#amsteve

Black Woman, Infinite”

You’re the bassline the universe hums,

a rhythm God laid down before drums were carved from trees.

Your skin…solar panels,

soaking up suns whole,

then shining them back as galaxies in your smile.

You walk and the ground remembers…

streets lean in,

sidewalks straighten up like soldiers in formation.

Your voice is velvet thunder,

soft enough to heal,

loud enough to split skies.

You’re not a flower,

you’re the soil that raised jungles.

Not a diamond,

you’re the mountain that hides them.

When you cry, oceans lean closer,

just to imitate the depth.

Every strand of your hair is scripture,

each curl a paragraph

teaching the world about resilience and style.

When you laugh,

it’s jazz…

unpredictable, soulful,

a saxophone riff that makes time tap its own foot.

You are the metaphor and the meaning,

the ink and the pen,

the crown and the kingdom.

And me?

I’m just a witness,

lucky enough to stand in the glow of your eclipse.

She says she felt it

before she ever touched it…

the weight of a presence

that filled the room

without making a sound.

They warned her about depth,

about sharp edges,

about hearts that bruise.

But no one told her

about girth…

that quiet, steady strength

that doesn’t rush,

that doesn’t force,

that simply holds.

He spoke in calm spaces,

left room for her to breathe,

yet somehow

every word wrapped around her

like it knew exactly

where the empty places were.

She tried to name the feeling…

called it comfort,

called it safety,

called it “too much”

when it felt like

everything she never knew

she needed.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t wild.

It didn’t chase.

It stayed.

And in that staying,

in that unwavering presence,

she realized

what truly filled her

was not the promise of fire…

but the strength of something

wide enough

to carry her whole.

She smiles now,

when she says the word.

Girth.

Because some things

don’t have to touch the body

to move the soul.

At the bar,

where neon hums and glasses glow,

I saw her…

brown skin catching the light like warm honey,

soft but powerful,

the kind of beauty that makes the room fade quiet.

Our eyes met first…

not a glance, not a stare…

a connection,

like two spirits checking the vibe,

asking without words,

Is the energy real?

And it was.

The world slowed between sips and smiles,

music drifting like a heartbeat in the background.

Her laugh felt familiar,

like a memory I hadn’t lived yet.

Every word slid easy,

no force, no games…

just two souls tuning to the same frequency.

She spoke, and I leaned in,

not because I had to,

but because I wanted to hear more than her voice

I wanted to hear her story.

She listened the same,

eyes glowing with curiosity,

like she saw me beyond the surface.

Time forgot us.

The bar became a blur of shadows and sound,

and there we stood,

two strangers wrapped in a moment

that felt like destiny testing the waters.

I didn’t know her name at first,

but I knew her energy…

smooth, radiant, real.

The kind that lingers long after last call,

the kind that follows you home in your thoughts.

At the bar,

I didn’t just meet a woman…

I met a feeling

I hope to run into again.

-Stephen R

Soul Sips

She sips her soul through broken glass,

liquid courage, liquid pain.

Each swallow loosens the knots she won’t untie,

each glass makes her louder than her truth.

When the bottle speaks, she listens.

When it listens back, it lies.

Her words spill sharp and certain,

like she’s memorized wisdom but never lived peace.

She argues like her flaws are invisible,

like her past can’t smell itself on her breath.

She poisons rooms without meaning to,

turning warmth into tension,

love into defense.

Her aura changes with the night…

sunset soft to midnight storm.

She lashes out not because she’s cruel,

but because she’s drowning

and learned to kick instead of float.

She says she loves solitude,

wears “I don’t need anyone” like armor.

But her eyes beg to be seen,

her silence screams for hands that stay.

Attention is the hunger she pretends not to feel.

Behind the noise, there’s a sweet woman…

gentle, thoughtful, almost glowing.

She remembers how to love

when the glass is empty

and the room is quiet.

She’s not evil.

She’s lost.

Lonely in a crowd she created,

brave enough to survive,

too tired to heal.

If she ever learns to sip peace instead of poison,

to sit with her pain without drowning it,

she’ll realize the light she’s been chasing

was never outside of her…

it’s been waiting patiently

beneath the surface

all along.

