The Rose That Grew From Concrete: Celebrating My Self-Empowerment Journey Through Modern Poetry and Self-Discovery
Frida R.The Rose That Grew From Concrete: Celebrating My Self-Empowerment Journey Through Modern Poetry and Self-Discovery
I’ve learned to be at peace with celebrating the skills that come naturally to me. For a long time, I thought that the talents that came to me with ease were worthless. Long before my self-empowerment journey began, my thought process went something like this: “If I can do it, anyone can. And if I know something, the rest of the world knows it too.”
I was hellbent on owning a lie: I was nothing special and my stories didn’t matter.
But still, I wrote…
All my life I’ve been a writer. Writing is the vice I used to cope with abuse as a child. Filling the pages of my diaries gave me a one-way ticket to any place I wanted to go. I got to choose the life I wanted to live and who I wanted to be, riding the waves of my wild imagination.
As an adult, that magic of putting pen to paper has yet to escape me. In fact, it’s become stronger. I believe in it so deeply that I created a journal brand to teach others how to tap into their own portals of infinite liberation by filling blank pages to awaken a deeply empowering and healing self-discovery experience.
No matter how heartbroken I’ve been, I’ve always found kinship on the page. It’s a bond worth celebrating, a love that’ll survive the test of time, the energy that keeps my body alive.
Last month marked the seventh anniversary since I released my first modern poetry collection, full of short stories about self-empowerment and self-discovery that just happen to rhyme, Blossom’s Wine Bar. I’m celebrating this accomplishment and this life by sharing a few of my favorite pieces from the book.
Modern Poetry Meets Dramatic Storytelling and Self-Discovery: About Blossom’s Wine Bar
Blossom’s Wine Bar was the first book I ever released—and honestly, it still feels wild to say that out loud. It’s raw, bold, messy, tender, and full of heart…I poured everything I had into those pages—my grief, my rage, my hope, my healing. I didn’t write it to be polished or perfect. I wrote it because I needed to survive.
This collection of modern poetry goes deep into my experiences with depression, self-love, understanding womanhood, and everything in between. Some pieces are soft and reflective, others are sharp and a hella chaotic. But all of them came from my heart. Every word came from a version of me who was doing the best she could with what she had.
I didn't realize that I was on a self-discovery journey when I was writing, hell I didn't know anything about self-empowerment or any of the things I talk about now at the time!
But hey, if you’ve ever loved hard, lost yourself, gotten back up, or questioned why you're even on this planet—you might find something in this book that makes you feel a little less alone.
To be clear, this is not a self-help book and there are no journal prompts as you’d expect from Journaling is Self-Care LLC, but it is a real and unfiltered reflection of the woman I was becoming. I’m proud of her. I hope you feel her heart in every line.
A Sneak Peek into Blossom’s Wine Bar
Ready to read a bit from Blossom's Wine Bar?
Believe it or not, I'm not a poetry fan. There are only a few poems that I can say I enjoy or even understand. Ironic, I know. I was always inspired by hip-hop though. I actually wrote to it a lot when I locked myself in my room as a kid. That may have been my first bite of self-discovery, but hip-hop helped me find my voice.
With that said, I wrote this first poem after falling in love with the poem, The Rose That Grew from Concrete by Tupac Shakur. I saw myself as the rose he wrote about and created my own story, based on the life I was living at that time as a result.
In my story, the rose symbolizes rap music and the push it gave me to pick up a pen in the first place. It’s also a dedication to myself and finding my value within that rose as a young girl.
Fun fact: Tupac’s poem is the reason I chose to use Rose as my last name.
The Rose
Crooked and bent,
the petals looked heavily dusted
and kind of crusted.
The thorns are the sharpest.
The sharpest I’d seen, so, I touched it
and realized I was heartless
cause I didn’t bleed.
I loved it.
I bent over and touched it again.
I wanted to pick it up.
I spent five minutes
debating in my head.
It was a rose that grew in concrete
on the sidewalk of a tiring city street,
but nobody noticed.
I was on my way to the liquor store.
I was ready to get a bottle of Jameson to drown my hard day.
I guess that’s what the world made of me. I had zero faith.
I picked up the rose and took it home with me.
I took care of it and truly nourished it.
I even revived a bit of its beauty.
It inspired me.
I wrote pages and pages of poetry.
I wouldn’t go out and I didn’t engage in other activities
because of what I had at home waiting for me.
It was a miracle, a life of glory.
It told a great story until I noticed it was starting to wither away.
Slowly.
I found faith. I prayed every day.
But I don’t think God heard me.
The rose that grew from concrete, crooked, mean, and dirty died on me.
I cried for days and I showed up to work late until I stopped going.
I had a dream about a man who told me to keep my head up and smile.
So I did, but I faked it. I think he knew it.
He handed me something like a seed.
It was motivation and he promised that I could start
a garden on the concrete through poetry.
I planted the seeds.
