A new poem every 1st Sunday at 7PM ET
You were told to be strong about it.
So here's a voice in a dark room, saying the thing out loud first. No face. No performance. Just the part you haven't told anybody.
- —Days
- —Hours
- —Minutes
Three things worth knowing.
Read the headlines in ten seconds. Open one if you want the rest.
The second you see a face, you start deciding whether the poem is meant for someone like you — the right age, the right story, the right kind of hurt.
Without one, it's a voice in a dark room, and it belongs to whoever it finds. A lot of the people it finds are men who were never handed language for any of this.
A new poem premieres the first Sunday of every month at 7PM Eastern, as a series called Echoes of Healing. One. Not a feed to keep up with.
Between those, there's a meditation on Wednesdays and something short and good on Fridays. That's the whole rhythm, and it doesn't change.
Comment your wound. Somebody always answers, and it's almost never me first. That's the part I'm proudest of.
Nothing here asks you to perform being okay. Nothing asks you to perform being broken either.
What lands, and when.
Everything plays on YouTube and across the socials. Nothing to keep up with.
Soulful Sunday
The month's poem, in full. The one everything else is built around.
Community Sunday
Your lines, read back. A journaling circle, an encore, or a meditation premiere.
Moore Meditation
About five minutes. Somewhere to put the week down.
Feel-Good Friday
A short verse or a mantra card. Something to carry into the weekend.
Every poem comes with a page that's yours.
In the books it's a blank page after each poem. Here it's a real one. Answer what you want, leave what you don't.
COMMENT
YOUR WOUND.
WE HEAL IN
THE REPLIES.
Some of it never gets posted.
A quiet list. Five sends a year, on the 15th.
- A lock screen, made from the line that stayed with me longest. Sized for your phone.
- A mantra card from that month's poem, in the month's art style.
- A meditation, about five minutes, for whatever the month was.
- A note when the poem lands, so you don't have to remember to check.
- Everything first, before it's anywhere else.
No drip, no sequence trying to sell you something, no resending the same email with a new subject line. Leave whenever you want and I won't email you about leaving.
Come in.
Your first lock screen arrives with the welcome. See what they look like →
A voice in a dark room.
Moor3 Poetry is spoken word about healing, inherited weight, Black love, and what it costs to be the first person in a family who puts something down instead of passing it on. It's written and read by Mariah Taylor.
The name plays on the Moors and on more — on ancestry, and on the idea that there's more underneath what you've been shown. The third element is you. The emblem is an open eye beneath a hand raised in peace: see it clearly, and still choose peace.
The house rules. Comment your wound. We heal in the replies. Love, learn and heal as a collective. Be the change.
These poems go to real places, and sometimes a line lands harder than you expected. If that happens, put it down — that's allowed. Poetry is good company but it isn't treatment, and I'd rather you close the tab than push through something that needs a person. In the US you can call or text 988 any hour and someone answers.
Moor3_Poetry