Destroy the evidence.

Let’s find them shall we?
Those pieces of spine,
Those fragments of mind,
Scattered memories,
Left behind.

Let’s tie them shall we?
I have but this twine,
This root of thyme,
The puzzles,
Of perpetuated crimes.

Let’s unite them shall we?
Here, use this vine,
Together tightly, bind,
Gather them,
Whatever you find.

Let burn them shall we?
Light the fire of time,
Kill off me, I, and mine,
Leave no trace,
No sign.

And she continues to be a stand up woman,
For you,She hides your sins,
She veils your evil,
She presents you on a pedestal to the world,
As a King,
She, your servant.
Blindly, all this time,
You fail to see she rules over you.
One turn of her glance away from you,
You’d be reduced to rubble,
Who would prop you up?
Nay, she is the Queen and you, but a slave.

Humanity’s saviour



The cradle of all humanity is the womb
It’s always been the womb.

Arabic word for womb
Derived from Rahma, the Arabic word for mercy.

It is no mistake that these words are intertwined and connected, for the mercy of humanity lays in the belly of mothers. No matter how pardoning a King is, no matter how subtle a father can be, how gentle a brother can protect or how loving a husband is, they can never experience the mercy necessary to participate in child bearing.

Why then are we looking at males, more specifically the immature model of males through false patriarchy to solve the worlds affairs?

We need to get out from the belly of the beast which men have created to the mercy of the womb which women inherited if we want any hope at returning to humanity.


Graceful black



She was the type, that women wanted to emulate.
She walked gracefully, posture perfect, draped in designer label sorrow.
Her shoes did not even touch the ground as she appeared to glide over surfaces, leaving no print on the earth.
Her sorrow wasn’t a burden on anyone, rather it was an inspiration.
A fresh waft of frankincense and white musk warmed with notes of heart clasp if she happened to raise her gaze your way.
She wore her sadness the way women struggled to wear joy, made theirs seem pseudo.
Tissues and handkerchiefs; her servants, waiting in cue to catch her tears but she never let one drop. Mascara run was not her thing.
Her secrets became her ability to cut through a crowd of chaos and demand silence and bewilderment, entrancing the mob until the crows that accompanied her flapped their wings past them.
And just like that they would all awaken, wearing black.