mahogany eyes

poems. one of my closest friends and i have been chatting about how its hard for us to compliment ourselves. self love can seem vain, tiresome even, and i’ve come to the realization that there is a fine line between the pride that goes with feeding disobedience to the Father versus loving yourself as the being He created just to save.

the following is a poem i wrote in attempt to flatter myself in the least bit as well as confront another pressing issue- my status when it comes to dating relationships and marriage. it’s a hard knock life for those who are single, and it’s a tough pill to swallow to simply reply, with that half hearted smile, “oh, but all in God’s timing.” Reader, they’re the truest words, but sometimes we can say them as the biggest lie.

briefly on mahogany eyes: it’s a color I’ve dubbed my own in attempts to shift away from my adolescent hatred of my deep brown eyes. the most common color, it seems foolish to shame them as if they’re some rare monstrous feature. normal people would dub them chocolate, but i hate the stuff, so i decided on the wood instead. a reddish brown, in all of my written works, the character i bestow with mahogany eyes is often the one i see as myself.

mahogany eyes


When you’re lost and longing for me

Look for the one with the mahogany eyes.


With irises so deep

They seem to be a hundred tree rings wide

Around solid black holes

That observe only those most tender parts

Of your smile, your face, your one crooked tooth

Your wayward spine dancing in the moon

They trace every piece

Of your gentle, kind flesh

And you’d think that they’d seen

A million years and leaves and means go by


But despite those few tender years

A body not yet ravaged by age

They might coax you not to be afraid

When they lock on yours

Whatever color they may be

Remind yourself you can always be free.


Mahogany eyes she thinks have been

Touched by the Father

With creative vision like only He’d know

You’ve seen that same glimpse

In your crystal clear young corneas

Of dreams both waking and sleep

In which you could seize the whole globe

In your still child soft hands

And the world is simply for your taking.


When you peer into those red-brown irises

The color of the neighbor’s honey only in that one ripe week of fall

When the sun so delicately illuminates

Do you see a million more worlds?

All ready for you to enter them

Or to invent upon scratching, screeching pen

Do you see adventure? Or maybe a sweet tiny spin-


She’s the springtime nymph of the forest,

The sprite that only some have known.

There’s flowers in that mane

And yet, no one can tame-


Far from perfect, you’d love her still

Even if she’s sometimes ill

With defeat, regret

A temper hot as forest fires under the sun

You’d fight, raise your tone, and somehow try to find-


Those still gleaming eyes of mahogany prize

Tears, both sour and sweet

Redden that pure whiteness cradling the deep.


She might stay if you ask her

Like a mighty great oak

But perhaps she’s a seed

With just barely laid roots

She’s fleeting, like the wind,

And you don’t want her to bend-

But remember, my friend


Beauty is fleeting

Yet some things never change


See not that they’re slain

See those trunks remaining still?


When you’re lost in those woods

Thinking only of me

Remember those great big mahogany trees.

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