The Wounded Healer

Her words are deep, and perhaps, far too deep, because they do not come from her heart. She writes and speaks with passion only because her words come from the pitch of her stomach. As these words travel up her torso, they avoid her heart like a plague.

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“Yemoja” [Artist Unknown]

Her heart is severely wounded, so she strives to protect her words from blood stains. She chooses not to release the words that live in her heart because they are filled with pain.

She is hurt
and she is weak
and she is dying slowly,
but it’s not for her listeners who need healing to see…

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Sunny Moon. Moony Sun.

She’s like the sun.
You go too close to her, and you burn.
You go too far away from her, and you freeze to death.

She’s like the moon.
You go too close to her, and you’re blind in your fantasy.
You go too far away from her, and you can’t see.
You can’t see a thing; you can’t dream.

You stay right where you should be,
and she glows for you.
She’s half-sun and half-moon.
Queen.
Half-sun and half-moon.
Me.

Push Through

This is the legend of Gbàdà,
the favourite of his former owner.

One day, his chains were removed,
and he was declared a free man.
In excitement, he began to dance,
on the broad road by the plantation,
all day, and all night,
and he hasn’t stopped since then.
He doesn’t know where home is;
he doesn’t know what home was.

He’s been released, but he’s not free yet;
he’ll be free when he stops dancing.
The blindfold’s off but he can’t see yet;
he’ll see when he stops laughing,
when he stops crying,
when he starts moving,
when he starts trying.

Maybe one day, he’ll get home,
if he doesn’t dance himself to death.
The name “Freeman” is as bad as “Ransome”;
he needs very thorough rebirth.

As Bright as Darkness

HELLYWOOD:
When your lights go off,
or when they don’t shine as brightly,
darkness is turned on in your heart,
and a new evil is birthed in your soul.

You do not like to not be
seen as often you used to,
so you turn more of your rays on.

As soon as another light becomes brighter,
and another surely will,
you turn even more rays on.
You’d do anything and everything
to not be overshadowed by another light.

You more light the others see,
the more of you they see,
and the less you they see,
and the less you, you see,
and the more of them you see
but the less them you see.

Everyone knows what you are,
but no one knows who you are.
You shine so bright, so exceedingly well,
but there’s deep darkness inside.

For everything you do not do,
and for everything you do,
for everything you do not become,
and for everything you become,
there are consequences.

Love is for Everyone

Love is for people who can’t say “love”.
Love is for people who can’t see “love”.
Love is for people who can’t hear “love”.
Love is for people who can’t write “love”.

Love is for people who have no
knees or legs to propose with.
Love is for people who
can’t afford to buy diamond rings.
Love is for people who haven’t
stepped out of their native countries.
What we sometimes celebrate in
the name of love is the lack thereof.

Love is for everyone!
There should be no discrimination in love.
Love is for me;
love is for you.


 

Whenever differently-abled people or people with special needs especially step out to share their pre-wedding photographs and whatnot, like the other human beings that they share the earth with, they tend to get very terrible reactions.

“Oh my God! He’s a dwarf!” 

And?

“Is he blind? The woman must be stupid to marry a man like that.”

Yes, he can’t see, and so? Also, you’re the stupid one. 

It’s just ridiculous.

Keep your pity, feelings of disappointment, feelings of disgust, ridicule and scorn in your pockets. If you have nothing nice to say, shut your mouth; it’s simple.

Love is for everyone. Love is for me; love is for you. There is no “them”.

Her Sore-n

Theirs was like the relationship
between the sun and the roses.
The roses need the sun;
the sun doesn’t need the roses.
We all know the sun never really notices
the roses until they vigorously sway
their petals from side to side.

Rose thought she’d be a lot happier
if the Sun came down to live with her.
She shook and swung, flirted and sucked
[his light in as much as she could? Amen].
She’s severely burning,
but she’s glad she’s the hot guy’s main girl.
She’s now closer to being his wife;
death is her new, perfect life.

The Free Wear the Chains Now.

It’s one thing to be Black and proud.
It’s another, to be an African,
or with African roots, and proud.

How can it be, that children of the same parents don’t regard one another as siblings, as brothers and sisters?

11-Faces-3-African-Art-Oil-on-Canvas_Udubrae-Art-Galleries_AfriMod

“Faces”: Abstract African Art by Nigerian Artist, Ezekiel Udubrae.


Romanticized Queen Africa Has the Strength of a Thousand Men. She Has Large, Perky Breasts and Big, Round Buttocks:
Many of the Black people of America are so proud of their “Ancient-Egypt roots”. Their ancestors spoke Yoruba, and Igbo, and Twi, and Hausa, and Tiv, and Qanawuri, and Etuno, before heavy chains were tied around their hands and feet. The sad truth is these ancestors were not all titled king and queens, but Móremí’s sons and Idia’s daughters would prefer to claim that they were directly breastfed by Nefertiti.

An Egyptian lady told me she’s from the Middle East, not from Africa. You’d expect that if anyone was to be proud of Africa, it’d be her.

The Chained were set ‘free’ [whether or not they are truly free]. The Free wear the chains now.