Stepping Forward: Acts of Commitment

I’m amazing all alone,
but I’m magnificent with your mind,
spirit and loving that’s keeps me
inspired to go deeper,
keeping us growing and rolling
from one side of the bed to the other.
I don’t want it no other way.
Wasting your time or mine
is not my style.
My gentleman is distinguished.
And paradise awaits,
if you’re willing to step forward…
This isn’t a fairy tale.
Are you ready?

Written by Joseph Wayne

Is the rush I feel in my wound-licked soul
the holy spirit or just abused, rusty
fans behind the pews,
working overtime to keep
cool amid summer heat, derived
from impending fire
and brimstone?

I squirm. The pastor holds up
a bible and says, HE is joining us
HE is here, manifest.
Repent, and raise those hands!

The emperor with no clothes felt
more clothed than me right then,
the roof removed from my sin-laddled
self, marred and twisted by judgement
casket blown open, a seal broken
standing face to face
with God

or a rusty fan.


@littlemitchpoetry “August Conviction” 

Guess I’m feeling divinely inspired today, all my poetry seems to be about the supernatural! ;) Thanks for hanging with, guys … <3 

Some Monday motivation for you guys. Powerful words from “To the Woman Hitting on My Boyfriend” by the lovely Sierra DeMulder.
How are your submissions coming ya’ll? Comment below!You have till the 31st to enter our contest. 📚
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Here's to the Little Black Boy

Listen Son,

Here’s to the little black boy that’s born with the expectation of failure
Here’s to the little black boy that is incentivized to treat girls like shit because otherwise he’s “too nice”
But little black boy don’t forgot your queens, trust me it won’t be easy. Because there are little black girls who have been hurt, and say you touched fire, then saw it again, wouldn’t you be afraid?
Here’s to the little black boy that reads about an America of opportunity but realizes it’s more of opposition 
Here’s to the little black boy that knows his father and still hates him.
Here’s to the little black boy who loses confidence in his thoughts and action because nobody seems to agree
Here’s to the little black boy who’s character has been defined by the darkest color of the wheel and any deviation bleaches him with every decision
To the little black boy who had a bad temper growing up, wishing it could have been cultivated into righteous anger but now suppresses it under the guise of patience to the point of cowardice.
Here’s to the little black boy taught to fear what he is capable of
To the little black boy that is shameless with his lies under the guise of self-improvement, who sells his soul on the black market to the streets only to find the “culture” depreciate with every joint smoked, every pant sagged, every bass infused beat bleeding him dry. 
Here’s to the little black boy that has to alter his speech but his essays read like master’s theses because his mom exposed him to life outside the hood and was an English major; so slang was basically an elective in school.
To the little black boy who has to fight the Uncle Tom label Because he doesn’t hate white people, or doesn’t always vote left.
Who wasn’t outraged when little black boys that look like him, were took by them; who was more anti-destruction than, ✊🏾, pro black, when the riots took our cities and believes that marching sends a statement but changing laws signs, seals, and delivers it.
Here’s to the little black boy who was raised in the church and sought salvation in education only to learn that both systems are predicated on faith and reliance on an idea that need only enough people to believe, so it cultivates doubt instead. 
Here’s to the black boy who’s afraid - who watches the news - who yearns for freedom? If that’s what we’re calling it. Freedom to live, to work, to play, to Matter? 
Here’s to the little black boy that learned to codeswitch because his black friends were a bit rough and his white friends wouldn’t understand but they would get him places in life. Damn. 
To the little black boy slowly growing into a black man, I’m sorry this world isn’t fair, I’m sorry that you are seen first through the lens of your skin and then your intellect, and then possibly your personality. 
But little black boy you come from the a line of black men that endured. Sure I could mention Jim Crow, decades of lynching, the transatlantic trade, the Hebrew slaves; but the point of it all is they endured. Thats what matters, what has always mattered. 
And little black boy it can be hard to believe sometime but that black courses through every vein and capillary in your body. Every heartbeat and neuron. Every waking and dreaming thought. And when shit hits the fan - and it will,
Here’s to the little black boy that won’t forget to love. 
Love your enemies as your friends, little black boy
Love your brothers of all colors, and your sisters too
But most of all, love yourself little black boy.
It is how you made it here, it is the conspiracy of your parents, in your life or not. It is the conspiracy of your ancestors, who bled and are long gone. 
Look here little black boy, if you can do anything for me, remember your black is beautiful in every sense of the word, it is art, is it struggle, it is history.  But never forget to love.

