Life’ so different on this side

Yoo, I never know where to start

Should I start from the projects?


8 year old me being cat called by a man 10x my age

Beige khakis

Still got bobos and barettes

Hips wider than this grown woman to my left

Gun put to my head for a bagbook

I hope he regrets

For the man only to find a coloring book, crayons, and some loose barrettes

That we waited so long in the line to get

Fast forward 5 months later

The entire building is being shut down

Only to find out that 10 years later

I would attend the University who brought that property

Just so they could have more property to make a parking lot

But there’s no parking lot

Just a bunch of of white people tired of hearing gunshots

Well I am too

I didn’t know what they thought would happen

After putting a whole brunch of starving individuals in a parking lot

Such a small space, with a whole lot of profit

But I thank you, I guess

You taught me that the giver, always has the right to take back.

They just didn’t want no ghetto ass black people

Fucking up their checks

Or let’s start with my role model’ death

14 years of being by my side

37 years of fighting

When mommy died

Shit went left

Everyday I wish you never died

Daddy lied and that wasn’t his first time

I didn’t know why, I thought he would ever change

He’s probably reading this poem with so much shame

But I love you and there’s nothing you can do about it

But my hurt hasn’t left this body

And my tears are so far away from drying

I need a couple more years of growth and hope

And praying

Please just give me some time

Ghetto fabulous is trying to elevate into a glorious queen

Ouu or the time where my own cousin sexuality…

Ouu or when my family walked out me

Or when my aunt volunteer to house sit by breaking in

Only to turn my house to a crack house

Piggy bank gone

Clothes gone

Life so far gone

Older sister sacrificed her own youth

Like Abraham sacrificed Isaac as a burnt offering

God knew she feared him

We had to start all over

But we knew that God would let us lean on him

By Tymeera Freeman


My dreams matter

Then sometimes they don’t

Blown by the clone.

Living a double life

I hope my afterlife is as exciting my current life

100 people 2 bedroom and a sun porch

I don’t know how my grandmother did it

Long nights up

Worn out knees

Dried up tears

I could only imagine

Broken like a crayon

Yet we still color

No lights

So is

No heat so we use the stove top

Praying to god that it would stop

No food so we use…


Cousin calls chinese store

No money

Wait any hour

Comes back in with blood in right hand

Food in the left

No we don’t

Yes we do

No, I’m not sure

I’m not sure what to say because

What goes on in this house stays in this house

Lies in this house

Hurts in this house

Fights in this house

But we still get up

And go to school

Like nothing happen

Acting as if..nothing happened

When I am the house

The house is within

This house has changed my life

And has set me apart from all the others in this life

I’ve been raised and bred differently

So differently that people assume that I’m royalty, greatness, and queenly

All before I can begin to utter a word

My words have been good to me, but bad to them

Sometimes I regret what I’ve said

And sometimes I hold on to it so tightly that the words sink into my body

Sit in my mind

But my body can not handle such toxic

So, it throws it up and spits it out

Like a white person bad soul food

I guess my spirit isn’t made that way

It wasn’t raised that way

I’ve learned to love all my struggles and I regret not one

But some still linger in the back of my mind

Because my struggles created me

Struggle says to “She”

YOU don’t look that bad after all.

By Tymeera Freeman

First blog post: This Poem is like Me.


This poem is like me being at Rutgers in a building full of light.
And my family sitting at home, with no fucking lights.
No heat.
Nothing eat.
No cable, just fat back box tv.
Mama was working hard in them streets, I thank you for all those long nights you put on feet.
She was just trying get us something to eat.
It’s dark, lonely, and gloomy.
Nigga just trying make it out.
Nigga just tryna find the bread to turn on the lights. Feed the babies.
Get some pampers.
Take the kids out.
Nigga’s just tryna make it out.
I’m just trying make it out.
Taneeka I’m sorry.
This is all apart of the plan.
I’m just trying make it out.
I’m doing this for you.
Family struggles, school struggles, love struggles, heart struggles.
I’ve figure it out.
I’m a Robot. No human is able to do this.
I’m a Robot. No human is able to do this.
Deal with this much pain, heartache, and joy all at the same time.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like riding a Uber home from just s*****g with my best friend.
This poem is like the day I brought my pink coat.
This poem is like the day I found out mommy died.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like me feeling alone in a room full of people.
This poem is like me walking in Usquare.
This poem is my hurt right here.
This poem is like my silent tears.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like my hurt that you’ve have turned into a joke and turned into your own little lies, you witched girl.
This poem is like me loving me you still.
This poem is like me.
This poem is me.
This poem is like my skin.
The skin that i’ve just learned to love after years of self hatred.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like my hair, it’s tough, rough, and hard to break.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like me struggling to write a paper at 1:22am.
This poem is like my strength.
This poem is like the urban utopia society I hope for.
This poem is like me.
This poem is like late night talks, and great vibes.
This poem is my identity.
This poem is the identity I can barely define, but I know this it’s all me.
This poem is like the sun.
Pretty to look at, but to hot to touch.
This poem is like my faith.
This poem is like me not having enough words left to say.
This poem is like me.

By-Tymeera Freeman