Writing poetry compliments my design skills by sharpening my ability to craft clear, emotive narratives, distill complex ideas into concise language, and create experiences that resonate on a deeper human level.
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While inspired by my experiences, my poetry contains content well beyond my own life.
giving (→) adj. 1. to present voluntarily and without expecting compensation; bestow: As in, grandma ended up giving up her 20s; she shouldn’t have been giving 10% of her income to God; she was already giving another 15% of it to the casino; you could often find her giving my mom, aunt, and uncle some of her dinner
House Hunting at Home
Free-flowing are the unruly kinks
that each dance to their own beat,
returning to their original form after
protesting the comb.
My mother’s knuckles touch
and fingers tug at my scalp,
my forehead tight and taut so
the braids can fully embrace me
and remind me that my identity
is mine, even though I would not
know I am a black girl
if she didn't tell me
She creates rows of braids that would over
the course of a few days transform
into rows of black cotton
just to be picked out and braided
again and again I am asked if I
am from Ghana-- I always smile widely and
reply “I don’t know” with pride because
the answer could be yes.
My head is tender when my mother braids
from trying to comprehend
why my hair is growing
so long without roots to anchor it.
And so she answers it with her hands,
bringing the hair back down to where it came from
by twisting, turning...
still me-mories
Cross-legged on a rug with a mug of tea, still me.
Trying not to burn my tongue or drown, still me.
I wish I weren’t embarrassed to say this, but I was just crying hysterically
to a love song because the man I settled for left. I had to cool down…still me.
My yell accidentally harmonized with the last note and I looked in the mirror. Wouldn’t
it be funny to write a nature poem, tear-stained, and dark brown? Still me.
In me, I see soil-colored bodies soiled with blood, my brothers with nothing
left to say. Police sirens and alphabet soup in the ether, just sounds. Still me.
Voluntary migration as an act of resistance; a bicoastal move to college as a demonstration
of the freedom so many don’t want us to have. Stop moving, lie down! Still. Me-
stories, memories of me are all my family really have. My niece picked up a crayon
for the first time and drew my bloodline. It just had a skyline background & a still me.
Spitting into a test tube, I pray for an extraction even a DNA test cannot see:
“Kyla, this is who you should’ve been!” I leave my rug to revisit my reflection up close--still me.