I just want to take this time to thank you all for your continuous support .Pulse Poetry Magazine would not be what it is today without you. For that we truly want to thank you. In this issue, I want you to enjoy the stories each poet tells. I want you to read it and really listen to each word.
The months issue was a letter to our younger self. The moment where the older you gets a second to talk to the younger you and give some forms of wisdom.
Month after month we pour our hearts out for you to listen. We pour our hearts out for you to know that you are not alone in the struggles and in the pains. We hurt and we write to help you get through the pains. So sit back and get ready to read some amazing poetry from the very best poets of around the world.
Ashanti Taylor-Alexander
Daily limitations
The older I get the less time that I have I miss the days where I could say I was bored It's rare that I even have the time to say things like that anymore My days are often overfilled my to-do list goes from one day to the next I'll cross things off but more gets added, Sometimes I struggle making time for rest I wish I had help and a team but all I have is me
I know a team is out of my budget and I can’t make anyone work for free Someone has to get things done so I push forward every day that I can, but sometimes I wish there was a clone of me so I can do more than what I actually can
Copyright 2025 Eloquent Pearlfection
“We
Didn’t Come This Far For Nothing”
by
Tiffany Mariie
Dear Teenage Me,
I know you feel like the black sheep, the one who never quite fit the mold too soft for the hood, too hood for the classroom, too deep for surface talk, too different for the ones who only know how to mirror each other. You liked music with meaning, read poems when others passed notes, spoke like you had a story, and they laughed not knowing you were a whole library bound in silence.
I know it hurt when your voice cracked under the weight of “what’s wrong with you?” When home didn’t feel like home, and the people who should’ve loved you loud only whispered your worth behind closed doors or worse, didn’t speak it at all.
I’m sorry nobody told you: your different was divine. Your voice … poetry. Your pain … power waiting to bloom.
I know you wondered why your daddy never showed up, and why mama was there but never really… present. That ache?
It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t have to earn their love. You were already worthy.
But look at us now, baby girl. You made it through the teasing, the lonely lunches, the tear soaked pillows, the nights you prayed for someone to just get you.
Now?
You got a pen that could crack open heaven. You got two beautiful daughters calling you Mommy with a love that don’t flinch. You got stories that don’t just survive they save.
No, life ain’t perfect. But it’s purposeful. And every scar on your heart? A map to who you became.
I came back to tell you: You were never broken just building. And we didn’t come this far for nothing.
Love,
The Woman You Fought So Hard To Become Tiffany Mariie
“I Just Needed a Hug” by Tiffany Mariie
I ain’t here to sugarcoat survival, twice I tried to clock out early left notes like receipts on the dresser, hoping the silence would finally refund my pain.
But the pills didn’t take me, the blade got shy, and the bathtub water turned cold before I could float away in it.
They call it a “ cry for help” like I was performin’ when really
I was drowning in a room full of people and nobody noticed I was breathin’ through a whisper.
I didn’t want to die. I just wanted the pain to stop, wanted someone to see me without the mask, to pull me in without asking for anything back. I just needed a hug.
Not a lecture, not a prayer soaked in judgment, not a “ you too pretty to be sad” speech. I needed arms not advice. Presence not platitudes.
And somehow, God sent me back. Told me my babies ain’t done needing me, told me my story still had stages to spit on, told me my pen ain’t bled enough yet.
So now I write for the ones staring at ceilings with tears in their throat, the ones with cracked smiles and “I’m fine” stitched to their lips.
I write for the girl I used to be lonely, unheard, thinking the exit was the only escape.
If you reading this: don’t go. Please. Stay.
You ain’t crazy for hurting. You ain’t weak for crying. You ain’t broken beyond repair. You just need a hug too.
And if nobody told you lately, baby, I love you. And I mean it.
