Black angry clouds clutching grudges
Mouthing obscenities at the passing flames of a retired sun
As though painting a blank canvas together were a mortal sin
As several prickly stars peek out of black folds
Innocently
Like they were afraid to be blown out of heavens skies
_ i think it’s going to rain
There was a slow and bright day in the summer
When the wind and the skies poignantly communicated with the daughters of men
And the seas walked alongside us
Kissing our feet
A day in the summer where we laughed freely like the birds
And teardrops fell only from the sky
A beautiful day in the summer
When the wind sang blue notes upon harps of gold
And the clouds danced around
Worshipping our essence
A beautiful grey day in the summer
When vanilla smelt like red roses
And each danced enticingly around our nostrils
But that was in the summer
Many many summers ago
by Debbie Collins
My black is bold
I descended from Kings
My black is free
The sun rises within me
My black won’t cower, give in or flee
My black is gold
This is what God looks like to me
By Debbie Collins
As I sit on the window seat of a borrowed apartment, overlooking the softness the night brings upon a city so hard and busy, a city whose essence leaves a lasting stain on my lips and I know, deep down that I’ll be back here. As I watch the shadows crawl into each other, and the night whisper quiet songs into the cool breeze, the face of the first king I ever knew appears in the moonlight, no, he was the moon. Bright, strong and present, seeking out my darkness just so he could enlighten and I smile, the same smile I have always smiled, especially when you call me Deborah, because with you full names ought to be called when you were happy with that person.
To the first king I ever knew, the first face I saw coming into this world, because you wouldn’t let the doctors have that honor. Thank you for all that you have done, for the times when you carried me, and the other times when you scolded me and loved me. Thank you for teaching me true love, I see it mirrored everyday in the eyes of my mother whose fire never dims because you’re always present to stoke it. Thank you for the sacrifice and time, for the strength when everyone was weak, for the patience to carry us all on this journey.
May the fire in your eyes never dim, and your back never grow weary. May you know love and peace and laughter for the rest of your time here on earth.
I love you daddy💜
Let me dance with the darkness and the light
I see my infinity in their eyes
I feel my present
I mourn my loss
As I bravely saunter into the greying of the night
The black gathers around my warmth
And is turned to golden dust
Because my queen hood has risen
And become the shining sun
By Debbie Collins
My mind wandered far as I lay in bed last night, and so I hurriedly scribbled this; “when you give yourself permission to be the person that you are, you allow yourself become the person you were made to be”. Essentially meaning that you need to be, long before you become. The art of being is probably the most difficult stage in our growth; it feels like waiting ceaselessly at a train station for a train that isn’t coming, the waiting taking its toll on our patience making us restless and further anticipating our arrival.
Being, generally means existing; I’ll say, that it means living in the moment that is currently available and reachable, which is now. Living to me, means to savor the very breath that gets trapped in our lungs and escapes again, over and over again. Living is almost celestial, other-worldly, almost like if we stop living we will, well die.
Being to me, means that I remain positively charged, happy-go-lucky almost, smiling and unconcerned about the things that may try to take me out of my zone. It means that I stop overthinking everything, and allow myself to get lost in being myself.
We all have a picture of how we want things to be, we pretty much write the story of our lives and expect everything to play out the exact way we want it to, when we want it to, forgetting that the fun is in the process. The process it takes for us to be born, the process it takes in living everyday until we die. So many of us rush that process, looking excitedly at the finish line, we forget to enjoy the phase that we are in. I have been guilty of running from one phase of my life right into the next at a full speed, and eventually when I come to, I fail to remember the events that have shaped me into the woman I am becoming. When you run at such a speed, you miss the little clues that might help you along the way.
Allow yourself to savor the feeling of living in the moment, enjoying the swiftness of time and the mystery that is enshrouded in every second. There is absolutely nothing wrong In going through all the emotions and possible outcomes, it will most likely be more fulfilling when you eventually get where you need to be.
P.S. letter to self
Does it matter that my lower half isn’t directly proportional to my top half? Of course not, especially when this isn’t Math. Does it matter that I sometimes feel as though the left side of my face isn’t exactly the same as the right?
Sometimes I find that I look at myself with an intent to criticize and all I notice are my imperfections. I notice how long my jaw is in my profile, how wide my face is and even how chubby my cheeks are. I notice the slight skew of my nose and squint of my eye. I even notice the size and shape of my head, feeling for it beneath my Afro, the broadness of my shoulders and how it stands jutting out at the sides.
As I notice my imperfections, all my good qualities start to fade into the background, they cower under the heavy weight of a protracted scrutiny. I am my own worst critic, and it is about time I balance the rebuke with the praise.
Whilst dwelling on the remnant of an inconsequential reality, I failed to realize how delectable the fall of my lashes sweeps my full cheeks in a series of graceful movements, or how the fullness of my cheeks make my smile even more captivating. I fail to notice my perfectly rounded lips, or how my teeth are crowned jewels in the royal haven of a beautiful mouth; how I do not need a curvaceous figure because I already have a sensual one.
Each and every part of my body tells a story, each with a different plot and twist, each with an endearment and a frown, stories that are entwined in the other and make for a captivating read. My story which makes me the woman I am, from henceforth I shall glory in my imperfections, I shall love and praise my body, I shall enjoy each and every excerpt from the enchanting read that is me.
Love and Praise💕
Maybe emotion and self-pity are a human construct, maybe we let it get in the way of our conquering this existence. We allow it to have power over our will to wield life in any direction we want it to go.
Fear being the most crippling, we crawl through life barely breathing for the fear that the incessant heaving of our worried chests will cause a disruption in the life of others, absurd. Fear is absurd.
We hold on to mistakes and hurt etched into forgotten sands of the past and we expect it not to hold us down; forgetting to live, smile, breathe, hope or love.
Maybe emotion, fear and self-pity are an absolute encumbrance I dare say we can do without. Perhaps we need to allow ourselves to bloom like wild flowers. Unhindered, unafraid, boundless. Wild things are always in the moment, living. They are not held down by the past nor do they mindlessly long for the future and are rewarded for it.
I am absolutely intrigued by my present, and I look forward to blooming even brighter and beautiful than I am now.
Love and Praise 💕
“Beauty is as summer fruits, which are easy to corrupt, and cannot last; and for the most part it makes a dissolute youth, and an age a little out of countenance; but yet certainly again, if it light well, it maketh virtue shine, and vices blush.”
Francis Bacon
Sainted Rose 