Naudia Williams
My poetry is not your nicknat
My poetry is not your repost on tumblr
It is not your operating room table to dissect
Blk voices
Black women voices
Black queer voices
My poetry is louder than a bomb
My poetry is a massacre of vernacular coming from my cardiovascular
It is sweeter than the blood of my people
My poetry is the blood of my people
It is the chestnut colored hue in the souls of Blk folk
It is folklore and fiction
It is Blk in all its depictions
Don’t correct it’s diction
It is the regret of loving lovers into healing and giving them the pieces of me to complete their puzzles
My poetry is jigsaw
It
is
functional
dysfunction
Obeying rules when commas,,,,,,,,,,
are involved
My poetry is ghetto yet middle class
Yet it be with the street
Find it’s own beat
My poetry is nappy
Nagging
Napoleon complexes found in its haikus
My poetry is rhythm and blues
Battered and burned
My poetry is petty Labelle
Opening libraries so the children can learn to READ
My poetry is red
My poetry can not be white
And fuck them monsters in blue