A protester blows marijuana smoke against the face of a police officer during a march to mark the 1968 Tlatelolco plaza massacre in Mexico City
It’s my daughter, she’s my biggest muse.
There’s someone, we all find out soon,
more important than ourselves to lose.
I feel a deep bond with young children –
all those photos in my dressing room –
especially those who’ve been stricken,
Children I’ve met across the years –
they uplift me like pieces of moon,
and guide me, whispering in my ear
I’m turned to spirits, the emotions of others.
And I feel her presence all the time
though I never met my grandmother.
I learned at a very young age,
when I need to tap some extra strength,
to put my persona, Sasha, on stage.
Though we’re different as blue and red,
I’m not afraid to draw from her
in performance, rifts, even in bed.
I saw a TV preacher when I was scared,
at four or five, about bad dreams,
who promised he’d say a prayer
If I put my hand to the TV.
That’s the first time I remember prayer,
an electric current humming through me.
You call me a singer, but I’m called to transform,
to suck up the grief, anxiety, and loss
of those who hear me into my song’s form.
I’m a vessel for all that isn’t right,
for break-ups and lies and double-cross.
I sing into that vessel a healing light.
To let go of pain that people can’t bear.
I don’t do that myself, I call in the light.
I summon God to take me there.
Utopias, they don’t much interest me.
I always mess things up a bit.
It’s chaos, in part, that helps us see.
But for my daughter I dream a day
when no one roots for others to fail,
when we all mean what we say.
Breaking news: White fuckboys on twitter bitching how funny it is that Beyoncé is a feminist when she and her dancers were provocative and half naked. Despite feminism being about empowerment and a woman’s right to do whatever the hell she pleases with it, they just don’t seem to be able to grasp this concept.
In other news, men still don’t know what feminism is, still bitter that they aren’t Beyoncé and still making themselves look like asses on the internet.
And now the weather.
I will allow space for all the feelings my heart holds. I will not cower or hide from myself. It’s okay to feel the ugly messy things. It’s okay to feel the burning brilliance of beauty. It’s okay to feel the soft winds of happiness and the quiet bursts of loneliness. Its okay to feel it all. It’s okay to be myself, all of myself, not just the good.