#black poems on Hello Poetry

Rudo 4d

I can't speak the truth that feeds on my wounds
I can't say because I survive on his provision
My voice doesn't matter, who will value me
I weep inwards, salting this bitterness
I go crazy because I can never be truly free

I loop in his betrayal
To my heart
my mind
my soul
...
my body
I was evicted out of the only safe harbour I had

Grandma said no grandpa!
Our bodies and voices are being harvested by our own!
They are yours, for your pleasure only
At our expense you've found your glory
Inherited this suffering because you did anyway

To survive, we gaslight ourselves

I can't bare to continue to live with this truth
So I breathe from lies
I put on my glasses to bypass this irk
My kids need me
My kids need to survive this monster
Let me be brave
Let me be brave just enough to live on these lies
Because their lives depend on it!

#intergenerational #trauma #black #sheep #generational #curses #mother #wound #grandmother #******

Urvashi Sep 19

The Star of symmetry🌠

A sacred geometry figure,
or a plasma’s luminous sphere?

It balances harmony
like a pentacle
evoking four elements
with ether’s unseen connection.

a symbol of mathematical perfection,
a talisman to evoke the four,
a heptagram's triangular symmetry—
a charm to strengthen energy lines...

Or too dark a black hole!
yet to be define.

#black #hole #geometry #balance

Kay-Ann Aug 31

rough

A lofty ship is spotted far out at sea.
It looms in the pellucid distance,
a maroon and grey colored
vision of possibility.

I imagine scores and scores of packets of rice
held tightly together like sandcastles,
eager to be used and washed and boiled
And buttered and lightly salted.

Or heavy machinery assembled by
Weary and jealous hands
that wish they weren't so obedient
That too wish they were strong enough
To attempt the buoyant dance of exile.

As the Atlantic Ocean belches muscular waves
that melt like smoke ash at my toes,
another vision gathers at the horizon.

A seacraft is maundering,
It croaks its dissatisfaction as
Limbs knitted together like
Unruly ***** poke into every crevice.
Bight of Biafra’s children have been cloven.

The salty spring of the water mixed with
The rust of ***, dried sweat and lifeless bodies
Makes for a particular entrance to the Caribbean Sea
This is life now.

Nothing sweet or nice about this.
Port Royal is not far off and she’s
Eyeing the new load of hesitant visitors
Tasked with tilling her soil and harvesting her sugar
She sighs with them.

#black #writers #transatlantic #slave #trade #jamaica #jamaican

Naebaegreen Aug 17

Modern day love

I feel like all I write about
is love—
or lack thereof.

But I mean—
what else am I supposed to write about
when everyone’s chasing after
this fictional feeling
that everybody talks about
when they “find the one”?

I don’t believe it.
I don’t believe it.

Now—
you gotta step back
and see how the other perceives it.

Is it a sneaky link situation?
Do you have to fall back
while they sit there
laughing?

Do you have to worry about other girls
other guys
while they sit here
ruining a vision of love
in your eyes?

Let’s be real—

This is what love is now.
We’ve normalized it.
It is toxic.
It is messy.

There is no real love.
It’s just lust.
There is no real love.
It’s just linking up.
There is no real love.
It’s just wanting to ****—
and saying whatever it takes
to get them to “pull up.”

But me?

I want that old-school love—
the kind where fights
don’t end in breaking up.

Even through the bad—
we’d stick together
because we knew
our love would protect us.

Any storm—
any bad weather—
if we could talk it out,
it would get better.

We built that foundation—
through worse
and through better.

I hate what they’ve done to love.
They made us believe
anybody who comes through
with a charming smile—
that’s where the love would be.

But this ain’t no fairytale.
This is real.

I want that old-school Black love—
cocoa-butter-warm,
nice-smelling love,
just-dancing-in-the-living-room-as-the-sky-rains kind of love.

There’s no connection—
just convenience.

Love is just
a monetary thing.

And me?
I’m still looking for that
old-school love
that makes that one person feel like home—
not a random pit stop
chasing the high of lust.

I’ll keep believing
in that love—
because even if the world
forgot how to give it—
I won’t

It feels like love today has lost its depth too much lust, too much convenience and I feel like this is a different take on love recently

#oldschool #black #love #modern

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Kristian Latiker Aug 3

Black Boy Fly

I wish I was a Black boy that flew
Then all of my dreams would come true
Because people really don’t understand what I go through

If I could get away
I would
But I always seem to stick out

Sticking out like a sore thumb
Unwanted

I try to yell for help
However, no one understands my language
Foreign to all

I try to grab a hold, but my hand slips
And goes straight through
Appearing faded like a ghost

I try to climb up
But I repeatedly get pulled back down
Stripping me of my progress

So, I run away
Lungs gasping for air
I try to run as fast as I can

Knowing in my mind
That humanity is on the other side

Life or Death
Freedom or *******
Pain or Chains

So, I run
Bursting closer and closer
Sprinting to the finish line

But I trip
They catch me
Cutting my Achilles
As I Heal

I realize
That success is inevitable
As I swallow this unbearable pill
And wipe away invisible tears from my treacle eyes

Knowing that life isn’t 100 proof
Life has contradiction

Contradictions of
Impossible
Difficult
Hard
No Way
I Can’t
Fear
Failure

I laugh
Uncontrollably
To keep away the thought of crying
Because the pain cuts deep

Intensely
On the other side of the bank
The narrow trees
Through shallow waters
My hand extends
There's Our Journey
Our Path
Our Blueprint
Our Success

Unleashing my spirit
Freeing this caged bird
I Fly!

I Fly high in the sky
Soaring to new lengths
Breaking Cycles
Discovering Life

Writing my own story
Making history

As I glide through the canvas
I illustrate

I am the Black Boy that flew!

