Writers of color

There is no greater remedy than soaking my hands in the arcane corners of my mind.

The Syllabals I’m breeding dance in rhyme.

I find the revolution in my words.

Gradually, a rebel is born.


Death isn’t the end

We always come back.

In the night breeze that kisses your skin.

In the trees that grow a little taller than the rest.

The songs that catch our hearts before our attention.

In every child that looks at us in bewilderment.

In the flowers that know the true powers of the sun.

Amongst the crickets and sounds of moving cars.

We always come back.

Coming home

I bathe myself in the poem.

Pulling the pain out and lay it flat.

How does the palm of my hands remember so many stories.

The words jump out of me and are ready to sing.

I hear the orchestra calling my name.

I am the artist. The poem. The healer.

This is cleansing.


I don’t need to see scars 

Your eyes beam resilience.