Ink Black Psalms

The coded color of my DNA

existing within

my melanin rich skin

masks an unquenchable thirst

that hungers - frenetic, demanding

drowning me in a constant

resonant jangle and clang

forever written in parchment.

The Ancestral voice of Black

is not merely sound

it is mystic presence, a living archive,

a chant that echoes through generations

ever poised - edged to freedom

the pulse of inner Black

speaking through shadow and soul

a molecule

needing satiety and surfeit.

Black Is My Favorite Color

you may see me as neutral

but Black remembers - never forgets

It crawls deep under my skin

i press it down deep below my soul

supressing the constancy

Black is not absence

it is presence, that strum

chords beneath epidermis,

a hymn older than light...

never shouting...

but resonating

a low, ancestral thrum

that curls like smoke

through marrow and bone,

whispering truths

the daylight dares not name.

It is the ink of lineage - beginnings,

the womb of stars,

the cloak of the unseen

that wraps around

what cannot be spoken

but must be felt.

It anchors - proud

I run................I fly

Black does not chase.

It waits.............

Patient as a Well,

deep as forgetting,

familiar as breath

when the world turns inward.

It knows my name

before I speak it.

It sings in the cracks

of my laughter,

in the pause between

heartbeat and mute suppress.

And when I try to peel it off -

this second skin,

this shadowed Psalm -

it only presses closer,

never binding,

but reminding...

I am not alone

in the dark.

I am the DARK...

and the voice

that echoes within it.

🖤 The Voice That Never Lets Go

is not a voice you hear -

it is a voice you remember.

Before language, before breath,

it was already purring

in the bones

remembering

your grandmother’s laughter,

grandfather's poetry of the hunt

in the silence between drumbeats

where gods once danced.

Blackness asks not permission...

But enters like dusk,

soft-footed and sovereign,

curling around your ribs

until your heartbeat syncs

with its ancient rhythm.

It may speak in riddles

the crack of firewood,

the murmur of cotton fields,

the moan of oceans

that swallowed pain

but could not erase them.

It is the voice of the unforgotten -

those who walked barefoot into storms

and knitted the heavens

into the cries of their shadows.

You carry it.

Not a burden,

but a birthright.

A shadowed figure rising from the well

The ripples of sound - vibrations

stories, names, griefs, and songs.

The listener - eyes closed, skin aglow,

receiving the voice not as noise

but as inheritance.

I am not alone

in the dark.

I am the embodiment - the soul

of the COLOR

DARKLY...BRIGHTLY

BLACK!

(NALLEN). 9/11/2025

To Mama Africa

and

Remembering another 9/11/2001.

A luta continua. Everywhere.