Thee art of being black, thee art of fighting back there is no art, just good consequence for years of forced silence.
Thee art of speaking up, thee art of making luv there is no art, just connection and that initiate want for protection.
Thee art of running scared, thee art of being unprepared there is no art, just honouring because we have become more intolerant.
Thee art of believing, remembering and never forgetting our dna is fused with the sun, our eyes reflect the moon
Thee art of revisiting old wounds, the art of healing the things that no longer serve us, there is no art, just the respect, the crave to visit the transcendental destination are souls secretly want to take a peek at.
It’s far away but I can feel it coming, lifting. Opening. Rising. Soon she says. Soon he says. Soon they say. Soon I pray.
About the Creator
Ruhani Khadijah
In a small fit of rage i cleansed my whole page, but these are years of poems not just one whole day haha… &in a silly order! but anywaysssss.
you're welcome to stroll through my garden 🌱
Keep reading
More stories from Ruhani Khadijah and writers in Poets and other communities.
Is This a Rabbit Hutch Or An Apartment?
“Shut up. Yeah, you, up there!” I'm tired of pounding the ceiling with a broomstick. “Hello, Mike. I’ll get right to the point. Can you make the guy above me quiet down? I have to get up early for work, and he's banging on the floor—fucking! Get him a bed. Why am I calling you? You’re the landlord. Did you forget? Do not dare send your 'apartment manager' brother—he stole my antique Christmas ornaments, remember? I got them back after you both said they were taken to the dump, and then they suddenly reappeared when I wouldn't pay the rent. I’m not paying rent until this noise problem is fixed."
By Andrea Corwin about 7 hours ago in Poets
Comments