S: Poetry Portfolio of Keilah Young
FC: Poetry Portfolio | Written by Keilah Young
1: Where I'm From | I am from warm seas, from Barbies and red carpets. I am from the homes guided by golden streets. I am from the palm trees; the flowing leaves I am from ocean wading and stern church going, from Young and Boykin and Redd. I am from the spankings and no nonsense discipline. From be respectful no matter what and don’t you dare raise your voice at me! I am from Strong Christianity. Non-denominational teachings and not celebrating most holidays others do. I'm from America and Africa, peach cobbler and barbeque. From the miracle of my little brother’s survival after birth, the many dangerous surgeries, and the surgery for another injury of his that was nearly for naught because of him ripping of the thousand dollar skin days later claiming that it itched I am from the hall closet that holds so many forgotten and precious memories not visited very often due to disagreements
2: Self Respect | Sometimes I dress up, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I do my hair, sometimes I won’t. Depend on my mood; I might even eat healthy food. It really just depends on my music. I’m not (the average) Cail-Gurl physique. And I ain’t tryna be super why. But I learned it’s just me myself and I. Because I am that fly. I’m not the average Cail-Gurl Physique. My worth is not determined by the words about me. No matter what other songs are sung. I’ll always be Keilah Young
3: MyMother's Kitchen | I stir to the whir of our blender The rattle of our coffee grinder The enticing smell of fluffy pancakes Gently nudges me awake The smell of greasy turkey sausage wafts in And I know eating it would practically be a sin But as my stomach growls, I can’t resist and I’m on the prowl Barely being able to see, I feel around and stump my knee Still determined to find food I stretch out my hands and begin to move Now I run into the vibrant plant Nearly stepping on a dead ant I assume they also heard the morning call It seemed they were all up the wall My sister walks in and I turn to see Her eyes, like mine, are still full or crusties I can’t tell what’s cooking in the oven, But whatever it is, it was sent down from heaven Now all of the family has come along In harmony with this sweet song A minute ago we had just been snoring, But now, it’s Sunday morning.
4: This delicate topic is about expressed in letters The stories made with it float like feathers It's used in essays We hear it everywhere day to day It can provoke a mystery Without it, we wouldn't know history Language Arts is a delicate tool One who doesn't know that is nothing but a fool. | Language Arts