This is Poem 5 of my first book, Traumatized: The Conscious Reality

Traumatized: The Conscious Reality is an introspective perception through my brown wide eyes while growing up in Chicago, seeing pain, love, and trauma. As disappointment looms in the abyss, while trying to obtain knowledge as I reach for success. Edging on the cusp of greatness, while trying to break the curse of generational trauma.

#traumatize #conscious #traumatized #reality #black #man #feeling #expression #life #time

Nat Lipstadt Aug 2

I don't want to be Billy Joel

writing songs sans artifice,
that grow better different,
different better,
the lyrics of a man growing older,
insides out, featuring his slips, all showing,
eyes squinting from hard lifestyle experience,
taking on wearied shades of beige yellowing,
a tanned blackness, time edits them, so now,
they sound the same but holier,
from the hazing of hazards
one builds for and by himself,
drilling & extracting the spit-shine of
all that all is fine,
but liquor & cat's paw black shoe polish
just can't quite cover 'em up (2),
the stabbing itch each of the every time
one quests and questions
his ego,
always another test…

why would I ever want that?

his fingers create tinkling at rapido pace,
tinkling an arrhythmia of rhymes
previously perviously (1) unseen,
self exploration, that we all realize
is an unforgiving, never ending,
source of melodic crying out loud;
and when the sensual, arrayed pleasures,
begin to bore
holes of no important consequence,
the querys~to~self get even harder
to explicate what they intimate,
who they implicate,
which parts of you,
failed to answer satisfactorily…

why would I want want that
forever?

(1)
Perviousness refers to the ability of a material to allow fluids to pass through. Pervious surfaces include porous pavement and asphalt. Unlike regular pavement, which is impermeable and creates water runoff, pervious pavement allows rainwater to filter through the surface and into the ground
(2)
https://www.google.com/search?q=cat%27s+paw+shoe+black+polish&sca_esv=ec9e5a722f530583&rlz=1C9BKJA_enUS1169US1169&hl=en-US&sxsrf=AE3TifNnqbBcvvGAf8A75ME-01M_C2ofQg:1754156528053&udm=2&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjgt_Cl1uyOAxU3k4kEHbPEKU4Q7Al6BAgSEAM&biw=1366&bih=969&dpr=2

#lipstadt #billy #joel #billyjoei #cat #paws #black #shoe #polish

Lyra Callen Jul 27

A Poet #2

be gentle with us
or don’t.
the stars still fall without permission.

but if you must touch us
touch slow.
for we are poets,
woven from breathless skies
and midnight trembles.

we feel too deeply,
like a violin played in a burning cathedral.
it is not a fault
only a fire
that never learned silence.

we do not fall in love,
we crash.
like galaxies meeting at full speed.
we love like we are dying,
we live like we are fading,
but in our minds
we fly barefoot across constellations.

our hearts
are black roses
growing among the red
soft to the gaze,
sharp to the soul.

you will not see it in our steps
or in the way we drink our tea.
but we are stained glass
already cracked
still catching the light.
and if you press too hard,
we will bleed beauty.

a poet is not always seen
sometimes just a smile in the corner
a sigh in the crowd.
we are everywhere,
soft and wild.

we tell stories
so the silence doesn’t win.
we wear masks
not to hide
but to protect the soft
from the cruel.

we notice the things you forget.
the chipped cup.
the tremble in your laugh.
the way sorrow dresses like strength.

and when we love
we love your entire world.
not just your name
but the way it sits in our lungs.
not just your eyes
but the way they flinch when the past whispers.

we adore the broken
shards glinting red
like stained mirrors
still daring to reflect stars.

we have kissed the devil
with trembling mouths,
left pieces of our soul
in places no light touched
and still returned.

we are fragile
yes
but not weak.
our hearts are ruins and gardens
at once.

so if you come close
come gently.

because when we hurt
we hurt in verses.
and when we fall
we don’t land.
we become.

so this is your only warning,
written in blood and ink:

be gentle with us.
or
watch the beauty bleed.

this poem is inspired by
Lillian May's
be gentle with us

This is my version 2 of this beautiful poem
A Poet

#poets #poet #poetry #writer #artist #rose #black #star #shattered #gentle

Lyra Callen Jul 27

A Poet #1

be gentle with us
please.
or don’t.
it is, after all,
your choice.

but know this

we, the poets,
are not built like the rest.
we are the black rose
among gardens of red
too rare,
too delicate,
too dangerous.

we feel with the whole sky.
we love like the sun
is seconds from setting.
we fall,
not softly
but all at once,
like shattered stars
scattering over wounds.

we live small
but think wide.
in our minds,
we are always flying
between memories
and make-believe,
between hurt
and hope.

don’t be deceived
by calm faces.
we wear masks
stitched from poems
and laughter
but behind them
we are velvet chaos,
quiet storms
with bleeding edges.

we, too,
have danced with devils
and kissed pain
like it was wine.
we return
from places
we cannot name
but we carry the fire
in our chests.

a poet could be anyone
walking beside you
a poet could be everyone
breaking silently

we collect fragments
glances,
murmurs,
empty chairs.
we see beauty
in undone hair,
in chipped teacups,
in rain that ruins plans.

and love
when we love,
we don’t stop at skin.
we fall into souls.
into scars.
into shadows.

and when we’re hurt,
we trust slower.
touch softer.
speak less.

so now you know
this heart,
it does not bruise
it blooms in pain.
this soul,
it does not break
it spills light
through its cracks.

so if you come near
and if you care
then please
be gentle with us.

this poem is inspired by
Lillian May's
be gentle with us

This is my version 1 of this beautiful poem
A Poet

#poets #poet #poetry #writer #artist #rose #black #star #shattered #gentle