In the profound darkness of a frigid night, I can hear his labored breathing. He appeared to be worn out yesterday. Today, I find myself fatigued by the wounds of love, exhausted by my inability to trust in this concept we call love completely.
Love is meant to be gentle; love is meant to be forgiving. While he longs to cuddle, I simply desire to rest. Inspiration for a poem strikes me unexpectedly, often during the most mundane moments.

I cherish his smile; I enjoy the sensation of his rough, unshaven stubble against my skin. As I write, I continually reinvent myself—Joy Harjo. Yet, with each word, I also remember the struggles and painful moments I’ve encountered. I think back to betrayal—Annie Lander.
It wasn't merely infidelity; it was the haunting vision of my partner engaging intimately with others, eliciting their cries.

My restless thoughts persist in posing questions that elude answers. Still, I have sought divine protection for my well-being. May my fears transform into verses that help me grasp why the most agonizing experience on this earth is to love a man.

“Sometimes, giving all of your love isn't much to save a good soul; it demands soul for a soul as fair payment.” — Gurusharan Singh

Our daily prayers,
Are in fact ‘dares’
That we would dare to approach God
With our earthly needs;
For more:
More money,
To buy
More clothes, shoes, bags,
Technologies, TVs, devices, gadgets
Properties that we can conquer too;
People.

How scandalous are our prayers —

“The Establishment” has been tarnished by
Entitlement, abuse of power…
Neglect…
Trauma —
Absence of soul;
Values and beliefs have left a vacuum.
Where we need to return to the Ancient of Days for the true source of power,
Beliefs and
Life —

Did I have years of experience, or was it just a mix of daily habits? I must have learned something, as my confidence has gone down. Memories that hurt come back to me suddenly, and I struggle with them every day in my love life and at work.

Here I am, getting older, feeling like I don’t really care about what happens after I’m gone. Just put me to rest under a tree.

Talk to me, my inner child. Connect with me like you used to. Were you helping me or leading me astray? I have many stories to share. Those who tell the best stories often pay close attention to their craft.

Speak to me; I was so naive and lost during those uncertain times. What did I have to go through to make a living? Those voices, those faces, those people who hurt me—where are they now? I’m still dealing with the trauma.

Speak to me, my inner child. My poetic voice mixes with my feelings in slow motion. Coyote and I walk the streets of Brooklyn fearlessly. I proudly embrace my blackness by choice. Coyote, I would rather walk alongside the tiger.

Now they watch everything I do—my online posts, my TikTok messages. Once again, no edits, just AI filters. Lamb of God, I look to you.
I was once scared of my inner child.

I have reams of unfinished poems scattered throughout my life;
On my phone, in Voice Memos,
On the numerous laptops that I've had,
On serviettes, scrap paper and on my heart.
Will they remain incomplete;
Hidden works of art?!
Or will they spill out one day
As complete works to part?

All seems different,
like a blurry landscape
with vanishing maps.
The distance from the past
keeps growing.
I slice through space and time,
on the chosen path,
along a trajectory of circumstances.
Against the denial of access,
against the gate closing,
just to hold together what was apart.

Argh!
Pain and torment overwhelms,
Trying to express saddness,
Is like giving birth to death —
Which has led to denial, distraction and disconnection…

Ohhh!

Stunted grief equals stunted growth?!
But…
Reconnecting equals reclaiming;
Not fast,
But slow —
The slow food movement has infiltrated my grief,
On trend,
Or just on point?!

Have we been sold a lie,
That has kept us from ourselves?

It doesn’t have to make sense.
No pretty bow is needed,
No sugar coating,
No sweetness full stop.

Grief is messy!
And freeing —
And long,
And painful,
And healing,
And sweet.

But it needs working through,
For blossoms to bloom —
New beats to croon,
New tastes to tantilise,
New colours to be canvassed,
New sights to be seen.

Don’t rush, just stroll.
Don’t shrink for others,
But rise up,
Against the machine,
Let anarchy wait,
For new life to be claimed,
In due time…

Step outside the box,
Nothing makes sense as,
This is a new experience,
Made just for this season.
Don’t fight to control,
It’s just for a reason.
Release and let go —

In the chill of a dreary April day,
I find myself wandering through the dimness,
My eyes were straining in the absence of light.
As I approach the door, a sense of familiarity washes over me, pulling me back to a time of comfort and solace.
The thought of retreating to the inviting embrace of my warm bed beckons me like a gentle siren, contrasting sharply with the biting cold that surrounds me.
In this moment, I realize that in this vast expanse of uncertainty, there is only one clear path to follow—one that leads back to the refuge of my blankets and dreams.

Life gives and life takes,
Those that mean the most -
Burrowed deep within us,
Dwelling close to our hearts -
Clinging to our souls.

Some unexpected,
Some unforeseen -

For it is those losses,
Those weighted losses...
That hurt the most.

Leaving us with gaping holes,
In our chests -
Body aching...

Leaving us with only memories,
Pieces of them that continue on -
Replaying on loop.
Slight nudges to help us remember -

Remember they existed.
Remember they were real.

Those losses.

Those. Weighted. Losses.