Tag Archives: poet

The Anniversary of Silence

As we continue our series SHE…

 

I am often asked, “How long have you been writing?” My answer usually ranges between the ages of 17 and 19, but the truth of the matter is I have been at it since grade 5. I was in a talented and gifted program (TAG), and I was tasked to create a book of poetry for a class project. This project introduced me to my love for words being eloquently linked together to tell stories. Not just any stories, but stories that my imagination birthed.

Over time I became more enamored with the multitude of pictures I could paint with words. It became an addiction for me to see how many people I could touch; how many women I could woo; how many of the fellas I could inspire to be more creative in their approach. I guess in a way I felt like writing was my mutant power (LOL). It was something about that pen and pad in my clutches that made me feel invincible. Writing gave me a power, an unequalled high, and a borderline sense of superiority. This craft has taken me on an amazing journey. I have been on stages with gifted musicians. I have headlined open mics with some of the most talented wordsmiths. I have been adored enough to be called a mentor to some of the most creative minds one would ever want to know. I enjoy the creative process, I really do. It’s like breathing the freshest of air. I cannot wait to inhale and exhale again.

The Anniversary of Silence

Facial features disguised

But she couldn’t hide the pain that outlined the unrest in her eyes

Untruths buried… Fed far to many lies

Even her tears had tears, drowning in cries.

Scared to be alone, so she couldn’t find the strength to leave him,

Unable to see past the blurred lines of hate wrapped in love, overwhelmingly deceiving

Because he loved her so much in that right eye that she hated to see thru her left

Thieving her self-esteem which each punch and kick, last breathes

Mommy I try to remember you,

But I pray to forget

The way that temperament changed when his empty bottle tipped

Liquor infused with the devilish spit

Massacre ensued, how fatal the script

Baby brother cry’s still echo with pain

Blood soaked denim still clutters my brain

No longer enjoying the beat of the rain,

Crazy how GOD’s music conjures up so much disdain

I just want to be plain,

A regular man who sleeps at night without the shakes and shivers

Without the cold sweats that my memory delivers

Without the eerie vision of a canvas painted in a nauseous river

My breathing is hampered

My legs are wearily weak

My arms don’t move

My mouth doesn’t speak

A victim

A witness

A murderous cowards retreat,

I try to drink the pain away

Smoke out the guilt

Purge the details from that night she was tragically killed

Silenced by Daddy

 

#TamirSaidIt

 

ts Tamir Salaam is a Dallas resident and a master composer of the written word. You can connect with him on facebook or blogspot to read more of his work.

 

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From the Earth

(Our continuation with the series SHE..)

 

Seed to Flower to Tree

Ink to Words to Me

I Was

I Might Just Be

Birthed in the womb of the struggle

Reared in the tight grasp of the hustle

Came of age in a lane that keeps me respectfully humble…

I reach for stars with the lengthy limbs of a Poetic Goliath

Never touching, but that doesn’t stop my mind from aspiring to breathe new being into my plight

Profusely drawing my life in pictures with hieroglyphs and scriptures that speaks to my ancestral mixture

You see my people were kings like Askia Muhammad long before they were forced to rebel like Nat Turner

Read about it…

I am cut from a cloth that has a certain string about it

I am encrusted with a sense of pride, and I refuse to live on my knees about it

I am willing to scale the highest mountain and vigorously scream about it

I came

I saw

And I am not yet satisfied with my current state

So where to start and when to stop is a steadfast debate

Those that love the arts can surely relate

Enough is never enough

A collection is never complete

A poem is never expressive, descriptive, or polished to the point of perfection

So all that’s left is, to turn the page and make yet another valiant attempt to be that Tree

That matured from that Flower

That was birthed from that Seed

And again allow the Ink to formulate the Words that represent Me

TamirSaidIt

 

 

 

ts   Tamir Salaam is a Dallas native and a master composer of the written word. You can connect with him on facebook or blogspot to read more of his work.