Melanin Mama’s

Melanin Mama’s by Lourd.knows

She with skin the color of love
Her, the one who’s been chosen by the sun
Lips of plum
Warrior tongue
With a complexion that tells a story of where we all came from
Woman of fire
Because She can take and create the heat
Brown baby
Thankful to a lady that wouldn’t give up her seat
Yes, Rosa parks to spark up the convo
And Audre Lorde knew before her “your silence won’t protect you”
let this ignite your soul
Ida B Wells said, “the way to right wrongs is to turn the light of truth upon it.”
Be bold
Shine bright
Live in your roots
Galvanize them so no one can claim they are colorblind anymore
you see me?
This is the color of love
The color of strength
The color of brave
Our shades differ
But we are one
And the sun knows it
so our skin glows with it.

<strong>Lourd.knows</strong>
Lourd.knows

I am a writer/poet, a native New Yorker who resides in Pennsylvania. My writing focuses on my life experiences with racism, discrimination, sexual harassment, addiction, love, loss, self-discovery and motherhood.

Follow my poetic journey on Instagram (@lourd.knows), for “taboo” topics.

In my piece, Melanin Mama’s, read the way I rhythmically talk about the beauty of women of color and the importance of our voices. The poems I write are what I consider poetic justice stories. 

I hope to continue writing and maybe publish a poetry book. We shall see what the universe has in store for me.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here. 

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I Want to be the Sun

I Want to be the Sun by Berly

a red rose drops its petals
a yellow birch loses its leaves
a baby bird leaves the only home it knows
—the sun still rises

I spend the day under white cotton sheets
I let the shadows stay in my room
I decorate my vanity with decayed petals
—the sun still rose

can I be this unfazed?

<strong>Berly</strong>
Berly

My name is Berly a 23-year old Puerto Rican poet raised in New Jersey and now call Massachusetts home. I am a libra sun and in graduate school pursuing an MA in Public Policy and Administration. 

I began writing intently in 2019 and started my poetry account about two months ago after deciding that I wanted my words to exist some place besides my notes app. Writing has been a way for me to bring whatever brews inside my chest forward in the hopes that it will free me, in essence, I write to free myself. 

I have enjoyed writing every day and a lot of my poems center around unpacking trauma, love, endings, beginnings, nature, sexuality, and relationships. 

Besides writing I enjoy reading poetry (my favorite poets are Nayyirah Waheed, Olivia Gatwood, Rupi Kaur, Mary Oliver, & Blythe Baird), journaling, shopping, sitting under the sun, and trying to find the best strawberry lemonade. 

I hope to continue writing and maybe publish a poetry book. We shall see what the universe has in store for me.

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Hawkeye

Hawkeye by John Mungiello

Their wings spread, stretched, confident—

Catching kisses from a breath blown

By lips invisible. To them, every day is an anniversary,

The hawk, its own God, above us

Surveying its property, with

Knived vision choosing

Which one of us to swoop up. Against its prey,

The only prejudice is

The limp in my right leg. Their judgment based on necessity only,

Unlike the angels who fly through—above—

Underneath—careless, were they?

Yes. Leave me to the hawk instead

I prefer their judgment, a little less bitter.

Let them take me up

Their talons in

Open up lung—open up

I-don’t-mind-the-pain-the-pain-I-don’t-mind

Because maybe then,

Just before the end,

Just once

I could feel

Just once

What it would be like

To be above this virus, loved.

My first word.

Talk To Me by John Mungiello

Little mouths pucker.

Little mouths open.

Ready to speak,

I ask them,

“Will you kiss her hand?”

They respond with a gust…

Soft as cotton. But their answer is clear;

With what little they have left

They open a centimeter,

Giving her their water

Whistling their music. 

Little white bells ring

In my head, ring

Little white bells,

Not church bells—

There are no churches

Here anymore, at least not

Made by bricks or mortar…

No.

Those bells were all

Torn down by his orders. But these,

These little white bells

Continue to ring…

Continue to ring… 

With every cool push of wind,

They swing

Away from the plagued air,

Which in the past,

Carried them back. 

<strong>John Mungiello</strong>
John Mungiello

John Mungiello is the author of Streamlining Oblivion, available on amazon. His poems have appeared in Lucky Jefferson Magazine, Capsule Stories Magazine, and PSPOETS.

Currently, he is working on a new book of poems and short stories. He works as a high school art and special education teacher and lives in New Jersey with his wife and dog, Shelly.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here. 