"P.ieces O.f a M.an"
Never with poetry can I take an,"L" Been trodding on the wine press too long so I rebel, That's words from,"Babylon System" by Bob Marley
And I wrote this poem listening to Fela Kuti, It's my duty to drop lyrical gems and rubies As I'm talking to you, I'm also talking to me, To transport this energy is more than a task Tupac's,"Lord Knows" came from the BlackByrds," All I Ask", It's different levels to what they call,"Black Excellence"
Sometimes the vybes is clean other times it's decadent, So come with an open mind of solutions ya heard me
To clean this S.ugar H.oney I.ce T.ea up your gonna have to get dirty, My younger self tells me to be non prejudiced to life
You can be in a car chilling Next thing your brains splattered on your wife, Ask John F. Kennedy if you don't believe me And he was the president of the United States; you think it easy, As far as deadlines go I don't follow them
So I'll have this poem ready by tomorrow then, I can't rush genius to jot lines See it ain't my time, it GOD'S time, My older self is more honest and true Looking to make more sunshine with skies navy blue, Wanna be talented like Gil Scott Heron, here I am Without breaking down into just,"Pieces of a Man"..
Poem by Akin Chinnery.
Life As Me
by Lisa "Lipps" Davis
It was never my choice to be this... 1954...
Mom was a " come here" to Maryland outta Alabama Daddy a local boy... But she had soft, sable hair, and hazel/blue/green eyes... And their relationship was a problem from the start.
See, Daddy was smart and well liked, from a good Colored family.... The first of his kind to hold his position in this community. And at 23, he was smitten.
She was an 18 year old beauty, coming to meet her intended's family... But God had another plan... They lost control of the car, and all life, save hers, was lost...
She came into the hospital, battered and bruised... Daddy was an attendant, there to put her back together again. He tended to the wounds of her alabaster skin, And saw his future...
65 days....
He brought her from a lost girl in an unknown world, to husband and wife....
Everyone said it wouldn't last... But weeks became months, and then years as they flourished... in spite of society... And in their 8th year, My arrival was pended....
And on the night of her labor, She wasn't even given a room...
Left in a hallway halfway between Black and White... Waiting for my head to crown... before they made a decision.
So, at the dawning of a new year... in the dead of winter... on a wet, muddy night... I came into a world defined by color... cold and pink...
5 pounds, 14 ounces of complete and utter confusion... And society had made my existence an issue before I was ever born.
The fight for equality was a powder-keg... Kennedy, King, and Malcolm X still lived... and I walked the line between... completely unaware of how much trouble that caused...
Then school age came... I was smart and could read... The system claimed integration... but the hearts of Somerset County Maryland had not caught up...
So, 3 weeks past the 1st day, I was sent where the white elite attended. Placed in a classroom with not one familiar face... and told to thrive...
And somehow, I did...
I fell in love with...
Robert Louis Stevenson and Edgar Allen Poe
By the age of 7...
And quickly learned that books were my only real friends...
Few talked to me... Even less played with me... And no one claimed me as their own.
But I refused to be the thing they all wanted... A failure...
And as grade school became junior high... I made my first true friend...
A high yellow spitfire little girl who had grown men swooning... And no one cared for either of us... So we grew closer than sisters...
Then, I met a man child of a boy who taught me who I was... He was 17 and a rebel... with the biggest fro I'd ever seen... And skin even lighter than mine. He was the first person to tell me
Why I was different and why that was beautiful... And I found uniqueness in my skin... Stopped tryna conform... I was born to be different, so I would be...
I still wasn't popular... But I had my one true com padre And together we were, and still are,
A symphony of doing it our way...
But small towns never change...
Boys wanted to do things in the dark Then lie in the light.. So I chose not to participate... Never asked to social gatherings... Never attended prom... And went to school events alone...
Accepted to a prestigious university.. But my father disallowed me to go... Sent instead to the local HBCU And constantly watched...
Dragged around between classes by my parents' friend. Disallowed from being idle on campus... She took me to her part time gig... And that's when I discovered my calling...
I fell in love with Radio...
Finally... a world where I could be anything... Without being judged by the color of my skin. Just me, the mic, and the music...
And I learned to use my voice.... got listeners to see what I decided for them... So that when I escaped to Norfolk, VA in the spring of 1992... I was ready to don the persona That I carry today...
Lipps was born...
And she had full control...
Even as Lisa was still making wrong choices...
By then, I'd survived rape, domestic abuse, abandonment, alcoholism, and drugs...
Just trying to find a way to cope with living in this skin...
And I fought my battles silently and thrived in spite of it all...
Even as my father fought to control my God given right
To live free...
To him, I was property...
