@Tierrah Nicole

After everything I’ve lived through, I’ve learned that peace isn’t a place, It’s something I protect. It’s the boundary I set, the forgiveness I give without reopening old wounds, the prayer I whisper before reacting, and the decision to keep creating instead of carrying what was meant to break me. My peace is knowing that every morning God gives me another chance to open my eyes, write another poem, love my family, and become a little more of the person He created me to be. That, more than anything, puts my mind at ease.

Where Do Forgotten Prayers Go To Wait To Be Answered? Tanka Forgotten prayers bloom, waiting beneath heaven’s breath, time tends every seed.God answers in hidden hours, not every silence is “no.” Every Dystopia Starts With One Reasonable Decision Tanka One reasonably step, becomes a road without light. Comfort crowns the lie. Freedom fades without a sound, while truth waits outside the gate. Closed Doors Speak Their Own Language Tanka Closed doors never mute; their silence shapes sacred speech. Not yet is a hymn. My locked threshold whispers,“Grow before you enter here.” If The World Ends Slowly, Which Part Of Your Humanity Leaves First? Tanka If the world grows dim, let mercy outlive my fear. Keep wonder alive. May love be the final breath my soul offers to the dawn (C) HaitianNao

Sunny skies with steady winds and a cool, unshaken horizon.

I am redefining what love looks like. Not as a promises spoken louder than action, but as a hive where every heartbeat has a purpose. Love looks like honeybees returning with golden offerings, not because they are commanded, but because devotion has learned the language of giving. It looks like wings working in quiet agreement, each flight saying, “Your well-being is our shared tomorrow.” The queen does not beg for the sweetness of the comb. The hive answers: through labor, through loyalty, through living. Love is nectar gathered from a thousand flowers ,transformed into something that can nourish generations. It’s protection circling what is precious. It’s patience measured in seasons, not seconds. And I have learned that love is never just taking. Even the bees understand that every gift returned to the hive becomes a blessing for every life within it. So I am defining what love looks like. It is care that gathers. Faith that builds. Purpose that pollinates. Loyalty that lingers. A love that leaves every heart a little sweeter than the flower where it first began.

The Inheritance of Unfinished Dreams Before I inherited a name, I inherited a becoming. A newborn wrapped in blankets, already swaddled in blessings and burdens, in lullabies and legends, in promises whispered over a cradle by hands older than memory. I inherited stories that called themselves truth, and fears that disguised themselves as family tradition. Some passed down faith. Some passed down famine. Some passed down fortunes that could not be counted in banks, only in backbone. I inherited strength that never asked permission to survive. I inherited curses that mistook repetition for destiny. I inherited superstitions: salt over shoulders, dreams interpreted before breakfast, ancestors speaking through signs, the moon measuring more than the tide. But I also inherited imagination, the first currency of every generation that dared to dream beyond what it possessed. My ancestors left me unfinished blueprints, their futures folded inside my future. What they could not build, they believed I might. What they could not heal, they hoped I would. What they could not own, they planted as possibility. So I do not measure generational wealth only by deeds, diamonds, or dollars. I measure it by wisdom that outlived wounds, by courage that survived catastrophe, by children born believing tomorrow can be kinder than yesterday. Every newborn is an inheritance of unfinished dreams, arriving with empty hands, yet carrying invisible estates:the strength to continue, the choice to break a curse, the freedom to rewrite a family story, and the audacity to leave behind a future richer than the one received. Perhaps that is the truest inheritance: Not the dream fulfilled, but the dream entrusted; passing from heartbeat to heartbeat, from generation to generation, until someone finally says, “It ends with me, and it begins with us.”