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Behind the Shadows of Freedom

Behind the Shadows of Freedom by Marie Anais Tessa L’Etang

Behind the shadows of freedom

Vandalism as some might say
Free gallery of expression to others
These art works on the walls
Each screaming something
Only a few can feel

In the shadows of equality
Many are victims because of their religion, colour and gender
Humans treated as objects to rapers and human traffickers
Slavery still lingering in the dark

Many risking their lives simply to get their message to the world
A message to expose what they are going through
A message in hope of saving those in the future
A message for others to finally be able to build up courage and stand up for their lives

While some are hiding behind screens trying to express themselves
Others are cutting themselves
Seen as a suicide mission to some
But as relief to others

Everyone has their own way of expressing themselves
But not all are understood or even heard
Many go unnoticed
Stuck in the dark
Left in the shadows of this free world

Notice me!!!

Screams, tears, tantrums and silence
Each yelling something
Wanting to be heard
Yet, no matter how loud or silent we seem to be
We are never noticed nor healed

It is our right to be free
to show who we truly are
And we are criticized because of our religion
Restricted by our gender or colour

Petitions right and left
Many joining the fight
In hope of change and acceptance
In hope of being noticed
Still not much is done to help

Violence taking over
Victims are the only ones noticed
what about the victimizers, they were once victims, but no one noticed
They are screaming for help through these acts
no one bothers to hear them out

Many unable to express themselves freely
Wrote their hearts out on paper
While they hang from the ceiling
Only to stop the hurt
At least they will be heard and noticed now

<strong>Marie Anais Tessa L'Etang</strong>
Marie Anais Tessa L’Etang

I am a Mauritian who loves to write. Writing poems has been an important part of my life since very little. I usually just write on paper or in my notebook and only allow some people to read them but I am trying to get rid of that timid side and break free starting with eve poetry and now an Instagram page @words.on.sleeve.

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Cherry Blossom

Cherry Blossom by Tyree Storey

The kitchen is doused in plumes of flour.

Petals for the worktop, in offering

Something sweet from the fridge,

it spills. Down my fingers echoes of our years.

In every cradle and every note of Leon Bridges spinning.

Coming Home, do you recall it? Our candied summer. In London

bedrooms. Sweat on my brow as we made love. I see cherry-blossom

float through my open window.

<strong>Tyree Storey</strong>
Tyree Storey

Poetry was never on my radar as a kid, but now I seem to find some form of expression and peace in writing.
I do so from North Leeds, UK and its leafy-green suburbs. I nestle somewhere between the bustling student bars and a slightly more distinguished commuter-belt. Perhaps there’s something of myself in that.
 
I can be found on @atari_poetry on Instagram, where I post my other work if you feel so inclined to stop on by.

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I’m Lost

I'm Lost

I’m Lost by Aafia Muhammad Amin

I’m lost in my own world
In my own scars
With my own hallucinations

Lost in my soul
That no more sighs
In my strength through

Lost is my heart
That no longer beats
The same way it was

Lost are my words
In my scars
In my flaws

I am lost
In my own words
I own

<strong>Aafia Muhammad Amin</strong>
Aafia Muhammad Amin

Aafia Muhammad Amin is a born Writer, an emerging Artist, pursuing Pharm-D.

She wrote her first poem when she was 10 but started her writing carrier 4 years ago. She started writing in her National language ( Urdu), competed in some contests and the results resulted in this pen power. She then tried to write in English too and gained much confidence.

Her inspiration is the world around, broken dreams, physical and mental sufferings and the silent struggle one bears. She believes that they are the words that can treat one, make one and break one.  

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here. 

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Why You Should Never Stop Being an Artist

Why You Should Never Stop Being an Artist by Sarba Roy

Eventually,
As life goes on,
A lot of terrific artists stop creating art,
Life takes a toll on them,
How can you write a poem,
Or create a piece of music,
When you have a presentation to make,
Or a sick child by your side,
Or you simply are tired with the race,
And the drama of life.
But you know what,
The only way to stay truly alive,
In this depressing world,
Is to do things once in a while,
That liberate you,
From the self-imposed prisons,
Of society, situations and your own mind.
Never stop creating art,
No matter what.
A life filled with art and adventure will eventually,
Set you free,
A juicy creative life,
Will become your precious legacy,
It will inspire starry-eyed teenagers,
And hopeless adults alike,
To invest themselves,
In the pursuit of art,
In the things that make them feel alive,
Above all,
A life filled with art,
Will be your best birthday present,
You would gift yourself,
On your eightieth birthday.
So, don’t give up on yourself,
Or your art,
Not yet,
Not just yet.

