It’s made a home in me.
Empty rooms of a dead mother
now closet spaces for lovers with shakey hands.
I hold them close to myself.
Teachings of a father –
Pain silenced. Allowance disguised as understanding.
Patterns of settling for less.
When do you break your own silence with the scream of depthy time passed?
We rage against the enemy of all enemies.
Our minds, ourselves.
Our taught and continued patterns of being satisfied with bare minimum.
Love without correction is a misguided child and an unhonored mother.
I give mine voice, anger, creativity and movement.
With a gentle hand, the smile of pure satisfaction and a solemn face.
Photos by : Jonathan Logan (@broke_homie_jon)
Art by : BobbiRush (@didbobbirush)