Untitled (POEM)

Today is the anniversary of my baptism.
2 years now, I believe.

I should be smiling
I was, smiling…
Until I thought about my behavior
Considered my sin

Why must I
Have to go through this again?
It’s torturous.

I told someone the other day
That the scariest thing we can ever
Is face ourselves

The ghosts will chase you
The demons will haunt you
They will not relent
Until you repent
But above all else
You must first face yourself
You’ve got to stop running
Where are you going?
Where can you go?
These beasts are internal
And they will chase you down that

I think it’s time I took my own advice

Even now
My heart pounds harder
Than a desperate man working overtime
—just to pay the bills
I remember when God told me
To look to the hills
From whence cometh my help
(Psalm 121:1)

I keep hoping…
Hoping that if I send up enough flares,
If I wave enough red flags
Someone will see something’s wrong
They’ll challenge me
They’ll hold me accountable
This ground is littered
With crimson and scarlet,
Frayed thread and blackened casings,
Yet the only person standing here
Is me

I feel so alone
That I’m practically drowning in it
That’s when the Lord reminds me
Just because I don’t see anyone
Physically with me,
Doesn’t mean no one is interceding
He shows me an image
Of people raising me up with their
“You are being lifted up through prayer.”
You think you’ve fallen,
Never to get up again,
But it is the prayer of loved ones
That is holding you up
“Need I remind you
That My grace IS sufficient enough
And sufficient is the day thereof.”
(II Corinthians 12:9)
(Matthew 6:34)

Truth is
We all want somebody to hold us
For the things we should be doing
We want someone else to do it
But looking for accountability from
Without ever finding it in yourself,
Is like asking people to walk with you
But you never take a step
Let’s be real: you don’t want a walking
You want a mover
Someone made like a tank
To push you and your 1 ton
Of spiritual weight

No, I wasn’t looking to be walked with
I was hoping to be dragged

Because I love God
But I love my sin too much
And I thought,
Maybe if someone can push me into
—forward gear
I can finally move forward
However that kind of thing
Isn’t forward motion
It’s slow cruising
And it is taxing on the one
Walking this thing out for themselves
So eventually,
They do leave you
Yet they pray you’ll find the willingness
To do the thing
Which only you can do
For yourself

I recall not that long ago
Reading the story
Of someone in ministry
Openly latching to their sin
While thanking God for being in an
Where the entire congregation
And the rest of the leaders
All turn their heads
I had so many questions
Burning inside
[How can you do that?]
[That’s hypocritical]
[I know you know the Word,
—because you just quoted it.]
[So how then…?]
[How can you be for God,
—and against Him,
—all at the same time?]
[How can you say you’re in ministry
And be living a double life?]
Only to be called out by Jesus for doing
—the same

[But they-—!]
“And you?”
[But they are—!]
“And you aren’t?”

I fell silent
Recognizing my own hypocrisy
And Christ spoke to me,
“Until you can answer those same
For yourself,
You cannot ask that of someone else.”

And accountability is just the same
It all is
Because it first starts
With you, the individual
It starts with you

I’m entertaining the question:
“Who are you?”

Who are you, really?
If God showed you what He saw
What He sees
Could you handle it?
Would you even want to know?

Lord already knows I certainly do not

I have no time
To be chased by demons and ghosts
I have no time for it

My hand trembles
My legs shake
Dear God, my God I am deathly afraid
But I trust You
And I need You to show me the things
That I must change
Whether I want to see myself
As I am

Or not.


Daring To Be (Poem)

Thump, thump, thump
I can hear them
Thump, thump, thumping
Banging against the walls
Of my ribs
Knock, knock
Open up
Let us out
Let us in

Shall we write today?
Why not
It’s been weeks since the last poem

So many things
Swirling inside
So many feelings
And thoughts
Yet somehow
After all this time
I’m still afraid

Of how people
Will see me

I wanted to write a poem
About a man’s eyes once
Not necessarily in a romantic way
I just found them so intriguing
The pain
And the beauty in them

The art of life is at times
But we as artists
Try anyway because

That’s what we do

So many poems
Bursting inside
Ready to spring forth
And pour out

And meanwhile
As you sit there hiding
Waiting for this perfect
Most opportune moment
To come
It never will
And that poems decays faster
Than an adolescent’s imagination
You are putting your dreams in acid

