Starry Eyed, Black Hearted @blackboypoet - Tumblr Blog

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gayjigglypuff

I was at the zoo the other day and there was this fucking goose trying to act likE A FUCKING FLAMINGO

howmanyarms-deactivated20131217

this made my day its so adorable

wild-west-wind

This reminds me of one of my favorite conservation stories!!

When they were trying to bring Puffins back to islands on the US east coast they decided to do so with dummies. Puffins are very social, and as a result would want to land on islands that already have puffins. The dummies looked real from a distance, but were seriously lacking up close, held up by a single peg. Puffins, being social and wanting to fit in, followed suit:

creamcookiekat

@wetwasteofagirl

blackboypoet

Im glad i have the social fever of a puffin

elfuegouno

I hide my insecurities in my confidence

I just hit the bed and immediately felt empty whoops here we go

#tayo talks #i want to stop feeling this way #why do I FEEL THIS WAY

modelsof-color

Adut Akech by J. Exposito

celebrities-gallery

missypena

Soup’s up! Last three of my nature/metaphysical take on Andy Warhol’s Soup Cans.

Wow I haven’t felt this empty in months, what fun

#tayo talks #welcome back to tumblr

It’s Christmas and you can see the steam from all the pots fog up the front screen door. We are playing Country Christmas Carols Vol 1. and not a damn person in this house listens to country music but this 1 day out of 365 we know all 12 tracks of this one album, from Brenda Lee to the The Eagles, front and back, alto and soprano parts. I can feel the screams from the pot and the kettle and the uncles and the aunties that come with names that my baby teeth can’t pronounce yet; Uncle Eddie was still here. This was before we knew we were calling him uncle Eddie because we couldn’t bite into Uncle Ademola, when we were taught that words like shit and motherfucker were nasty words, but uncle Eddie always seem to throw them up from the bottom of a whiskey shot glass. It’s snowing but nothing is sticking to the black outside, everything goes away before it has time to rest or maybe the going is the rest. That night, Mom had me put on the only Marvin Gaye album we owned and turn the knob all to the right until every adult in the house was long and swaying. Uncle Eddie throws an arm across my father says Brother, Brother, Brother and my other auntie is laughing with tears that spill like her wine. The air is dense with jollof rice and chicken and uncle Eddie is still here.

My Mother Doesn't Play Marvin Gaye In The House Anymore

Tayo Omisore

#writing #writers #poetry #tayo omisore #black writer

Boy how you black & can't fly How you black & not painted on a 8pm canvas swirling with the colors on some Disney shit how you be black & not scared when the hell you ever felt safe before how you black & not woke I ain't slept in years niggas seen too much death to want to close their eyes ever again how you black & don't sing at least a quiver the one song we all know at least a cry for help something so raw it makes an oak tree bloom into a swarm of ravens How you black & can't dance like you ain't slide out the womb slick with your grandma’s chicken grease like a match wasn't your first kiss, like the world ain't been on fire since you came in like you ever seen naked concrete with no broken glass how the hell you black & you still breathe easy don’t that sun weigh heavy on you push real deep on your chest when it comes down all my family got asthma need an inhaler just to stare at the moon How you black & think you can rise with the sun in the morning every morning you not a black boy, you can't be you just a boy living

Black&

Tayo Omisore

#black #poetry #poem #poets #poets on tumblr #writing #writer #writers #black writers #tayo omisore

rococo-ravenna

love, romance, any form of affection, reside only in a realm of unattainable fiction –

not meant to fit within my cobblestone hands, not meant to foster in my small, small, sphere. only flirting gestures, feeling gazes, fanning ego matter here –

the fascination and allure of the abstract.

nothing more.

nothing less.

so how, then, does one react – when that sphere has been breached, when their pebble has lodged itself in my atmosphere and become an asteroid, ever present in my orbit and no rocket of rejection could ever blast away – persistent, parental, gently, softly supporting –

something sprouts.

I want to hate it. I want to rip my head apart and uproot it, destroy, delete. It is fake, it must be fake, I must be a fool. Emotions? I don’t deserve nor desire them; I am a “part b,” no, “part z”; good things are not for me; love is suffocating, stringent, suffering; they are a fool, a tool, an unsettling black to my blue; they shed more tears than I, they never fail to try, they never tell a lie, and different from me as the moon against a night sky –

so what then, would accepting it mean – ? would I ruin our bond would i –

– hurt someone again – ( I am scared )

would I – rejoice? (I don’t want to)

it is not

is it not?

what I want?

a gross murky purple of self-loathing against an ochre of delight against curious azure desire – a sunset painting, but the day will not end –

– the roots too deep for us to let it end –

yet I fade and fizzle and fidget and find no peace on any plane and it must come to a close or I will explode and these seeds, they hold ..me accountable…

it is not passion it is not pleasure it is a plastic piece of refuse in a gallery of Monets

a mortifying mystery

blackboypoet

*snaps*

The idea of action figures is weird is fuck Teaches us that it's ok to play with bodies that aren't our own bend bodies that aren't our own break bodies that aren't our own Sometimes I think black boys are treated like action figures with limbs that flex in every direction Entire bodies dipped in wax and laid still I'm tired of writing about the black boy like some fleeting concept like we only exist on the page or in a prayer why must every part of me be metaphor eyes too dark for any light to call me home My earthy voice betrayed by my twig fingers to fragile to ever grasp an american dream I tried to give my black boy a name Ahmed A vain attempt at reclaiming the last breath for my own but that’s like bringing a church fan to a hurricane and I’m not sure if i even can hear my name above the white roaring winds besides my name is always changing anyway. you know I bet the graveyards looks like toys r us these days every plot with it own wax figurine a boy encased in glass his eyes finally peaceful enough to cry for I hate writing about the black boy but here he is before me again I wonder how many black dolls do the cemeteries have to buy before they can sell us our lives back as limited edition collectibles.

Toy Story

Tayo Omisore

#tayo omisore #black writers #poet #poem

Today I am feeling happy, thank God the faucet does not drip so loudly so my mind doesn’t fade through the eggshell drains curtains make of afternoon light. Crossing the bedroom, pass friendly mirrors I make peace with toothbrush and showerhead, let hot coffee lick my cradling fingers, the kettle boils like children laughing. Today, the September air hugs me and I have my fill of it without choking, the microwave cooks my chicken nuggets warm, even though the middle was still raw. But this food fills my belly and for that I am grateful, to be full and content.

Today&Happy (Sonnet)

Tayo Omisore

#issa happy poem #kinda #im working on it lol #tayo omisore #happy #poem #poetry #black poets #writing #writer #writer on tumblr #or issa sonnet

nettropolis

“The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.”

Ursula K. Le Guin (via n-x-northwest)