From Whence I Came.


I dreamt of you last night

your voice

your hair

your smile.

It was so real to me

the dream me began to compile

a list of questions I had for you

that only you would know

I had to put it all together

just so I could really know

it was you.

But you didn’t even let me get to number 1

you told me that wasn’t why you were here

that it was time for us to have some fun.

So, I took you around the city for a tour.

Took you to my university

and explained the lure.

I told you things I haven’t even told your daughter,

and by the look in your eyes

I’ll never recover

from the day I spent on the town with you

in my dreams,

the way I got to catch up with you

How our connection so easily reconvened.

How every chance you got

you reminded me to cook

and every other glance at me

confirmed I had the look.

No time for confirmation

Even less for consternation

You just wanted me to know about

your undying appreciation

for the person I was

and how I got me to who I am

You just kept smiling at me

and kept reminding me of when

I used to run around the neighborhood

with reckless abandon

used to leave my shoes

which somehow ended up on your landing.

“But your dead,”

I kept saying to everyone who would hear.

No one seemed to care

they were just excited you were here.

They loved meeting you and seeing from whence I came

“You have my smile, child,”

was among the many things you exclaimed.

I never touched you

for fear you would disappear.

I didn’t want to wake up

to leave you

where you were revealed.

As I realized I was waking up

I extended my hand to you.

I figured I might as well

Since I was leaving too.

But you didn’t grab my hand

in fact, you were nowhere to be found

except in the extremely warm and comfortable

home in my heart



and proud.

Written by me on 5.31.17

Until next time,


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Little Chaos, Less Sleep.

Thoughts from a Master.

How do you focus when you can’t breathe?
You need a breather
But breathing is hard
your heart pounds
But you tryin’ ta sleep

How are you gonna make rent?
How you livin’?
As you sip on your fancy bourbon drink




What is in a dollar?
A Hundred?
How about a penny?

I walked outdoors and begged for
it to rain
on me
on my skin
cleansing my iniquity
and rendering me new

But sadly,

Sallie Mae would still have my number

and would call me out the blue.

I miss writing. I miss it so much. I had to steal away from things and release my consternation. Now back to the final stretch of this degree!

Until next time,


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Have you ever felt like you’re dying?

Like you’re killing yourself to succeed?

It’s a feeling that makes you sick to your stomach,

it’s a feeling that will not heed

your incessant cries and pleas for it to stop

turning your mind into chaos

cutting deeply into your flesh

but the blood refuses to clot.

What do you do when your treachery effects your life?

When you want to do anything to stop living this double-strife?

But you know you can’t

’cause if you could you would.

You know what they say about




but they never mention what happens

when your life is meant in vain

when society is set up

for you to maintain

the violent roots that thrive from you losing

and constantly blaming yourself

for the fact that you’re bruising.

How to navigate this land of treachery!

There’s no sort of directory

no atlas of beginning again

we are bound to repeat this

to try and be free again.

But what does that really mean

to truly be free

when it’s at the hands of your own treachery?




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A Month of Black Love: Weekend Edition


What happens to a dream repressed?

When the weight of it all comes crashing down

leaving you distressed?

What happens when you can’t sleep

and all you think of is your failure?

You think of all the ways you fostered your dream

and now you’re preparing its burial.

What do you do now, just bail?

Act like a part of you isn’t writhing in a jail?

A theoretical and abstracted prison of contempt

knowing that you may never be whole again

because of the dream that gave you so much hope

is buried down under the wreckage

of systemic inequity

and violent oppression.


-Written by D.


Found online. Inspiration


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A Month of Black Love #3

“I’m poor, I’m Black, I might even be ugly; but dear god I’m here! I’m here!



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A Month of Black Love #2

“Not everything that is faced

can be changed,

but nothing can be changed until

it is faced.”

-James Baldwin

Keep this in your mind as you go about. Keep this close to you when you want to ignore the tumult that is our nation.


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A Month of Black Love #1

As a way of showing myself love and care I am going to share something meaningful to me everyday this month. As a way of showing my Black communities love, I will share meaningful things.

*Update, apparently my life did not allow for a post/day, so I will when I can. #life

First and foremost, there are Black and Brown people on the front lines here in NC being arrested for speaking truths to our corrupt regime and need funding to get out of jail.

Here’s where you come in.


Please help by donating and sharing their website as much as you can. Click here for their site.

My first meditation of the month comes from June Jordan. June is a constant source of light and motivation in my life, so I look to draw strength from her powerful words. Feel free to read along while listening to the audio I found on YouTube.

Poem about My Rights by June Jordan

Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear

my head about this poem about why I can’t

go out without changing my clothes my shoes

my body posture my gender identity my age

my status as a woman alone in the evening/

alone on the streets/alone not being the point/

the point being that I can’t do what I want

to do with my own body because I am the wrong

sex the wrong age the wrong skin and

suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/

or far into the woods and I wanted to go

there by myself thinking about God/or thinking

about children or thinking about the world/all of it

disclosed by the stars and the silence:

I could not go and I could not think and I could not

stay there


as I need to be

alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own

body and

who in the hell set things up

like this

and in France they say if the guy penetrates

but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me

and if after stabbing him if after screams if

after begging the bastard and even after smashing

a hammer to his head if even after that if he

and his buddies fuck me after that

then I consented and there was

no rape because finally you understand finally

they fucked me over because I was wrong I was

wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong

to be who I am

Which is exactly like South Africa

penetrating into Namibia penetrating into

Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if

Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the

proof of the monster jackbot ejaculation on Blackland

and if

after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe

and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to

self-immolation of the villages and if after that

we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they

claim my consent:

Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of

the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what

in the hell is everybody being reasonable about

and according to the Times this week

back in 1966 the C. I. A. decided that they had this problem

and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they

killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba

and before that it was my father on the campus

of my Ivy League school and my father afraid

to walk into the cafeteria because he said he

was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong

gender identity and he was paying my tuition and

before that

it was my father saying I was wrong saying that

I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a

boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and

that I should have had straighter hair and that

I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should

just be one/a boy and before that

it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for

my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me

to let the books loose to let them loose in other


I am very familiar with the problems of the C. I. A.

and the problems of South Africa and the problems

of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white

America in general and the problems of the teachers

and the preachers and the F. B. I. and the social

workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very

familiar with the problems because the problems

turn out to be


I am the history of rape

I am the history of the rejection of who I am

I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of


I am the history of battery assault and limitless

armies against whatever I want to do with my mind

and my body and my soul and

whether it’s about walking out at night

or whether it’s about the love that I feel or

whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or

the sanctity of my national boundaries

or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity

of each and every desire

that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic

and indisputably single and singular heart

I have been raped


cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age

the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the

wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic

the wrong sartorial I

I have been the meaning of rape

I have been the problem everyone seeks to

eliminate by forced

penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/

but let this be unmistakable this poem

is not consent I do not consent

to my mother to my father to the teachers to

the F. B. I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy

to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon

idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in


I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name

My name is my own my own my own

and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this

but I can tell you that from now on my resistance

my simple and daily and nightly self-determination

may very well cost you your life.






Until next time Comrades,


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