“When a Woman Loves a Man”

She is Sunday morning silence,

folded hands and whispered prayers,

the kind of peace that turns my battles

into bedtime stories.

Her love is language…

not just spoken but sung,

like blues in the backyard

and gospel in the gut.

Every “baby, I got you”

feels like brass horns

blowing against the chaos of the world.

She sees me sweat and call it sacrifice,

not struggle.

When the weight of the world

hangs on my shoulders like wet clothes,

she wrings out my doubts

and hangs hope on the line.

Her respect is armor,

polished with patience,

so when I step out,

I shine like steel under streetlights.

She uplifts me like metaphors lift meaning,

her words wind beneath my wings,

turning broken roads into bridges.

She treasures me like heirlooms,

like jazz vinyls passed down,

spinning my flaws into rare grooves.

And when the world plays judge,

she becomes my jury…

not guilty, she says,

you’re a king in a crooked court.

She is the hush after hip-hop’s hardest bar,

the calm that makes the chaos

worth waging war for.

And me?

I am her soldier,

but with her love…

I am also her sanctuary.

Because when a feminine woman loves,

truly loves a man,

it ain’t a fairy tale…

it’s folklore,

a legend stitched in skin and spirit,

retold every time I hold her hand.

The name is Stephen…ancient, bold,

A story in letters, a crown of gold.

Not jewels that glitter, not thrones of kings,

But honor forged through suffering brings.

First to stand, yet first to fall,

A voice of truth before them all.

He saw the heavens open wide,

Christ at the right hand, glorified.

Stones came raining, sharp and cruel,

Yet love still burned, a steadfast fuel.

“Forgive them, Lord,” he cried in pain,

His loss became eternal gain.

Stephen…crowned, not by the earth,

But through the fire, through rebirth.

A name that whispers courage still,

Strength to suffer, faith to will.

So wear it proudly, carved in flame,

A crown of sacrifice within the name.

For greatness lives where hearts endure,

And Stephen’s crown shines bright, and pure.

-Stephen R.

And Here I Was Thinking I Was Loved

I let you eat at my table,

fed you from the same hands

that worked late nights,

thinking we was building something real.

But nah,

you wasn’t hungry for me…

you was starving for the come up.

You saw a step, not a man.

You saw a plug, not a partner.

You smiled in my face,

whispered “baby I got you”

while plotting your next move,

using my grind as gas for your ride.

Love?

That word ain’t never lived in you.

You just wore it like a mask,

a costume for the hustle.

And I was blind enough to believe it fit.

I ain’t mad no more,

I’m just awake.

I peeped the selfish,

the snake in the garden.

You ain’t break me,

you just taught me what fake look like.

And here I was,

thinking I was loved.

But really?

I was just convenient.

Closed for Business

I hung the sign in silence…bold,

CLOSED FOR BUSINESS, stories told.

No grand goodbye, no last regret,

Just lessons paid and one last debt.

The doors once wide for every face,

Now sealed with steel and guarded grace.

I catered fools, gave time for free,

But none came back to pour in me.

I sold my peace for scraps of praise,

Invested love in hollow days.

But now I count what truly stays…

Just echoes lost in selfish haze.

The ones who dined but never fed,

Who broke my bread then left me bled,

Will find a vacancy sign lit red,

For I serve me and not the dead.

The habits, vices, people too…

Who drained my light when skies were blue…

I’ve cleared the shelves, I’ve swept the floor,

They’ll find no open heart no more.

This ain’t no cold revengeful act,

It’s simply self-respect in tact.

A reclamation of my time,

My peace, my dreams, my prime, my climb.

So let them knock and call me rude,

Or label me as cruel, or shrewd.

But I’ve endured, I’ve paid the cost,

And I know now what must be lost.

This shop’s for healing, not for sale,

No room for guilt, no martyr’s tale.

I’m CEO of soul and mind…

And profits rise when I’m aligned.

CLOSED FOR BUSINESS, not for good,

Just closed to all misunderstood.

If you ain’t growth, if you ain’t true,

Then this establishment ain’t for you.