Tamila ‘TS’ ‘GodShy’ Walker: Poets Corner


Frustrated Prep

Dew on the blades

And I have to thank God

Otherwise they’ll mark me a traditionalist

Hellbent on simplicity

A fragile thing

More often destroyed

Than seen

A something you thought

You saw out the corner of your eye

Winked over at

Like a prowler

Who missed their chance to bewilder some thot

I still have to thank God

There are signs

And there are signals

There’s everyday people

Then there are those who are negro

Nothing in between

Of what to look for

Or when to act

Only a deck of cards is more predictable

Wild and more stable

Like my mother

A queen a spade and a jack

All in one hand

She left me her anger

As a prize

An accomplishment

That screamed yes

I brought another black body into this world

So she beat me

Out of frustrated prep

Getting my bag ready

Showing me the way

There’s still dew on the blades


To the world

I hate you

Only like a mother could

It all makes sense now

Like the womb does

Artist Statement:

I’m not just an artist and poet. I am a historian through my eyes, I am a storyteller through my abilities, a speaker of written tongue burdened with truth that harks at the blindness of a society that refuses to look deeper into its own superficial alignments.
Moor-Conscious Surrealism is a sub-genre of poetry that I have dubbed and invoke through my works, meant to criticize the personal, political, socio-economic conditions many people of color face today, with the hopes that the use of strong imagery, personal truth, and cosmic influence, the negative harmful systemic attempts to destroy and displace the history and identities of people of color, will be revealed and thus rejected.


July 1988 Kaiser Hospital, Oakland CA, my mother struggled to deliver me, it took two days for me to get the message it was time to be born. I guess I knew what awaited me. It wasn’t until I was 10 years old, I finally found a way to describe the sense of escapism I’d longed for since my birthday. A teacher at summer school handed me a bag of tiny words, and with the smile she had on her face, she knew something profound was about to occur. I poured that bag out on my desk and blocked together my first poem, that described black berries that transformed into black birds who burst out a black berry pie, to avoid being eaten. By the time I was 14, I had a reputation, with the pen, and with the streets of Oakland, giving me a fire deep in my belly, which lead me to make hotheaded decisions, like dropping out of high school in 11th grade just to sell weed, drink and party. That fire burned huge, and unforgiving, and in the midst, I lost my writing, and almost lost it all. I wanted better, so I sought to get my GED, and got it; sought to heal my behavior, and did it; but most of all, I desperately sought out to regain my words, my writings, and through years of guidance and restructuring, I did that too. I was 17 when I got back my words, and I haven’t stopped writing them since.

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Categories:  MoAD Lit