why is “time” used as an excuse for the victims as if I haven’t lived my whole life to the beat of a broken clock?

alarms raising suspicion
ever time things feel too good,
waiting for the other shoe to drop, because the other shoe a l w a y s drops the moment I take too many seconds
to affirm the power you have over me. every single minute detail of every “mistake”
I’ve made thrown in my face

as if… you aren’t the one who brought me here?

as if you aren’t the one who created a life you weren’t equipped to handle?
and instead of shifting to a new timeline,
you leap backwards into the one you are the victim and all you can see is the reflection of his face
when he endured enough.

this pain shouldn’t be mine to bear, but because of you,
I’ve spent my whole life repenting
for sins that I didn’t create
because all you saw in this baby girl was someone who you could FINALLY
control.

a poster child,
& debutant doll
who you could corrupt
into thinking the world would do the same to her as it did to you

but to your surprise,
it did… at your hands
& now you’ve turned your back
on the one person you were supposed to protect.

but what if I told you, she prevailed,

she felt her shit, dealt with it,
turned it in to 7 book deals
and is healing her way through self confidence and relationships a
little bit every day.

how dare I, right?
no longer fall victim
to the trap that you set
but instead learned that even a broken clock is right twice a day,

so I accept
that I am a victim
I have been manipulated and abused.

but unlike you,
I took those 2 minutes
and got myself out because I refuse
to live the rest of my life this way.

I am loving, I am caring I am kind
But you don’t see because insecurities make you blind

I give freely; I love hard
But my sincerity you disregard

My attitude is one of servitude
To you this may seem odd
But it’s a reflection of being a child of GOD

I give props when props are due
To this I will stay true

You want titles, a pat on the back and accolades
When I comment you think I’m throwing shade

I see the potential in you that others overlook
Your eyes show you have a magnetic hook

I apologize at times my words may be sharp and blunt
But it’s 2025 and there is no time to front

Life is short, we only passing thru
Time to wake up and do what we gotta do

I’m a straight shooter
But what you don’t know is that I’m a mentor and tutor

I give as much as I take
But I don’t have time to be fake

Don’t have time to be sugar coating
For the world to be out their boasting

The way I live, the way I talk, the way I act
This all real it’s just straight up facts

No one wants to see me for who I am
Always thinking I’m running a scam

All I want is for everyone to live and love better
Come together so we can make some of this cheddar

No matter what I do or how I try
Someone always twisting the truth into a lie

Why can’t you see, I just wanna be me

I’m just a real sista from the hood
That’s been mis-judge and mis-understood

So, just let me be
Cause you don’t know me

This set of mountains
moves west, and wester still
until they move north and south
following the six directions.
Their crags speak to the sky
of the events below,
all in the rocky languages
poorly understood by those bound to two feet.
Caressing the earth in moccasins,
he, or was it she
looks about in the craggy heights
for a handhold
in the pegmatite faces of canyons
the reds and blacks in the most deeps,
those purples of sheerness
keeping the less adventurous at bay.
Coming down to the valley
below the gorges of distance barely seen
she, or was it he, knows
that off in the yonder reaches
there might just be a place in that bigness,
to drive their thoughts to.
An abandoned two story ranch house
sits the still, its invisible solitude
quiet now of children’s voices.
The hand split shingles on the roof
still keep the weather out
both the harsh winter snows and warm summer rains
don’t touch the singularity of a dry interior
as if waiting for the family to return
from where they disappeared to, so long ago.
That ranch house perched on the mountain side
has the cook house and porch attached
where a descendant has placed new tin
over it. Then left it again.
And there, under that
is the place where the questions
may have gotten answered,
and maybe not,
perhaps just having raised those inquiries
into the meanings of the lives lived
under the eaves.

Dear Silence,
You have been my unwelcome companion for far too long. You shadow my words, twist my intentions, and leave me stranded in a world where my heart speaks a language no one seems to understand.

I have tried to explain myself—to shape my thoughts into something digestible, something easy to swallow. But no matter how carefully I choose my words, they still slip through the cracks of perception, distorted by assumptions, drowned in silence.

