Adena M'lynn's Voice

There’s a sacredness in truly seeing someone—their pain, their grace, their becoming. This piece is for the moments when “I see you” means “I see the God in you.” I’ve spent most of my life asking God to send me someone who could  see  me—not fix me, not save me, just see me. Maybe that’s why this poem found me first. He has sent three people who said, “I see you.” I believe they did. I am here, not invisible.  “When I See You” by Adena M’lynn Spoken word When I say,  “I see you,” I don’t mean it like eyesight— I mean it like soul-sight . Like— I see the ache behind your smile , the prayers you never wrote down, the storms you outlasted quietly. I see the fingerprints of God still wet on your becoming. When I say,  “I see you,” I mean I’ve stopped long enough to notice the divine thumbprint in the dirt and the tears. Love can be loud— a word we throw like confetti. But seeing? Seeing is worship. Because when I say,  “I see you,” I’m saying, “I see the God i...

It starts with the curve— a crescent umoon painted across a tired face. The kind of light that doesn’t come from stars, but from habit. People say, “what a beautiful smile .” They don’t see the scaffolding beneath it —  how heavy steel can bend when the soul’s foundation is cracked. It’s a mask , but not for deceit. It’s survival. A small, trembling flag in the middle of a storm . The teeth shine but the tongue hides— words swallowed, tears disguised as laughter . Sometimes the corners ache, like old wounds stitched too tight. But I keep wearing it. Because if I take it off, someone might see the hollow. And hollows are hard to explain when the world prefers a smile.

Listen here.  YouTube  Life is a Bible. Outside, leather-bound, creased like valleys carved by time, worn smooth by hands that needed answers long before they had words for their questions. On the front— Holy Bible. Not just a title. Not just gold letters. But a cry. A longing. Stamped deep enough to last a lifetime. A reminder that somewhere in these pages— there’s my directions home. I flip to the table of contents, and wonder if my life has one. Would it list beginnings… betrayals… wars fought in silence? Would joy be a Psalm— short, melodic, gone too soon? Would warning be a prophet’s voice— fire spilling from his mouth? There’s a space for my name— scribbled in childhood handwriting, crooked, innocent, a little girl wanting to believe, she belonged in the story. And there’s a tree. Roots in Eden. Branches heavy with apples and nuts— fruit sweet enough to nourish, shells hard enough to break me. Wisdom and foolishness, growing side by side. I learned young— one bite can bo...