And hoping they’ll come out whole
Once you get the timing right,
Of course
But of course you know
That method never works

You do know that, don’t you?
Certainly you do

Certainly, yes

Do what you were created to do

Don’t let misinterpretations,
And future judgmental comments
And scrutiny
Stifle and smother out a flame

Before you even light it

If you enjoy reading my works, please be sure to buy a copy of my latest book To Whom It May Concern

TWMC_Front Cover(resized)

Tiny Thoughts (Poem)

(I wrote this poem in dedication to Child Abuse Awareness month, which is every year in April. I had originally attended on writing one piece each week until I realized that I don’t know enough on the topic. Child abuse is a serious thing, but I think once I read more on it then I’ll be able to do more pieces next year. For now, I hope that this piece will spark interest and initiative to step in and stand up for those children who are silenced.)


I remember my niece
Telling me once
About a girl in her class
She had long scratches
On her back
And her hands, she said
She told me
Her classmate shared with her
That her dad was the cause
This little girl’s father
Apparently was abusive
Towards her classmate
And her classmate’s mother
She wanted her mother to leave
But her mother was afraid
And she had been warned
Not to tell an adult what was

This was in second or third grade,
I believe…

We assume
The only monsters kids worry about
Are the ones under their bed
Or in their closet
We don’t consider
That the boogeyman is their parent
A relative
Or a guardian

We assume
That every kid has a childhood
Full of smiles
When we know good and well
That this was not the case
For most of us

Children are being tormented
And even more
Are robbed of their innocence

So what do we do?
Who will fight for the fatherless
When no one will step up
To help the poor widow?
Ought of sight, out of mind
Is that it?

Ought of sight, out of mind
You didn’t witness that child
Being hit
It’s back to the hustle and bustle
Of every day life

But if you were that child
If that was your kid
Being assaulted
And battered
You’d want somebody to care,
Wouldn’t you?

You do care…
Don’t you?

Photo source: Google Images

Paying Homage (Poem)


Digging for the crumbs in order to piece
Just get it done
That’s the mission
Stamp your name on it
Make it your brand
You gotta make a name for yourself
Don’t you want to be the one
Who everyone’s talking about?
That’s the motive

As I watched a special the other day
On my favorite poet
And the woman whose art inspired me
I began to dream a dream
Of recognition and fame
I neglected to hear the pains she went
The hard work it took her to get there
But I dream a dream of hope that day
I’ll be the next her
I’d be the next name in history
And possibly even go on
To do even more incredible and historic

But somehow
I can’t even seem to get this poem right
Even while I write it
And somehow
I forgot
That having my name in the Lamb’s Book
Is more important
Than whether or not I’ll be remembered
Later in life

Chances are
They’ll all forget
Just the same
Just like I forgot
All those other names

That’s the thing about history
We only know about the few who made
Monumental contributions
Did monumental things
And it makes us feel
As though the little bit we do
Isn’t worth anything

At that same moment in time
As I pondered over frivolous dreams
I began to ask myself
About all the Black people
Who have ever lived and breathed in
I wondered
How many of their stories went
How many of them did things
That were pivotal
But didn’t even receive an honorable
Does it no longer matter?
Do they not exist
If a historian didn’t acknowledge
What all they did,
Whether it be little or gigantic?

Jesus Christ
The Ultimate Record Keeper Supreme
Ruler over everything
He has not forgotten
He does not forget
He watches and He knows
What all a person has done
He knows this

I heard Him ask me this morning,
“Isn’t your name showing up
In My Book,
More important
Than being a temporary name
In time?
You are making history,
But what good does it do you
To do all these things in My name
And still go to hell anyway
Because you lived to die
But didn’t die to live?”

Are you living to die
Or dying to live…?
What are legends, anyway?

But what a shame
What a pity it would be
To not consider every person
Who has ever come before me
The same people
Who are the very reason
For why I am able to do what I do
Live how I live
And have helped to influence
These things I write

Lord I thank You
For reminding me of what’s important

Time to pick up the plow
Like every African American before me
Time to pick up the plow
Toil the ground
There’s not time to be afraid
Of getting sweat on your brow
Time to get to work
Put your back into it now

With the help of Christ
They’ve paved a way for me
This far
I can’t afford to let them down
I can’t afford to let Him down

Not right now, no
Not now

Eye of the Beholder (Poem)

Here’s another piece I’ve written. This will be in the Safe Haven later today. I never imagined how hard it would be just to find a decent picture with a group of women, all women of color, with all the races represented in this poem…I still wasn’t really able to achieve that, so please forgive me. I do think this poem does get the message across however and I hope it encourages all my women of color to know: you’re beautiful, too.


