Voice in my head,
I hear you when I'm sleeping and when walking,
but why must you do all this talking?
Do you really think it's right
to keep me up through the gloomy night?
And anyway, who the heck are you
to talk to me the way you do?
Are you a figment of my unconscious mind,
speaking to me so harshly and so unkind?
If you're the voices of my father or my mother,
I'd just as soon you pipe down or smother -
or perhaps, you, who have, me, harassed,
are voices from history, long past.
You speak to me in verbal hieroglyphs -
King Tut told you to tell me "jump off a cliff"?
I'm not impressed by your childish parlor stunts -
you know it's not polite to all speak at once -
like a bunch of inmates, fueling a riot.
Hear ME, voices - give me peace and quiet.
Something as simple as walking Black in America can be a risk, especially for Black males. They are sometimes labeled as suspicious, not all the time, that’s why I said “sometimes.”
They can be harassed, singled out, targeted, stopped, questioned or even arrested just for being Black.
Suspicious can be considered as, walking Black, the type of clothes you’re wearing, your hairstyle, for walking in “their” neighborhood. I don’t know a single person who owns a “neighborhood,” but whatever. It can be if you’re walking in a group, walking by yourself, if you’re walking with your hands in your pockets, the time of day, the time of night, walking too fast, walking too slow, or even to meet a quota.
So keep in mind, while walking Black in America, you may be considered a “high risk,” and it’s a possibility you “might” get stopped, so I ask that you please be compliant.
Be safe, be careful, be vigilant, be blessed, be aware, but do not afraid.
And last but not least, Be Proud!
You have a right to walk, so walk with your head held High. Walk with Boldness, Walk with Confidence and Walk with Integrity, but do not walk in fear.
in a love carriage two passive passengers,
all their exchanges through facebook or messenger,
jokes are shared and some health menu recipes,
no spoken words just thumbs up, or “I agree!”
the journey moved on and a few months have passed,
he would say nothing in case she feels harassed,
she perhaps likes him too, but wouldn’t say so,
both in love but fear should the answer be “No!”
history has taught them pain of broken heart,
why a couple who once loved, now live apart,
afraid to stir the cauldron of hot desires,
wish to go along life lonesome and retire.
a donut and coffee starts a day so well,
in surprising moments life then rings a bell,
he paid the bill with a smile and a thank you,
the girl at the counter was her, and she knew.
So it was the two met and then chose to wed,
without coffee, doughnut, their love would be dead!
Suffer not unto me;
Those joyous sins;
That replicate things;
After my very being;
~
I stand posed;
Poison to my loins;
Gratified, marginalized;
~
Purple snake, not royalty;
Nuances, novelty;
Cloaked and harassed;
Back to basic:
Those joyous sins;
After my very being;
Suffer unto me again still;
3/13/26
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. © 2026
As the heat of the rain pierces the thirsty
bosom of the earth harassed by the great heat of summer
, And as arid and suffocated, it drinks, and nourishes the plants
Burned by the sun, displays vitality, childbirth, gladness,
Your image, fountain of dreams wrought by my thoughts,
Penetrates gently through all the pores
Of my soul soiled in the struggle of burning hatreds,
Of sad and silent moments, and of daily cares.
Like a heady perfume spread by tenderness
Which seizes the intoxicated and subjugated soul in its palace
And lulls it with memories and unspeakable dreams,
Immaterial arms ardently
embrace My exhausted thoughts and my dark meditations
When your eyes are reflected in the lake of love of my heart...
We worship thee of glass and light
A flawless surface, polished and bright
Reflecting back at us like a beautiful lie
The truth trapped inside with nowhere to hide
Its flat surface holds so much power
We come back for answers within the hour
Designed for praise yet it stows defeat
The tears in our eyes, our own receipts
We seek validation through a shiny metal
Our pride as delicate as a flower’s petal
Between the reflection of a digital screen
Or the silver metal that reflects us so clean
It’s time to pick up the hammer and say
‘I hate how I see me, this isn’t the way’
Deliver the blow, witness it’s final days
Cuz each day you don’t, the stakes will be raised
So always remember that breaking the glass
Is the best way in life to stop being harassed
By your own insecurities, don’t ever let them show
Because you’re more beautiful than you already know
When all is said and done:
Who is the victim?
