POETRY: Little Black Boys

Little black boys, young brothers;

Who are taken for predators before they can even utter a word.

Placed on a trajectory to prison, low-waged jobs, or the subjugation of black women. Predators. Drug dealers, gang bangers.

Black boys, young men have been programmed to self-destruct

And to bring down with them whoever they can.

I love you little brother,

Who hugs me every morning,

Smiling in anticipation for me to squeeze and kiss him.

To cary him over my shoulders.

It pains me to think that one day, he may disparage me wanting to plant kisses on his thickened skin.

It pains me to think that he may feel that his worth is measured by how many female bodies he can conquer.

A pang of fear already chokes me when he playfully hits me.

To think, I’m triggered by an innocent soul, who does not yet know of gendered-violence.

But the future is now,

The future is in his eyes, and his jumbled confessions.

My heart aches,

Yet it is covered with hope.

That my heart will beat vibrantly

And in loving security for black men and boys.

You are not what they tell you.

You are indeed a vessel of God,

Here to do remarkable things to give and receive love.


Copyright © 2014 [SHARRAE LYON]. All Rights Reserved


Point of Contact

Story of Alien Nation

They came to our species and requested to be shown.

Shown the treasures of what our world has to offer.

They came to our ancestors and absorbed our knowledge.

They quickly turned to violence and raped our matriarchs.

Took them for temporary wives to keep, and abate their ludeness, while they were on voyages of “discovery.”

They took us for fools.

Fools who were too blind to see their intentions.

Yet there were amongst us those who knew.

Who warned against the newcomers.

Who warned that great darkness would attempt to over take us,

Would strip our children from self, from community , from heart and soul.

The generations there after would wander,

Be taken and would not be given access to their ancestors.

They warned that the humans would divide their species.

Divide and create deep fissures.

Subdue them to a time and consciousness of chaos and confusion.


Copyright © 2014 [SHARRAE LYON]. All Rights Reserved

I am Alien

We strive for humanity,

Yet humanity continues to elude us.

It’s like we are trying to catch smoke with our hands, yet it moves through us.

Humanity eludes us,

Simply, because it was never made to define us.

We’ve been programmed.

Programmed to believe we are “Other.”

Sub-human, if that.

Programmed to fight for human rights.

The right to be human,

The right for human status.

Yet each seeming advancement we make into humanhood,

Dignity is stripped away from somewhere else.

We’ve been programmed to step on each other for the piece of the humanity pie. But if we look closely, we will see that it’s all a lie.

I am Other,

I am Alien.

I will always be deemed non-human by those who seek to control this reality.

Thus, I will not fight for my humanity.

Rather I will commit to my deprogramming and activate the powers within.

The powers that have been subdued, the powers that were stolen.

The powers that will open portals to our ancestors who communicate with us on the daily.

Powers that allow us to recognize there we can truly overcome the barriers put in place by the matrix of power.


Copyright © 2014 [SHARRAE LYON]. All Rights Reserved


POETRY: Hairography

Curated by Josiane Anthony and Whitney French
Curated by Josiane Anthony and Whitney French
Curated by Josiane Anthony and Whitney French
Curated by Josiane Anthony and Whitney French


Originally published in From the Root Issue #1: Hair

The ancient ones said that our hair were like antennas. Devices that transmitted information from the spirit world to the material world. Hair, it is a storyteller by it’s own right.

My hair has marked various points of massive growth and pain in my life. A dark-skinned black girl, my plaided hair was undesired beside the many depictions of flowing silky hair. Beauty standards function within an anti-black framework, whereby blackness is positioned furtherest a way from the ideal image of light skin and silky hair. Black hair, in its coils and its kinks can be a site of (queer) resistance, pushing the boundaries of concepts of self.

My hair is somewhat of an hairography. From two corn-rowed plaits and braids as a child, to my first relaxer when I was 13, chasing after certain expectations, suppression of self began. Sitting between mi muddah’s legs, scalp itching and burning. Lawd, I do not miss those days. The dead DNA up onah mi head, no matter its state has carried me through both my successes and failures.

I eventually had enough. Alighted with my spiritual trajectory, of dreams inspired by Quranic messages, of inspiration, of divine intervention, of intervention yes, to the craziness of submerging the beauty that is me, of darkness, of dark matter, dark energy, to power.

Hijab protected me and illuminated my inner beautification as I allowed my hair to return to its original state. I walked bad then, yet I moved humbly forward. Fear couldn’t catch mi, for I had the Highah Powah on my side.

And then my sexuality commanded my attention And so I gave her my fullness.

I removed the cloth, bringing my curly coils into the heat of the sun. In search for spiritual sex, I found leeches, who wanted to tek tek tek from mi.

I desired to erotically speak, without speaking. Moan, tug, bite, and Oh was it a journey.

I tapped into suppressed desires,

of childhood girl crushes,

blushes that my dark skin could hide.

Finally understood my attraction to the androgynous.

Fuck, I realized I am a beautiful, bisexual/queer.

My truth was revealed, I returned to my full natural state.

Intertwining bodies and spirits with the good and the succubi, It is now that I know, that the energy of those that you let converse with your erotic Spirit can influence your self-protection.

Emotional abuse sent me off the rails.

She was a dark skinned ancestor of a distant past,

her skin gleaned like gold, the moon made her glow.

She was beautiful, yet wretched.

Illusion turned into a nightmare.

Fear swallowed truths and necessary needs, My belief shot, like a bullet through my aura.


I became a shadow. I needed to be in control.

So I shaved it.

Shredding the strands of other’s DNA, fingers, Breath breathed through sex moans, Of words shouted and thrown like daggers.

I wanted it gone.

and the closer I got to the skin, I rose from the ashes, anew.


Retrospectively many strong whispers and vivid shouts from my ancestors and the Divine, called to me. My coiled receptors picked up their signals. It came to me,

“This is not what you are here for. You are here for greatness. You are here to communicate and create beside the people who truly inspire the Erotic, the Spirit, the Mind and the Body.”

I have left so much behind me, I have put down all the baggage. I can just continue to shave it all off,

each day a new start,

a new opportunity for growth.


Copyright © 2014 [SHARRAE LYON]. All Rights Reserved