You make me question if I should speak at all. If I should shrink myself into something smaller, something simpler, something easier to accept. But that is not who I am.

I am tired of being labeled before I am listened to. Of being told I am too much or not enough. Of feeling like I exist on the edges of conversations, of connections, of understanding itself.

But I am done fighting you. If being misunderstood means I am complex, layered, and real—then so be it. I will not soften my truth to fit someone else’s comfort. I will not erase the depth of my soul just to be easier to read.

So, Misunderstanding, you may follow me, but you will not define me. I will keep speaking, keep feeling, keep being exactly who I am. Me.

And one day, someone will hear me.

Sincerely,
Someone You’ll Never Silence Again

It is frustrating when people mistake kindness for weakness,
Be cautious with your heart; it may wind up in pieces.
Be careful who you trust; not everyone cares,
Moving forward is hard when your mind is everywhere.

They hear but fail to listen, quick to place blame,
Ignorant and resistant to the concept of change.
Are you starting to question everyone around you,
Do you often wonder about a different life for you?

Stuck in their ways, they assume we are all the same,
The last thing I want to do is cause conflict.
It is hard to explain, but if you listen closely,
My life is anything but perfect!

A dull ache in my chest, still not feeling my best,
Raw, unspoken feelings that are hard to express.

I feel misunderstood in a multitude of ways,
Have you ever stayed in bed and cried all day?

It kind of stings when you tell someone you love,
You are not someone that I think very highly of.

Just an honest conversation, no lying or persuading,
Leaving me at a vulnerable disadvantage.
Can I trust you? Who did I open up to?
Big emotions cause way too much damage.

Can you please stop yelling; it makes me shut down,
The loudest silence is peaceful and immensely profound.

I may appear silent, but I carry my feelings deeply,
Hurt disguised as anger burns brightly within me.

Do my feelings even matter? I am trying my best!
I am semi-functional, yet I still feel depressed.
I only open up when I feel close to someone,
The truth hurts, but the liars have so much fun.

Music is my lifeline, a soundtrack to my healing,
Lyrics and beats that convey my true feelings.

I can no longer prioritize your feelings over my own,
It is time for me to lock in and reclaim my throne.
I once was a pushover who gave out many chances,
Avoiding anyone too blinded by circumstance.

I am an overthinker who takes everything to heart,
I am no longer interested in things that pull me apart.

Take a look at yourself before you judge someone else.
My mindset has changed. Yes, I know!
I’m not so stuck in my ways; I’ve learned from my mistakes,
Understanding myself helped me grow.

Forgiveness is the first step, but don’t be bitter,
We all have a past, so I urge you to reconsider.
Honor your feelings, and don’t allow rage to blind you,
The answers you seek are already inside you.

The coffee table is where it all began

The wooden coffee table with its steel legs

And cracked edges

You let me “borrow” it

And I ended up keeping it until 4 years later when we moved to a different city together

The coffee table I think of had a chess board inside that I never chose to play on

The coffee table I think of never had tea or even a coffee cup on it, not even once

What it did have was:

Stains of juice

Blood from ouchies

Food crumbs from the nights we’d get high and stuff our faces with McDoubles and fries

Dents from the nights we’d fight, and you trashed the house with your jealousy and anger

Even deeper cracks that formed from the high-pitched screams of laughing children and screaming adults

Two adults living in depression and anxiety together

Finding peace in each other even when we couldn’t really stand one another

I guess I really miss that coffee table.

But missing that coffee table means I have to let you back in

Missing that coffee table means going through all the things we went through before

Missing that coffee table means giving my entire self and being crushed and shoved back into the pits of hell again and this time not being able to make it back out

Missing that coffee table must not be in my life path

And so I think missing that coffee table just means I need a new one

We often hear, don’t judge a book,
The cover image can be mistook.
Within the pages, motives dwell,
Our misconceptions soon dispel.

