The honking is the horns, the cars engines, and blinking lights are what rescue my heart. I am City named by grandmother because she said I reminded her of her favorite place in the world. I came out loud, that I was feisty and full of fire. It’s why I love the city of New York.
I sat next to my daughter today on a park bench. Funny how I see her today is how I left her crying. The song from Emile Sande blared from her headphones called Clown. She held a picture of me and the man who married another instead of her. I hung my head because her sorrows penetrated my heart. Her tears were a reminder of the fact that I broke her heart first. That I abandon her for the next one. I broke her instead of molding her into a confident child, teen, and woman. It was my responsibility to set the tone. I didn’t wipe away her tears that day she begged me to stay. In fact, I told my little girl to woman up. I told her I couldn’t love her because she resembled her mother. I taught her she wasn’t worthy of love and an explanation. I would later discover that she believes she should accept it because from the gate I showed her she didn’t qualify. I am the blueprint of her pain no matter that she is an adult. I created the beginning of her chapter. I take full ownership of damaging my daughter before making her whole.
Sitting on the sidelines listening to your side chick describe your lovin and even the mole on your left ass cheek. Sitting in my white dress , and curved with the signing of the truth by the pretty broad named Ruth. Mama shaking her head, Sista friends singing, “I told you that nugga ain’t shit and he wasn’t it.” Tears of embarrassment and internally heart breaking conflicted and contemplating whether she was dissipating our love thing. Mama yelled, “you can’t live a lie when the truth is in your face.” Ruth smirked and I grab the bottle took a sip, taught about busting her head to the white meat. Instead I thanked her for the lesson in the blessing in this lesson of never to listen to lies to get the ring on the finger and the title Mrs. Love erased, a bond broken, and now I’m on this road of finding me. A truth saved me from making the biggest mistake. #poetryislife #compositeart #graphicdesign #artistherapyforthesoul #tamyaradesigns #tamluvstowrite #BlackCreator #artworkoftheday🎨
When I was a little girl, my mother said to my sisters and me, “I should have gotten pregnant by a white or Hispanic man. I cursed you girls with my dark skin, nappy hair and a society that will forever call you ugly. Justice, Jewel & Janice you will have to be more, do more, and go the extra mile to be loved, liked, and accepted. You better deal with the reality now as a child, because it will crush you as an adult. You will always be the butt of the joke, the problem, and most of all going against every woman lighter than a brown paper bag, of a unique race, straight hair & pretty eyes. Remember this the black woman with nappy hair, a broad nose, thick lips, and looks like us will always have the title ugly. You will be stereotyped no matter what. Life is a bitch and believe me you will come across them ready to dog you because of your complexion and race.”- Mama
I counted the purple pills in the aluminum fall, let out some tears, resign from my position, and completed all of my client's work. I stared in the mirror, the voices of Mama echoed, she so black jokes rang in my ears from the cruel kids, all the rejection from the men I love, the job opportunities that I qualified for, but didn’t have the right look poured like the rain outside. Beauty was never a part of anyone’s category for me. I hate that in a room full of pretty women they get called by their name and when they walk up to you they call you beautiful. Ugly girls like us know it is a sign of pity and not their genuine thoughts of you.
A True Bad Ass!
Vintage Artwork Tutorial recreated by Tamyara Brown for Tamyara Designs
Digital Drawing by Tamyara Brown for Tamyara Designs
Drawing By Tamyara Brown for Tamyara Designs
Photo Composit tutorial recreated by Tamyara Brown Taught by Tutvid