This piece is a rarity written by me because it’s untitled right now. I’m going to be tweaking it a bit and rewording some of the lines to add more depth. It is a rough version of what it will be but I still wanted to share it.

You want to put a spell on me

Like your name is Nina or you 

Can conjure the blues greats 

But I’m immune

My people talk the fire out of burns,

read dreams,

and see dead people. 

There is no magic you can weave 

strong enough

to break generations 

of bindings

to rip the ties that bind 

Sarah and Lymon’s 

blood coursing through these veins.

My people wove dreams from land

ripe with cotton, scuppernong vines and sweet potatoes.

They poured sweat into the future 

and brought forth

their own brand of magic.


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