Anything I chose that wasn't his idea was a reason for ridicule...
But I slipped from the bonds whenever I could to fulfill my desire to live...
And still, my skin was my paradox...
White men thought it safe to have me because most couldn't tell what I was...
Black men wanted this REDBONE... a term that I despise to this day... And the further into the world I ventured
The more I was confused for every mulatto tone...
People spoke Spanish to me... or thought I was of some European decent... and that question...
What are you?" head cocked to one side...
Still disgusts me.
And even now... I am still a question mark...
Because I choose never to pass as anything but human... Even as my heart is steeped in the black community...
And I love those who love me... And side eye those who ridicule me...
I follow one rule... Seek to satisfy my true soul... It knows what's best...
send me some sanity. strengthen my mind i've taken a lot of kicks in my behind i don't want to talk no more cause there is no cure for what i've got the temperature's hot clouds the perception sending the wrong directions same old procrastination trick that's supposed to make us tick a non-sense of well being supposedly knowing the happenings what good is the use when the truth is abused program my mentality reshape my personality adding to the crimes of those on hard times disturbing the philosophy of those with quiet sanity all this because of me I am blind help me see living in this fake life hoping to be a good wife you wouldn’t understand it's far beyond normal man
Preface
(by Nelly Vee)
These words are pieces of me — not just the man I am now, but the boy I once was and the man I’m still becoming. I was born from deep Black roots, carrying the strength of ancestors who knew how to endure and overcome. Then Mama married a man whose love brought the rhythm and warmth of Hispanic culture into our home, and my world expanded. My brother and sister carry both lineages in their blood. I carry them in my heart. Our table became a place where cornbread sat beside arroz con pollo, where gospel and salsa shared the same beat. This life shaped me — blended, braided, and unbreakable. For every man, woman, or child who has ever felt caught between worlds or questioned where you belong — you do. You are enough in every part of yourself. And if you’ve ever stood in that dark place wondering if you can keep going, I pray my words remind you: stay. Your story isn’t done yet, and it’s worth living.
Dear Younger Me
Stop counting the cracks in the ceiling like they’re keeping score on your life. You will survive these nights — even the ones that feel endless. I promise. You were born from Black roots strong enough to outlast centuries, then Mama married a man whose voice carried the warmth of another land. Suddenly, our world smelled like sofrito and cornbread, gospel ran into salsa, and laughter came in two languages. Your brother and sister are proof that heritage doesn’t compete it blends. It braids. It multiplies. One day, you will tell someone who feels out of place, “You belong in every part of yourself.” And you’ll mean it because you’ve lived it. Forgive yourself for not knowing how strong you already were. Stay, mi amor. Our story is just beginning.
Bridges
I am the bridge between us. Younger me learning to braid two cultures into one truth. Older me — knowing our power comes from never unbraiding them. Our Black heritage gave us roots deep enough to hold storms. Mama’s love for a Hispanic man grew branches reaching into new skies. In our home, Spanish prayers rested beside Sunday church hymns, and collards found their way onto plates next to arroz con pollo without apology. My brother and sister carry both legacies in their faces. I carry both in my voice. Younger me, you are not half of anything. Older me, you are more than enough of everything. We are here. We are building. We are living.
Dear Older Me
Are we still dancing? Not just at weddings, but barefoot in the kitchen, where the smell of adobo and cornbread mix in the air, where salsa meets gospel in the same breath. Do we still remember how Mama’s love for him stitched our worlds together? How my brother and sister became walking bridges between Black and Hispanic, and how I learned to carry both in my heart? Tell me we never forgot to claim our whole selves. Tell me we kept telling our story — not “either/or,” but “both/and.” Tell me we still wake up grateful for the breath in our chest. And if you smile reading this, I’ll know we made it.
Whole
I come from deep Black roots, strong enough to weather storms, rich enough to carry generations. Then Mama fell in love with a man whose voice carried the rhythm of Spanish streets, and our world grew wider. We passed cornbread and arroz con pollo at the same table, moved from gospel to salsa without missing a step. My brother and sister wear both legacies in their skin. I carry them in my heart. When the darkness whispered I didn’t belong, I remembered — I am both. I am all. I am the bridge that proves love makes us whole. And that is reason enough to stay.