Who is the victor?
The harassed
Or
the one who harassed?
The one who bore it all quiet?
Or
The one who quietly retaliated?
Either way,
at times I feel
I am the loser .
Physical pain never hurts a raped man
Or a sexually harassed woman.
It’s the reaction of the world upon their pain.
Its not the look of pity in their eyes,
Not the look of disgust,
It’s the silence of the world upon their pain
Had the Germans during the Nazi Germany
Ever told the Jews that they were also
Just as beautiful as them,
Even their death in the gas chambers,
Wouldn’t have been so ruined of self respect
Every movement
Every protest and
Every struggle has a voice of its own
Silence was never an answer
The raped man or the sexually harassed woman
Wouldn’t have been so depressed.
The Jews during the Nazi Germany
Wouldn’t have been so ruined of self -respect
Had the world not silenced itself upon their pain.
If everything I loved catches fire,
the men I have ever loved
would be cremated for purity's sake.
I was told to listen to the soul
before I expanded it—
to watch the earth, air, fire, water
get agitated.
The sun always works overtime,
as if she turns around the stars
and places the moon
elegantly into spaceships.
At some point, I was afraid to look up,
until I discovered
that the universe is one big intuition.
I am harassed by love.
I move in and out of it,
just to keep every lover alive,
just to keep catching their fire.
Bernice Zoleka Mannie
LYAIOZ MANNIE
The taste of freedom resides in choice
Autonomy of the body and autonomy of voice
It is to not be held hostage by threat of violence
It is to not be kidnapped by silence
It is to leave a home with quiet reassurance -
And to return without the company of bullets
It is to watch the news without dread
Of seeing another black person dead
It is to exist without stereotypes
Without having to defend our rights
To be able to breathe -
In a world where everything we do is heavily criticised
The taste of freedom, would taste so sweet
To not be harassed, while walking down the street
It would taste like a voice finally free
It would taste like the end of a centuries long journey
Where rest becomes mandatory
Where a happy ending chooses our story
The taste of freedom belongs to those erased in history
The taste of freedom belongs to those caged by slavery
The taste of freedom belongs to our collective ancestry
The taste of freedom belongs to those who look like me
she once found calm in the rain
it brought her back to this world
her light was bright and the colors were at their most symbolic
that is, until the rain stopped
then the familiar pain popped
she once found solace in a storm
it freed her from times long 'forgotten' in the attic of her mind
her sun was shining and at its most radiant
that is, until the storm passed
then the familiar pain harassed
then one day became too many days
an unfortunate drought constructed an art museum with a lock that could not be undone
the dryness only became dryer and the heat of the continuing, suffocating moment was just way too much for her to bear
it is at that very moment that she found it getting much too hard to breathe and to cope
it is then when her favorite song began to play......'STARRY STARRY NIGHT.......'
i wonder now if you merge your tears with vincent,
and when they fall here on the grounds of earth, does Understanding merge and prevail
Teenagers
Tired of being harassed
By your stupid parents
Act now
Stuppidly wanted
Pack your bags and your irrigants
Get up off your ass
Get a job
Fill out an application
Pay your own bills
Because you know everything
You know more than me
Your phone bill will sky rocket
I don’t have a clue
I don’t want to see red sirens
Put your big boy pants on
Don’t ask me for any more money
You can pay for your very own $900 rent payment
Don’t forget a roll of quarts for the laundry matt
Use paper plates
Don’t be crying to me
I don’t want to hear it
You are dying for your own independents
It’s time to do adult things
Enjoy
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
Woody Woodpecker happily pecks in his tree-house decent,
mean landlady Meany evicts him, for he doesn’t pay the rent.
So, he plans his antics, stops real estate to sprawl in his forest,
tricks Lance, the harassed lawyer, to gift him a new tree-nest.
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
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