Here’s to me, here’s to you


little black boy

DreamHunter // @trueaim


I’m starting to understand that words 

are just tools used to assemble furniture from IKEA. 

The front of the box tells you what that bedframe is supposed to look when it’s done. 

So you take your tools, and you assemble. 

You want the picture on the box. 

You follow the instructions. 

You do what you’re supposed to do. 

Man, it’ll be nice not sleeping on the floor anymore. 

Even though I’m a human, and not some bedrame on a box, it doesn’t seem to matter, 

because you’ll still do what you’re supposed to do

to build this relationship.

You’ll say what you’re supposed to say, 

so long as in the end, 

you get what’s on the box.  

Man, it’ll be nice not sleeping alone anymore. 

Then you discover the bedframe has a defect. 

You toss it out. You return it. Why not? You have no intrinsic love for that bedframe. 

So you stop following the directions. You stop doing what you’re supposed to do, because … well, what’s the point? A broken bedframe? 

Your tools are useless, now. 

And so are your words. 

They’re useless, right? When you discover I have a defect? When I’m not the perfect, purchasable IKEA girl pictured on the front of the box? 

You stop saying what you’re supposed to say. 

And I start realizing, those words never meant anything at all, they were just hammers and nails; 


the moment the picture on the box becomes impossible. 

Be wary of the tools. 

Monday August 22nd on #Zeroto100Latenight with @lau_mii a.k.a #LMichele & @comedianuntouchable tune in to from 10 p.m.-12 a.m.
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Mad Girl’s Love Song ~ Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath


Pages Matam
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I’m trying to keep my writing more positive and less dark,
but when it rains it pours and you came in with 100 miles per hour winds
and a heavy downpour
and flipped the home of my heart upside down.

I’m trying to keep my writing more positive but every time I try to write, my pen lingers to your eyes and how they sparkle when they look at me and how I know those eyes are now looking at someone else.

I’m trying to keep my writing more positive but when I put the ink to paper, all the words that are coming through are I love you and your sweet name and all I can think after that is how someone else is whispering those into your ears at night.

I’m trying to keep my writing more positive but I’ve watched the video you sent me too many times today, and your voice now haunts my day dreams and your smile is the only light in my nightmares and I can’t breathe and I can’t sleep knowing you haven’t eaten today.

I’m trying to keep my writing more positive but I’m sitting on the bathroom floor, rereading all the texts you’ve ever sent me and I can’t swallow my pride long enough to delete them and the tears won’t stop falling because I know her phone is buzzing and they’re the same texts you once sent me.

I’m trying to keep my writing more positive but when the only heaven sent thing sent me straight to hell, all the nice metaphors turned into fuck you’s and all the happy thoughts turned into night terrors that make it impossible to sleep.

I’m trying to keep my writing more positive, but I’m not doing too well at that.

We’re back Brooklyn!
We are so excited to be part of Afropunk After Dark for the second year in a row. Check out poet Joshua Bennett, singer Jennah Bell and the legendary Nikki Giovanni. Hosted by none other than Saul Williams with a surprise special guest followed by an after party with DJ Mega. This event is seated with standing room also. Get your tickets early!

"Struggle" August 16th 2016

“I was given wood,
They were given a home.
I was given a hammer,
Their legacy was set in stone.
I was given nails,
They were given a car,
I fought poverty,
They took luxury trips a far.
I fought the streets,
They fought for gifts,
Metro seats, double shifts.
Single mother, felon brother,
Father once loved her,
But he had another.
I didn’t ask for this,
Neither did you,
Grateful for the lessons,
But I wanted to be just like you,

- Rob Escobar