<strong>Sarba Roy</strong>
Sarba Roy

Sarba loves poetry, she reads it, breathes it, and scribbles it on the last pages of random notebooks. She wants to use her voice to make a positive impact in the world, no matter how small.

She loves candles, dream catchers, books, and rainbows in no particular order. She currently lives in Hillsboro, Oregon, with her best friend who also happens to be her husband.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here. 

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Like Me

Like Me by K. Exum

Like Me:

Hearing your struggles hurts my soul‬
‪If only you knew how many times I was a tv to someone’s remote control‬
‪They make moves based on their opinions not knowing they ripping the uniqueness that you hold

‬Right out your great soul‬
‪The channels they switch you to leave scars in your heart‬
‪That can’t be erased with a simple apology‬
No, it’s not that easy
These scars fill pages
And pages of this notebook

These scars robbed me of my time and I can’t call the cops for these crooks
I wish you weren’t a replica of me
I wish you would stand up for me
I meant you

Why oh why are you like me?
I feel like I’m looking in the mirror when I hear you speak
It starts with you holding those words you so wish you can say behind your teeth

Then you can’t sleep
Because your eyes are so drippy
Then you start looking in the mirror wishing and hoping that you weren’t you
That you were raised somewhere else
That these emotions weren’t something you felt
Then you start grabbing weapons
And trying to leave your body bloody in the same bed you slept in

Thoughts begin to creep in
Like if I do it my body will be left in this bed
But in heaven, my soul will be free
Those very thoughts still reserve space in my head
Don’t be like me
Be better
Please

<strong>K. Exum</strong>
K. Exum

K. Exum is a shy poet with a love for fashion. His poetry comes from the problems he faces going through depression. Most of his poetry is based on pain. That can be boring to some but is relatable to others. If there’s any message to be received from his pain poems is that he wants you to learn from his mistakes.

On other days K enjoys writing on his blog Pieces Of K Blog and recording spoken word songs. His love for creating takes over his life. 

You can follow his Instagram below. K posts mainly spoken word videos and pictures of himself. So if interested give him a follow and I’m sure he’ll return the favor.

https://www.instagram.com/k.exum/

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The Fabric of Love

The Fabric of Love by Kai Lazarus

No I will not

reap what I sew.

I will burn the quilt

stained with a lifetime

of mental beat-downs,

which brought for

the muddied perception of warmth and comfort.

Then take on the task of creating a new thread,

to handcraft the virgin wool embroidered into an unique

pattern of solace and vehemence,

laced with a soothing touch of

unbridled loyalty. Which can

only be described as the

white mulberry’s cocoon,

as the finest of silks form

from the metamorphosis of a being.

Growth by Kai Lazarus

Growth is not

old flames

with new names.

Or reminiscing with the background of rain,

watching it all go down the drain.

It’s getting crippled by the pain

while still loving to play the game.

Religious Texts by Kai Lazarus

I pray to the goddesses that sacrificed their sanity for mine

Even if that useless dream was futile,

much obliged. Through our trials my obedience was abolished.

Survivors remorse does breed a new sense of Stockholm’s syndrome, but subservience isn’t desired around these parts anymore.

My vulnerability is something I gift willingly and openly.

No more a hidden fetish I give up in the dark,

it is my grand showcase.

<strong>Kai Lazarus (the medøchï)</strong>
Kai Lazarus (the medøchï)

the medøchï is the healing spirit of Kai Lazarus Antoine. Who was constructed through therapy, meditation and artistic creation, to mend a broken soul.

Now after obtaining that goal, the medøchï has taken on the task of growing to a status similar to where the name was derived from, the Medici family. All to be able to be the benefactor of many artists and innovators, while creating a haven for the creatives, the broken and the unheard.

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French

French by Shreyas Karanth

What does this special place hold for us?

The city of love as it’s called,

The charm of Paris is always surprising

From Autumn branches and sun kissed faces,

To blurry skies and cold winter nights,

Everything sets the mood right

We might be seen in a café,

Sipping dark bitter coffee and having freshly baked du pain

Or seen sitting at a mini bar,

Tasting the classic French wine young and drunk, but ever so lively

Holding hands, exploring the scenic beauty and the depths of Paris,

And admiring the artistic expressions of love,

Enjoying the good times, we vibe

There is an intoxicating feel in the air of this city,

French after all

Aesthetically beautiful yet dark,

The city of love remains in our hearts forever

<strong>Shreyas Karanth</strong>
Shreyas Karanth

I’m Shreyas Karanth, a 17 year old writer from India
Writing was not my forte, until I found out that I was good at it. Poetry is my form of expression.

My personal favourites are love poems, with lots of hidden stuff to it. 

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