Narratio is a global platform for youth empowerment through creative expression, publishing content from over 18 countries across three continents.
It's a layer of defense
Soft and Smooth
It crackles , it can breaks if you have a wound...
A poem is the solace you didn't find in things that are tangible. It's a chip on your shoulder that needs to trickle down word by word, phrase by phrase, until the care has turned to dust, eroded and carefree with the wind.
I shed my skin, callous as it is, hardened by time, and by solitude. I wore it like a badge for so long, thinking it was an exoskeleton that help my soupy insides –
I like tea and I think the universe is conscious, I believe in kindness and I think there's much more to life than meets the eye.
I peel away the night sky slowly and smile at the easy success
And continue in and inhale the dark,
I am the custodian of my own world, my own thoughts, my own mind.
What I think is what I choose to think, what I let in, is what I choose to let in.
For darkness was a state of mind
And any lightness, any spark
Was all mine
Today I have the ability to shape my own world.
Today I will light fire to my soul.
Today I am the master of my own life.
Today I am alive.
When I was young, my grandfather told me, “Don’t fear death.”
I never I understood my dada. I thought he was being morbid.
But now I realized what he meant.
You have your mother's eyes;
But the world is telling you
That they are not big enough
she imagines
pregnant skies
like ripe oranges
and the flames that burn
her mind,
the only place
that takes her
afar
I see snapshots of war in your eyes.
I think that maybe,
you started dreading the silence –
You hated the way it offered hope
and demanded, the last minute,
that you give it back.
Who I was,
made who I am.
Who I am,
makes who I will be,
Life is just cause and effect.
Such is the beauty of Rain: It pours a blend of emotions.
Its final message goes as such:
“Your dreams are being weaved, hold on, as I sign off, light shall creep in for a new beginning”
Walking past the African Burial grounds on Friday,
I remembered a past day.
On this remembered day, I saw the tombstone of a relative never met,
A person I could not see physically in this life, even with a bet.
I won’t be a closed door
But an open one.
And love will come
To fight for me.
I know 'tis but mighty hands that carved me,
When I look at the heavens, mountains and sea.
He who knows, has carved well,
He foresees, He sees swell.
He frames his sculpture,
No piece he fractures.
Each small hamlet within the empire was founded on a common principle first,
Then the populace become knowledgeable of other methods and created new methods with a burst.
Upon the canvas blank and white,
Lay my life, as clear as light.
For many a days, thus it lay.
