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Best Poems Written by Tyree Jackson

Below are the all-time best Tyree Jackson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Brown Skin

I.
Fire hoses attempt to wash away
blackness as if underneath their
brown skin held white bodies’ hostage.
Scorching days in the field glistened scarred backs
as the winds carried their songs to God.
Flaming bodies hang from trees, many trees
by white hooded ghosts of the night—but no one
sees that their souls took flight to heaven,
no one sees them at all.
II.
This skin, brown skin, it is
said to be tainted with sin and because this skin cannot blend in
with the bodies of white men,
this skin will wear and tear from nooses and police bullets.
This skin will bleed from the
whips and bruise from prison chains,
until all what remains are the stories of our struggles.
Our ancestors gave us this skin, brown skin,
in order to continue from where their bodies
had once fallen.
So we were chosen and won’t admit defeat,
until this skin, brown skin, can walk on
mother earth without dripping blood onto her soil.

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Black Body, Queer Spirit

I.

I am one with who I am.
I own my black body
and I cherish my queer spirit.

In this world, I cannot deny
either, for they both have
equal claim to my existence.

Together and not separate,
black body, queer spirit. 


II.

Silence: noun, “Refusal or failure to speak out.”

My body, covered with the majestic colors of the rainbow.
The decisions I’ve made, engraved on stone—this is who I want to be.
My identity, concealed within cobble-stoned walls of my insecurities.
Unlaced from the very fabric I considered to be my home.
My mouth, filled with tar—I can’t tell my family the truth.
I can’t speak of it.
I faced the glare of those who disapprove of my existence.
Assorted taboos are thrown at my very difference like stones.
I am labeled derogatory words—words profoundly tattooed on my brain tissue.
The tears I’ve cried would spill over in cups.
The bruises’ I’ve endured would make healing impossible.
I can’t speak of it.
Torn between two worlds— however, forced to adapt to both.
My emotions drained; my hopes of liberation depleted; my dreams of existence, misplaced in the sands of time.
I can’t speak of it.
Let me break the silence.

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Something Came Between Us

This feeling is like stepping my foot into muddy water.
The sight of you makes stormy clouds cry tears.
Once, you were my flower and I was the water that kept you healthy.
When I touch your skin, it’s rough like a granite surface.
Why are you here? Why do you make me feel this way?
I remember when you and I were one—like a water drop resting on a coin’s metal surface.
We were once a unit, a team, like a pair of shoes—point is we were adhesive.
But what came between us?
Was it you?
Was it me?
No—it was neither of us, because what came between us was death.
I stand in front of your stone grave; on this stormy day; my umbrella half broken.
My shoes, muddy from standing for so long in front of your resting place.
I gather strength to kneel down next to your tombstone, to touch your name and place my flowers--I wish it were your skin I was touching ever so gently.
I walk away and I hear myself say---one day, we will soon be together again.

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My Life Isn'T Some Fairytale

You see, my life shouldn’t be treated as some
fairytale, because these glass slippers won’t fit your feet.

And my life shall not be narrated from ignorant mouths
or paraphrased by misinformed minds.

Because it is I who has to endure the hate crimes
and has to do the time behind the bars of this
closed cultural system.

You see, my life didn’t begin with the bull*****phrase
“Once upon a time” because this life isn’t a story of fiction—but
a story of truth.

And let truth be told, that with every line I spit and every story I tell, makes
my voice worth listening to—because my life isn’t some fairytale.

Details | Tyree Jackson Poem

I Kept On Walking

One day, I gave it all up.
And boy oh boy, when I tell you.
My sight, weakened.
I fell into a hollow crack of failure.
The pit was black as the depths of a mysterious ocean.
And the walls cold as an ex-boyfriend’s defiant stare.

My feet, dried in cement blocks.
And believe me, when I tell you.
I tried to walk.
And yes, the task was a difficult one.
This hollow prison echoed my cries of pain.
But I’ll tell you.
I lifted my legs with all my might; until I fell on the floor.

But still, I kept on moving.
No matter the obstacle I faced along the way.
And oh yes! When I tell you, as I continued to crawl.
Those cement blocks began to break.
Oh yes they did.
So I kept on crawling.
Crawling until I saw the light from the crack I fell into.

