Image by Flow Clark, Unsplash

This crown,
These tresses are made with work.

A dish served with labor.
Greased hands,
And tired fingers.
Curved backs,
And fatigued arms.
A neck bent, and spent, and angled.
Heavy serving of time.

A delicious mane
That rests in herbs,
cooked in oils,
Smoothed with gel,
Rubbed in cream,
All to hold its flavor.
A meal for the versatile palate.

There is a texture to this spread.
Flexibility in its serving.
The twists and braids,
All of it’s presses, molds, bends,
Arches and weaves.

Best in heat,
Savored in cold,
And conversations.

Pair with Music,
and Good Vibes.
Memories to make it lasting.

This is a ritualistic feast.
Done on routine
For those who crave its zest.
And magic.

Regardless of how long it may take to make this meal,
The results are always exquisite.





Photo by Avi Richards, Unsplash

…and so the words spin,
Wet and dirty,
Slapping, sloshing against my,

I put this mess here,
Dropped in this dark space,
To be cleaned.

A pristine mind.
A clean message.
Neatly folded

And here I stand,
Off, and in center.
Haunted by hums and,


For the sound.sign that tells me
It’s finally ready.



Brain is on a slow burn lately, so trying out a writing exercise to kick up the flams (be kind)

Image by Angelina Litvin, Unsplash

Write about an interesting object

This is quiet,
This is recovery,
This is company.
Matching my soft sighs,
With each shift.
Cushions that hold close,
And comfort me.

This is an item of history.
Skin color like mine.
Leather surface,
Smoothed and firm,
Like worked hands,
And worn skin who sat here,
Before me.

The body of our home,
That held tired bodies.
A centerpiece that sits off-center,
Dependable, and unassuming.

This is a throne.
A reminder of my potential,
An advocator of rest,
A still object that moves — me.

Ode to my recliner



Photo by Ankhesenamun, Unsplash

For all lovers of autumn,
Of winter,
Of cold.


Cheers to the Chill.
That bite,
That reminds you,
Of the warmth that waits,
At home.

The company that keeps,
Under these gloves,
Over the hood,
At the sole of boots,
Hard pressed against,
Cold soil.

There is company in this silence.
There is closeness in this open space.
Of snow, of ice,
Fog and fallen leaves.

Cheers to the seasons marked as the end.
Yet, only look alive,
In my eyes.



Photo by
Nsey Benajah, Unsplash

They call the body fragile.
Praise the Delicate.
the Soft,
A frame not made
For damage,

But there is Beauty
In Battle.
For this skin,
So thin,
To heal.
To mend,

Each prick,
Every Cut,

This a surface that shows time.
That has embraced everything,
or other wise.

And has made it,
All of it,



Photo by Olivier Collet, Unsplash

Wear this,
Lose that,
Take these,

Bend here,
Step there,
Twist that,
Lift this,
Lean forward,

Stand still,
Don’t move,
Hold tight,
Don’t breathe — quickpinch

One moment,
Quick second,
One more,

Keep calm.
Stay strong.
Keep breathing,
Keep breathing,
Keep breathing.Quick.Pinch

Keep breathing,
Keep breathing,


See you,
Real soon.
One more.
Last one…




We’ll see…



Hope is still alive, but worry always dances at the corner of my eye

Image by Jez Timms, Unsplash

There is safety in silence,
Home in this quiet space.
Enough room in the shade,
and dark, to imagine — breathe.

But, noise comes at times,

No reasons for these sirens.
No triggers for this noise.
A ember that quickly began to burn.

It stirs and drowns.
Choking peace,
Deafening ears,
A weakened frame defenseless.

And a mind,
Determined to hear the quiet.
Holding still, standing strong.

Looking for another space,
Some place,
Without all,
This endless chatter.




Lisha S.

Over-thinker, poetry writer. This is my therapy, just sharing my mind with you.