Photo source: Google Images


Silky hair that cascades down
As if it were a golden waterfall
Ivory skin
Resembling the purest, the finest
—there is
Dainty lips
Refined nose so ever slender
She’s so ever slender, you know
In all the right places,
You know?

Eyes icy blue
The kind that pierce through
And penetrate deep into your soul
When you gaze into them
Just look at her
Why wouldn’t you think
She’s beautiful?

She has literally become
The definition of it

Somewhere along the way
She became the definition
For a lot of things:
What a woman is supposed to look like
What an American is
What happens when beauty is born
And shapes itself into human form,
Is that right?
I think so, I think it is

I see her
And have been seeing her
In every film and TV screen there is
I see her
In all the makeup ads
In the lusts of men
Who say
She’s so charismatically sexy
She’s just too good to pass up
And yet
They pass up on me

You see
I am Black
And I was taught
At a very young age
That all of us
Are beautiful
Unique in our own way
We’re like God’s human rainbow
Displayed in various arrays
Of skin tones and hues

Then you grow up
And you discover you live in a
Where that is just simply
Not the case

I felt like somebody lied to me
As I continually wipe the spit
Off my face
“What about a Black woman?”
He asked
“Would you take her out?”
The hesitation
And the silence
That surfaced
Only seemed to perpetuate
What the world has been telling me
It thinks of me

Here at home
And all across the seas

I remember once
A man
Who looked like me
Telling another Black girl
He didn’t bother with Black women
Because to him
Dating us
Would be like sifting through
To get a rotten piece of meat
I have news for all of you

My Father who art in Heaven
Created me this way
And everything
EVERY THING the Lord has made
IS beautiful

So yes,
That White woman is beautiful
There is no denying that
That Brown woman there?
She’s beautiful
That Red woman there?
She’s beautiful
That Yellow woman there?
She’s beautiful
That Black woman there?
Oh yeah, she’s beautiful
And you better believe
This Black woman right here
Most certainly is

Does beauty have a name?
Does beauty have a face?
Does beauty have a race?
Is that really how it is now?
Is that really how it is?
Because that seems to be
How it’s always been

Excuse my Southern talk
But there ain’t no magic to this
Just God gifted, God given
No matter how ugly you tell me I am
No matter how ugly you make me feel
No matter how often you take
That same woman
You just called beautiful
And knock her right off the pedestal
You put her on
To throw her on a pole
And yell at her to take it off

She is beautiful.

I will say it again

She IS beautiful

And I
Am beautiful too

All of us
Women of color
Are beautiful TOO
And if you can’t respect that
If you cannot appreciate
These different levels
Of beauteous imperfections
Perfectly created by the Savior

Then you
Yes, YOU
Are a fool
And you were never meant to
Such a treasure
As she is

Respect us all
For who we are individually
Love her for who she is
And stop defining us
By what you behold
Only solely to be



Photo source: Google Images

The Telephone Game (Poem)

(I decided to write poem in the Safe Haven for BHM like I did last year. Thanks for reading and let’s work to keep Black history alive.)


Passing down stories to ancestors
Passing down stories to ancestors
Pass it down, pass it down
Gather all the children
Gather them all around
Great great of great great of great great
He’s going to tell it now

Who we are
And who we were
How do you know
Who you will be
If you don’t know
Who you are and
Where you came from?

Ships and chains
Sickness and disease
Bodies on top of bodies
Packed in like sardines
Bodies on top of bodies
Cast off into the sea
Land ho
New home
Gather all the children
Gather them all around
Gotta pass it gotta pass it
Gotta pass it down
Pass it down down down

And down, down, down it went

Continue reading

New Year, New Poem



I said I loved writing so much
That to tell me to stop doing it
Was as if to order me
To stop breathing altogether

I stopped breathing

I stopped doing everything
For quite awhile, in fact
But the pain that comes from
—the loss of life
Keeps bringing me back

I want to continue
So consider this my second try
At many first attempts
To take in oxygen

Let it all out
Then take it all back in

What do you do, I asked God,
When your book’s not selling?
What do I do
When the book won’t sell
And it seems as if
Everything I write
Goes unread
And I am told
To remember the real reason
For why I write to begin with

This passion seems to be dead
Because I used to be all self-righteous

“I do it all for the art! The craft!”