The same holds true for the mien on my face,
One glance, you determine, too often in haste.
Assuming I’m grumpy, or weary, or sad,
Eyebrows are furrowed, but I am not mad.

My eyes are squinty, the corners are creased,
Downward twist of my mouth, and you tag me a beast.
That I don’t really care, what you try to convey,
You turn from me silently, then walk away.

Involuntary, I have no control,
It’s the way my face hangs, my muscles they loll.
On the surface, a grimace, a scowl, or a sneer,
Within I am pondering all that I hear.

Don’t read me wrong, appearance deceives,
Beyond the facade, my interest, perceive.
A smile on my lips, eyes open wide,
Is what’s truly happening on the inside.

To the black sheep, hear our ode:
This is the sacred art of letters pieced together like a puzzle
For the ones whose thoughts seep into vocal chords as they boil up, overflow and spill out the mouth with waves of emotion
For the ones that somewhere along the way, the words and points we try to make get entangled into a ball of yarn.. alongside our heart’s sentiments
Fellow black sheep,
I see you, as you detangle and pull at each string, like it’s a perfected instrument
We yearn for our prose and our voices engulfed by flames, to be heard by the world so we can stitch together the wounds of society’s brokenness
For we are the odd ones out of the herd, where our adversity lies in the tunes we can sometimes lose
We scream so loud that we feel like the boy who cried wolf
Although the tunes of our thoughts may seem to get lost and dissipate into constant distractions from our authentic self…
Those lost tunes will forever be a medley and undertones of other forgotten art, each time we use our voice
The heart of our flames will grow, as we rise above attempts to be silenced
We will spread our warmth like wildfire and know no other truth that is of our own, and life itself
Black sheep, we will glimmer just as bright.

“Haha!” my mother laughed.
“You must have interesting karma
To look so young and be so old inside.”
Yes, funny, but no haha funny.
I thought at three feet tall.

I’m still waiting for the curse
To turn into a blessing,
But at thirty-nine I’m tired of it all,
Tired of being carded,
Tired of parents mistaking me for another student,
Tired of no one taking me seriously.

I was born into the world
With visions of the distant past,
Ideas for the fragile future,
And keen observations of our present state.
I did not want to play.
I wanted to fix the human race.
I wanted to repair the planet.
I wanted all the fighting and destruction to stop.

No wonder by third grade
I’d given up.
Years of trying to inform and guide the way
Wasted on the blissfully ignorant,
Who laughed in my face
… or worse,
Beating me down into despair.

They only saw a child,
Who was meant to listen and obey,
But in my mind I was wise and weary,
Ready to fall on my own sword
If it couldn’t cut through the apathy and greed
Growing thick around me.

Time slid by slowly scratching down
My patience, hope, vitality.
Yet no amount of hard living,
All the falls and blunders,
The drugs and self-destruction,
Could gray my hair nor wrinkle my skin.
My baby cheeks never caved in
And my figure barely fattened.

So I return sweet smiles
Looking down on my false youth,
Pretend I’m who they think I am.
Only you now know the truth –
That I’m tough as nails,
Sharp as a tac,
And hardly innocent.

Soft spoken and meek
Because over you I do not speak
Falseness I do not seek
I can assure you though, I am not weak

I express quietly so you say I am wrong
You express loudly and you say you are strong
This unrealistic view goes on for how long?
Society can change, but no it’s too headstrong

For me everything is internal
For you it’s all external
What does it matter, we both spiral
Can’t we live in harmony? C’mon let’s make this viral

To those who have ever been misunderstood, unseen, and wrongly judged. This is my story. A story of struggle, love, and injustice, a story of being silenced by a world that refuses to believe in anything beyond its own prejudices. I was born in Nigeria, West Africa, into poverty so deep that survival became my only education. My father married two wives, and my mother being the second was left to raise us alone. From the moment I entered this world, I was forgotten by the man who helped create me. He never once cared for me. Never once provided. Not a single diaper. Not a single meal. Not a single moment of love.

