Black Queen

She does not sit on a throne

But that doesn’t mean she isn’t deserving of one


She does not wear a crown, but her head of hair

is as beautiful as gold and as soft as silk

It curls and spirals down her built shoulders


The robe she wears is made of strength

and flows down on her children’s dreams

She wears it with pride and a mother’s glee


She is a queen


Brown eyes that see all

She knows when her children lie and hide

their secrets from her


She is beautiful


With her dark skin and deep voice

that commands attention but does not demand

for someone else’s acceptance—she is her own woman


She is tired


Ten kids and a working husband

College and endless graduations on her hands

Her rough, hardworking—mother hands.


She is a tired black Queen


Whose royalty is derived from the

laughter of her kids and the call of her name




The stress wears at her heart

The endless hours and lack of sleep

But she has a smile on her lips

as she teaches her kids about life


She is my mother

and she is my queen

I live my life looking up to her

Loving her and thanking her


My tired black Queen.


This poem is about: 
My family


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741