POETRY

Welcome to My Poetry Corner

Here, Words Become Windows.

Each poem I share is a piece of me. They are stitched together from quiet thoughts and deep questions. They hold heavy truths and soft screams the world never heard. My poetry is raw and reflective. It is rooted in real moments. These moments include the ache of unspoken pain, the beauty in healing, and the battle of simply being seen.

I write not just to express, but to connect. To offer you something familiar in the unfamiliar. A whisper that reminds you—you’re not alone.

So come sit with these words. Let them echo. Let them soften. Let them stir something in you. Because somewhere between the lines, you just might find your own voice too.

POEMS:

Unchain Our Men

A Word Before You Read…

This piece is a call. A confrontation. A cry.
It’s not about blame. It’s about balance.
For too long, the emotions of our men—our brothers—have been dismissed, mocked, or weaponized.
This poem is a reclaiming.
A reminder that masculinity and humanity are not enemies.
It’s time we unlearn the lies and make room for truth.
So read with your heart open.
And if this message finds you—know it was written for you.
Eyes—
open.
Ears—
wider.
Mouth—
shut.
And I mean really shut.
Because some of y’all been loud and wrong for way too damn long.

Who the hell told you it was your place
To dictate to a man
How to be a man?

If it was that easy—
Then do it.
Strap up. Step in.
But hush that noise if you can’t carry the weight.

This man got villains
Coming at him from every angle—
System.
Trauma.
Bills.
Past.
The world calling him threat
Before he even speaks.
And now you?
In his ear, questioning his tears?

Nah.

You can help him fight
Or get the hell out the way.
But if you choose to move aside,
Don’t come crawling back
When he’s standing in his light,
Crown straight, money long,
And you think you deserve a seat?
No, sis. No.
Entitlement don’t live here.

You wasn’t in the trenches.
You weren’t in the dark.
You weren’t the one holding him down
When he almost gave up.
But now you wanna pop out
And claim the king?
HELL. NO.

We don’t like getting dirty
When our men are broken.
But we sure as hell love posing
On his throne like we earned it.
That throne ain’t yours.
That crown ain’t community property.
If your love was conditional—
Your silence was louder than loyalty.

Try to slander him later?
Your absence already spoke.
He heard you loud.
He felt you quiet.

We ain’t gold mines,
We ain’t slot machines
You yank on hoping
This time you’ll hit the jackpot.
We are humans.
God damn it.
And betrayal?
Cuts us too.

Stop asking men to open up
Just so you can weaponize the softness.
Stop demanding strength
Then mocking the scars it took to get it.

Let him bleed,
Let him cry,
Let him breathe.
Unchain him.
And while you’re at it—
Unlearn that toxic-ass script
You been reading from.

You don’t gotta be loud to be strong.
You don’t gotta emasculate to be seen.
And you damn sure
Don’t gotta shrink him
To shine.

If you can’t honor the heart
Of a man brave enough to feel,
Then step back.
This ain’t your battlefield.

But for the rest of us?
We see him.
We hold him.
We lift him.
We pray over him.
Because we don’t just want his power—
We respect his pain.

Unchain our men.
Before they stop trusting
There’s any safe place left
To be human.

Until I’m On The Floor

Why is it that nobody listens
Until I’m curled up, knees pressed to my chest,
Mascara melting like war paint,
Saltwater baptizing hardwood floors?
Why is it that my “please” needs volume
Before it becomes valid?

I speak soft.
I speak steady.
I speak LOUD.
But it all falls on deaf hearts.
Until I’m weeping.
Wailing.
Writhing.
And then—
Suddenly the world stops.
Suddenly I matter.

Why does my pain need to be a performance
Before it earns a reaction?

They call it “overreacting” when I’m trying to communicate.
“Sensitive.”
“Too much.”
“Dramatic.”
Nah… I was desperate.
I was giving you a chance to care
Before the collapse.
Before the breakdown.
Before I begged the edge to hold me tighter than you ever did.

You don’t get to call it a crisis
When I called it concern the first 10 times.

Men,
Why you so nonchalant?
Why do my tears need to drown us both
Before you throw a damn life vest?

Why do you only show up
When I’m about to give up?
When I’ve packed my bags in my soul
And the door is creaking open?

I was a warning.
I was a whisper.
I was a whole siren.

But y’all don’t hear women
Until we scream.
Until our silence is too loud to ignore.
Until our absence echoes where our presence used to beg.

So now—
I cry loud.
Not for permission.
Not for pity.
But because my tears
Are no longer your alarm clock.

If my pain needs to be loud to be heard,
Then let it shake every damn room.

The Cry Before The Collapse

(A reflection on what led to “Until I’m on the Floor”)

It didn’t start with the crying.

It started with the soft asks. The gentle nudges. The calmly spoken words in moments of vulnerability.
The repeated check-ins. The “Hey, I’m not okay.” The “Can you sit with me in this?” But they got brushed aside. Minimized. Laughed off.

It’s often like that—especially in relationships. Especially when you’re a woman. Especially when you’re a Black woman.
You learn, early on, that your pain needs to come with subtitles. That your emotion has to be “just right”—not too loud, not too soft, or it’ll be dismissed altogether.

Society tells us to endure. Quietly. To be resilient. To be nurturing. To be “strong.”
And in that silence, our needs get buried until they start screaming from beneath the weight of being ignored.

See, emotional expression in women is rarely seen as data. It’s seen as drama.
Even when we’re trying to explain. Even when we’re sounding the alarm.
And for some men—who have been taught to disconnect from their own pain—our vulnerability becomes too much. Too raw. Too loud for the numbness they live in.
So they joke. Dismiss. Avoid. And we, the ones asking to be seen, are labeled the problem.

But what people forget—what they forget—is that our breakdowns don’t come out of nowhere.
They’re built on ignored red flags. On pleas unheard. On love that wasn’t mirrored.

Pain shouldn’t have to be loud to be real.
A calm voice should be enough.
A whisper of concern should be enough.

But when it’s not? When no one takes you seriously until you’re weeping on the floor, you start to wonder—
Did they ever really see you at all?

That wondering birthed the piece “Until I’m on the Floor.”
It’s not just a poem. It’s a pulse. A scream for every woman who begged in her stillness and was only heard in her collapse.

Let It Rain

Tonight,
I am the storm.
Thunder in my chest.
Lightning behind my eyes.
Tears falling in rhythm with the sky.

The world outside weeps with me—
not in mourning,
but in making room.

Because rain doesn’t just break.
Rain softens.
It loosens the hardened earth
and whispers to the seeds,
It’s time.

And I—
I am one of those seeds.
Long buried.
Long forgotten.
Held in the dark by fear, failure, and the weight of too many yesterdays.
But tonight,
as the heavens cry and the floodwaters rise,
something sacred begins to stir inside me.

Maybe this storm isn’t punishment.
Maybe it’s permission.
To unravel.
To feel.
To become.

Because even in the downpour,
hope finds a way to seep in.
To kiss the roots.
To resurrect the dreams I thought were dead.

So let it rain.
Let it flood.
Let every tear soak the ground I’ll rise from.

I am not drowning.
I am breaking open.

And soon—
I will bloom.

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