By the age of 12, I had dropped out of school—not because I lacked intelligence, but because I lacked food. While other children went to class, I was on the streets hawking, working, taking any job I could to feed my family. By 12, I was paying rent, carrying burdens that no child should ever bear.I never had the chance to step into secondary school, college, or university. The world decided early on that I was unworthy of such an opportunity. But despite it all, I taught myself. I became a phone technician, a writer, a counselor, a creator, a healer. I mastered skills that people with degrees struggle to understand. But none of that mattered to the world. Because to the world, I am Nigerian. And that alone makes me a suspect. A scammer. A fraud. It doesn’t matter who I am or what I stand for, the world has already decided my worth before even knowing my name.

The Love That the World Refused to Believe

Despite all my struggles, love found me. And I found love in the most unexpected place (Facebook) in the heart of a woman nearly twice my age. She saw me not as a poor boy from Africa, not as a scammer, but as a man with a soul, with devotion, with love. We talked for months. Our bond deepened. She planned to come to Nigeria so we could marry. She chose me, just as I chose her. But fate had other plans. Before she could travel, she fell sick for months in the hospital. Surgeries, pain, suffering. And through it all, there was one thing that brought her peace: my messages. The doctors noticed it. The nurses witnessed it. When she was unconscious, they played my voice message to her, and she woke up. When she was in distress, they read my messages, and she calmed. When she refused surgery, I convinced her, and she survived. One nurse—a stranger, someone who barely knew me, saw our love and believed in it so much that she offered to pay for my flight to the US. A stranger saw the truth. But those in power, They chose to destroy it.

The Judge Who Played God
But not everyone believed. The worst of them all, the one person who was supposed to uphold justice was a judge in the United States who decided that I was a threat.
Without ever meeting me.
Without ever knowing my heart.
Without listening to her pleas.

She cut off our communication.
She took away her phones.
She silenced us completely.

For months, I have not been able to speak to the woman I love. The psychiatrist even told her that I am not real and that am using her for money. Yet, when they need something from her, when they want her to agree to painful treatments, to stay in facilities she doesn’t want to be in, then they use me. Then, they let her hear my voice. Then, they play my recordings. Then, they acknowledge that I am the only one who brings her peace. But only when it served their interests. The rest of the time? Silence. A woman, sick and suffering, begging for the one thing that could bring her peace, me. And yet, they keep her from me. They isolate her. They let her sit in pain, in loneliness, in fear—without the one person who could help her heal. And is this justice ? Is this protection ? HELL NO. This is evil. This is control. This is the kind of wickedness that ensures love will never touch the lives of those who enforce it.
Because love does not separate it unites. Love does not punish, it heals. Love does not destroy it builds. And those who destroy love, those who tear apart the happiness of others, will never know true happiness in their own lives. A person who stops others from being together will never be truly loved. A person who takes joy in others’ pain will never find peace. A person who abuses power will always live in fear of losing it. If I Had Been Given the Chance. If I had been born into a wealthy home, if I had been given the chance to pursue my education, I would have been a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, a fighter for justice. Not one of these corrupt, soulless lawyers who sell their morality for money. But a lawyer who stands for what is right. Because I know what it’s like to be judged before being heard. I know what it’s like to be silenced before being understood. I know what it’s like to have love ripped away because of someone else’s cruelty. If I had been given the chance, I would have fought for people like me. For people like the woman I love who they believe is not capable of making her own decisions. For people whose love is torn apart by a system that pretends to care.

Final Words: A Warning to the World

I have been judged for my age, my race, my love. I have been silenced, labeled, and misunderstood. But I will not be broken. Because real love does not die. And one day, the same people who stood in our way will watch us win. To those who fight against love, know that the universe does not forgive cruelty. If you separate two people in love, your own life will be filled with separations. If you destroy happiness, happiness will be kept from you. If you break hearts, your own heart will never find peace.