No, in reality, you really did it
For the money

“I do it for the love of it!”

Nah bruh,
You really did it for the money though

And when the money doesn’t seem
To be coming in
The passion dies
Because your heart wasn’t where
It was supposed to be
In the first place
What do I do?
What do I do with all of this?

I thought it was to show people
To prove to them that I could make it
I believed it was to pursue this
Unrelenting, endless drive
To show that I was so talented
I could make bankrolls
On top of bankrolls
Doing precisely what I loved to do
I thought it was to see my published
—works of art
Be played out across movie screens
Become a television series
All while sitting pretty for cameos
And interviews

And other ridiculously useless garbage

I was dealing with my own pain
And I couldn’t write about it
I was seeing and experiencing
So many things
And could not find the energy
Nor the strength
To put it all down on paper
One time
Total function of my hands
But I turned into a paraplegic

Although to be honest
I think I became happy
With being miserable
I was starting to enjoy
All that misery and grief
Eating away at me
Eating me alive
Corroding me from the inside
Like an acid

My sadness, my pain and my tears
They became my new passion

I got another one of those

She had just lost her grandfather
And I felt all the things
I had been keeping to myself
Begin to bubble up inside

I was reminded
Of a little girl’s desire
Before she even thought to dream

All she ever wanted
Was to be heard
Writing books
Performing for mass audiences
Reciting pieces, that yes, she had
—written herself

All those things didn’t matter
She just needed someone to listen

And what was most important
Was that she wanted other people
—to know

She was listening, too

Time goes on
And several years have passed since then
And as those emotions
Bubbled over
I began to recall
The real reason
For why anyone does this
Why it is that I do what I do

To sympathize with broken hearts
To lend my empathy
And an ear to those
Who feel as though their lives have
—been shattered
To lend a shoulder
And a hand
When there is no one to comfort
To remind them all and all of those
—that I am there
When they feel
As if they don’t have a friend
As if…they are all alone

Because I remember those things
And I know it all too well

To give them hope
When they begin to think
That life simply is just not
Worth living
And to know
That I will never
Get tired of listening
When I’m tired of listening
I’ve been there

I think it is also
The primary reason
For why I listen so much
And talk so little
People need to know and feel
That they are heard
And be assured they are loved

And that is what Jesus
Has been trying to show me
All along

30-something odd letter poems later
Hundreds of works down the road
And finally
I’m starting to get it now
It’s all beginning to clear up

Focus on the hearts
Listen with your ears
And jot it all down
With that Almighty Pen
Let God flow through you
He’ll always show you
Where to start

I am hurting right now
But I still have a mission ahead of me
I posed the question to myself
Suppose you had stopped breathing
Way back then
Imagine all the people
You wrote those letter poems to
Who wouldn’t have received
A single word
From the Lord
Imagine all the lives you wouldn’t
—have been able
To touch
Because you stopped focusing
On what was most important
What then?
What do you think would’ve

I felt my heart sink
I need a reminder for myself
So I re-read the piece I sent
Two actually
The one I wrote for that young lady
And another I had written
Two years ago for someone else
And as I read them
The tears welled up once more

As I asked myself,
Do you think if people knew
How many tears I poured into this
How many drops were spilled
As I wrote and toiled on some of
—these poems…
Do you think that would make them
—buy the book?
Would they even bother to listen?

In that instant
God reminded me
He had listened
And He was always listening

I may not ever get to experience
What it’s like to be a rich man on earth
But by God
I do declare
I will be a rich woman in heaven
There my Father has many riches
And He will share all the spoils with me
And all those things
That I just thought I needed
Will be the very stuff I walk on
Right under my feet

God listens
And He sees me
He hears me
Even when nobody else does
And I cannot tell you how many times
Jesus has instructed me
To be patient and hold down the line
“Daughter, you’ll be fine.”

(Taking a breath now…)
(This stuff becomes easier,
The more you do it)

It’s almost as if
I never stopped

I am so sorry, everyone
I’m listening now

Tell me your concerns

And I will share with you
The Word
That God has for you



Artist Unknown