans in,
asking what you came to conjure
and what you’re ready to lose.
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Fire Under the Bridge
There’s fire under the bridge— not the kind that burns it down, but the kind that whispers, “I’m not finished.” Heat in the hush, anger with a pulse, truth that crawls back up your spine and dares you to cross anyway.
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Framed in Shadows I Never Cast
They tried to shape my story
from the grain of their own assumptions,
carving silhouettes in dark tones
and calling them truth.
But I am not the shadow they sketched in haste.
I am the warm weight of sun?washed stone,
the steady pulse of earth beneath bare feet,
the quiet glow of something real.
Their whispers never fit my edges.
Their frames were too small, too brittle,
too far from the texture of my becoming.
I rise from their outlines
like light slipping through cedar branches—
soft, certain, uncontained.
I walk in colors they never bothered to see,
in a brightness they could not name,
crafted from my own hands,
my own history,
my own truth.
Let them keep their shadows.
I am made of something older,
something honest,
so... |
Where’s Your Witness
Where’s your witness…
when the truth sits heavy
and the room grows still?
Who saw the way you carried it,
the weight no one named,
the strength you never claimed aloud?
Sometimes the only witness
is the echo of your own heartbeat—
steady, certain,
refusing to lie…
Where’s Your Witness...
when life carves its marks into you—
soft grooves, deep lines,
stories etched like grain in wood?
Maybe it’s the wind that knows,
or the ground beneath your feet,
or the quiet spirit inside you
that’s been keeping score
since the beginning.<... |
Crumbled
I didn’t fall all at once—
I came apart in quiet ways,
edges softening,
strength slipping grain by grain.
But even in the ruin,
There’s a truth I can’t ignore:
what crumbles
can clear the ground
for something stronger
to rise. a gentler kind of resilience.
Not broken—
just crumbled
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