This is not a curse. This is balance. What you give to the world, the world gives back to you. 100%

And so, to the judge, to the doubters, to the ones who work tirelessly to destroy what they will never understand, I do not hate you. I pity you. Because while you fight to break us apart, we are still here. And we will always be here. Because real love does not bow to power. Real love does not fade under pressure. Real love does not lose. And one day, when you are old, when you look around and find yourself alone, you will realize. You never fought against me. You fought against love. And that is a battle no one has ever won.
Until then, I will continue to be misunderstood. But I will also continue to hope, to dream, to love. Because that is who I am.

Yours,
A Misunderstood Soul.

MISadventurous this journey has been, an UNDERcurrent at its best, up STOOD obstacles, truly a mess!

MISaddressing me proves UNDER appreciation, but still your side I’ve STOOD by.

MIShandled and ransacked, I held in my screams, feelings of scUNDER, I STOOD mute clenching lips and fists, only daring to breathe.

MISprinted fingers UNDERStand I have the right to remain, I STOOD charged with a crime no man could name!

MIStrust kept me UNDER investigation, overSTOOD fingers always pointing!

MISlead, false impressions had me UNDER, by my side thought you’d fight, you said you STOOD for what was right!

MISs raise your right hand, swear to tell the truth, UNDER oath you are to be and before the jury you’ll have STOOD.

MIScounted votes omit recognition, UNDER high pressured capacities I perform, only to be withSTOOD.

MIScalculated assertions UNDERbid my value, nevertheless my worth STOOD out.

MIStrial this is sure be, UNDERwhelming evidence in place of truth STOOD against me!

MISdeeds you performed, you deceivingly sUNDERed the friendship, I had STOOD on tip toes to reach.

MISused my vulnerability, gazUNDERed my strength, this bully I’ve out STOOD though it hurt when you hit!!!

MISinterpreted words time and time again, hurled insults and accusations, I just don’t UNDERstand, shield raised I STOOD hoping one day this will end.

MISrepresented by your counsel, UNDERpeopled in my defense, distraught I STOOD feeling most certainly helpless…

MISconstrued my abilities, a blUNDER you proudly STOOD with.

MISjudging me, you UNDERhandedly sentenced me to be STOOD lonely, humiliated for all to see!!!

MYSterious is this UNDERtaking, I STOOD confused; was I really wrong for loving you?

But here it is, the real, the truth revealed.
This has nothing to do with me, but everything to do with you…
The reason I am, “Mrs. Here’s a tissue, Mrs. Why are you so blue?”,
Mrs. Unaccompanied, Mrs. Un Withstood, but almost always mostly know as Mrs. Under Stood

My mourning is not breaking apart on the bathroom floor at 3 in the morning. It is not the inconsolable heaviness in my body that refuses to get up, even though the world is still moving on with them. My mourning will never be the same as yours and yet, mine is deemed wrong. You say I’m cold and that something has to be wrong with me because people whose loved one just died don’t act this way. But Your mourning has you broken into tiny pieces. My mourning was putting those pieces back together so I could have a mother. I was mourning not 1 but 2 parents that year. I got myself to school, got top grades and made sure you didn’t kill yourself in the middle of the night to join your husband. You’ve misunderstood my sorrow for as long I can remember. My sorrow has always come from my soul, leaving tiny cracks in its wake, growing deeper and deeper with every poison word, every whimper from your mouth. My mourning never got to be on the outside to showcase for you that I am “sad”. My mourning was private, tears dripping down my face as I listened to the songs I shared with him. Silent screams echoed through the night as I held myself close, so I had something other than the sound of my heart breaking to focus on. You’ve misunderstood me…but when has that been any different than before?
Style score 92%

Dear Unsealers,
You misunderstood when you met me.
I smiled. I was witty. I was pretty.
You called me sweet, like it was a bad thing.
Enrapt, we talked until the city woke up.
Perplexed, you’d never lost track of time with someone.
I thought it kismet, dreaming how we’d fit.
You thought it a distraction, star-crossed and dismissive.
You thought I’d negotiate love.
You thought I’d sustain on nothing.
You thought I’d stay anyway.
You thought you’d have it all.
But you misunderstood when you met me.
Just like you misunderstood when I left.
I’m not like all the other girls you’ve dated because I,
I am a woman.