I heard the cement blocks crumble to the floor and echo.
I felt my feet regaining strength.
I saw the light intensifying.
I emerged from the hollow crack of failure; liberated.
My eyes, blinded as if first opened.
And believe me, when I tell you.
Once my sight became clear, I kept on walking.

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Half a Man

Intolerance is thrown at his body in the shape of daggers.
He wouldn’t dare shed a tear if a blade penetrates his skin.
Instead, his body cradles her words as a mother would to her newborn child.
But he is no child to his mother—for he is only half a man.

Her shame for him casts tears in his eyes, and strikes fear in her heart.
She would mold his body into shapes that eventually fell apart.
“My child” she cries “What’s wrong with my child?”
She couldn’t believe he was her son—her only one.

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Act Like a Man

I’ve bitten my tongue one too many times.
Tasting my blood of defeat.
But above all else, I wish I would just speak.
To tell him to shut the **** up already.
And show him that I’ve tolerated his degrading uses
of the words, queer, gay, and fag long enough.
But every time I protest, it is I who tastes blood of defeat.
And locks myself in my room, to scream and cry
about being too weak.	
He wants me to “act like a man.”
And to “grow a set of balls.”
Shit, why doesn’t he just clone me to be six feet tall?
And be a man without a job and no morals at all?
And brag to my homeboys about my sex life and refer to women as *****es.
Or to pick on boys like me—who he wouldn’t mind giving stitches.
And yet, he wants me to “act like a man.”
No, he wants me to be more like him.

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Loving Me First

Stand in front of the mirror. 
And you look into your eyes.
Eyes, brown honeyed from a bee’s nest.
You tell that person—you love him.
You stare at your body. The body God made for you.
And you say, no matter what, you’ll cherish his thick size.
And his soft silk skin, stained with colorful open paths of beauty.
You tell yourself you’re beautiful.
You scream it!  Tell yourself that you’re strong. Say it!

Because it is his voice that whispers to you nightly: 
“I’ll always be there for you.”
Open the doors to your mind and let the confusion flutter away because:
Your pain shall not spill from self-inflicted cuts any longer.
And your pain shall not be filled within your stomach to be
flushed countless times down toilets.
It should blossom from your poetic voice.

Close your eyes child and say you’re independent.
Say you’re strong.
Breathe those words—let them flow from your mouth. 
Let them paint colors on your walls. Let them hug you.
That man in the mirror has stitched up your broken heart, time after time,
because you felt weak, because you believed you needed that somebody.
Well the needles and thread are all gone.

You toss and turn every night, shouting the names of souls that once tainted yours.
You scream, “Come back, come back.” With your tears and cold sweats containing 
“Pleases, I’m sorry, I’ll change” within them.
But why do you need to change? Why should you’ve to please somebody? 
You don’t need to change for anybody.

You need to love yourself first, before anything else
in the world; otherwise, you’ll never feel happy.
And your mind will forever be tainted by the perceptions
of those who want hurt you and use you.

So you stand in front of that mirror and you love what
you see, because if you want to continue on living in this
world of pain and suffering, the first person you need to
start loving is me.

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I Look To You

My journey isn’t smoothly paved.
I’ve been stopped by predators and poisoned along the way.
 	
There were many times I believed I couldn’t stand.
And there were many times I felt my life would just end.
 
But then I looked to you—your smile allowed me to break the walls that
isolated me from society.
So when I looked into your eyes—my reflection reminded me of a boy striving.
 
When I cried, I knew that you would be there to wipe away my tears, and say
“My son be strong and keep your head up high.”
 
You give me strength, when mine has depleted.
And it’s your motherly touch that heals my cuts and bruises when needed.
 
I look to you when others turned away.
And I will always look to you—for your presence allows me to truly see brighter days.

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Struggles

Where should a boy go to hide?
To retreat from the battles his sexual
identity has to face?
And to pray that tomorrow will be a better day?

Who can he talk to concerning his problems?
When it is clear that his parents gave birth to a
boy he’s not?
And when its plain as day, his older siblings disown
him for not being able to take physical pain?
His cries of “Mommy, Mommy!” shriek from his swollen lungs.
And after the ordeal is done, he is told to “Be a man and grow some.”

So tell me, where should a boy go to scream?
Or, where should he go to cry?
Tell me, where should a boy go to dream?
Because tomorrow, he may not survive.