Now, I’m waiting to watch the growth of my family.
This is for you, Pac rest peacefully.
And I will send you my roses.
This second piece, Another Woman shows you exactly how much fun I have writing what I call stoetry—poetry that reads like fiction, creating short stories that rhyme. I'm not even going to say what it's about because I don't think I can write a good "teaser" without giving away all of the juicy bits! There are some fun plot twists, so just enjoy the ride!
Another Woman
I watched him roll a joint in the kitchen
as I sat anxiously thinking about another woman.
I pondered whether my poker face was working
while I thought about a life in prison.
How did this asshole take my heart and undo years of planning?
We were to have a destination wedding and a lifetime of kisses and candy.
I wished I could hate her, but I knew better.
She too was a victim, a woman taken for granted.
Two days after she gave birth, he told her he had wished she miscarried.
I’m not sure how I stayed calm while her tear-filled eyes stared at me.
I never asked how she found me, I just listened to her story.
She was in deep with him too, but I was with him the longest.
He was mine to kill.
While I watched him light the joint, I thought about breaking his spine.
He passed it and asked why I had been so quiet.
As soon as I exhaled the smoke and I passed the weed back,
I said I had felt sick to my stomach.
The lie went like this:
“I think I had bad sushi at lunch, babe. Don’t worry about me.
Plus, there’s a new boss at my job and I don’t think he likes me.”
He apologized for my tough day and promised to make it up to me.
And I passed the joint back to him with a fake smile on my face.
I watched him hold the joint, stained with my merlot-colored lipstick to his lips
and silently vowed it would be the closest he’d get to my sweet kisses again.
Would anyone believe he’d taken his own life?
Should I try to make this look like a suicide?
Can the knife in my jacket pocket be turned around on me?
Is there anything else I might be forgetting?
He passed the joint.
He stared into my eyes with a frown.
Staring back at him, I took a deep breath.
My palms began to sweat.
Can he hear my thoughts?
Does he miss his baby?
What did I do wrong?
Why couldn’t he just stay with me?
I don't recall giving it back to him, but he passed the weed back to me.
I guess I was too caught up in my own thoughts to see.
Will I miss him if I make him a distant memory, a love buried?
We’re not gonna work through this, he fucking disrespected me!
Still, the heart wants what it wants and he always made mine beat.
I felt half-crazy like I couldn't get high and decided I needed the night to plan.
Maybe take some time to cry. I stood up to leave and he told me his favorite lie.
He said, “I love you.”
I didn't make eye contact, I quickly walked toward the door.
As if he could read my mind, he fessed up about the baby.
I completely froze. My legs couldn't move anymore.
I wasn’t breathing by the time he told me it was a mistake
and that the affair grew out of control quicker than he could estimate.
Feeling false safety in my silence, he approached me from behind.
As if he thought I still belonged to him, he wrapped his arms around my body.
Then lowered his head so that we were cheek to cheek.
He apologized over and over.
His tears ran down my face and befriended my regrets.
I chose to leave the affection at that.
He caught me off guard, but I’m not gonna fall for this shit. He won’t get to hurt me again.
I turned to face him.
I wanted to see his expression as he died.
But he was too swift and pulled me close again
before I could draw my weapon.
The warmth of his embrace
complimented the warmth of the blood
I felt draining from my stomach.
He stepped back and smiled.
I looked down and saw the incision. My hands covered it as if I could undo what he did.
Disbelief filled me just as his blade had.
How’d he know how I’d react?
How’d he–
And as I fell to the floor,
I knew I’d spend my final moments
with my mind fixated once again on another woman.
Blossom's Wine Bar is a journey through the first half of my twenties. I published it at 27. And the truth is, I can't honestly discuss my twenties without going into how I depended on alcohol as a source of numbing and self-empowerment throughout that decade.
Throughout my twenties, I lived alone and maintained “good jobs” and a clean, pretty appearance. Everyone knew I had my fair share of fun, but not that I was dependent on alcohol because I was so high-functioning. I frequently chased whiskey with red wine. This poem is about red wine and uses a romantic relationship as a metaphor to describe the addiction.
The Devil’s Lips
He was my first kiss with tongue
back when I was young and dumb.
I needed security and he put me in a room,
turned the lights off, and nursed my wounds.
He made me feel strong enough to tell my secrets.
He told me I was valuable, he gave me meaning.
When he kissed my lips, he left purple stains.
He made me so happy that I became dizzy and forgot my name.
When I would suffer, he was the only one I’d call.
When I had a celebration, he was the first one I’d invite.
When my heart was broken, he stayed up all night with me.
We would talk and reflect while he kissed away my misery.
The next morning, my lips were purple.
I woke up beside a note that read: “I won’t hurt you.”
I knew it was a lie because I was already hungover.
We repeated this ritual for a few years, every other night.
He would bring a friend to join in and rock me to sleep sometimes.
I let them hold me and made them promise to never let go,
but I let go before I could exhale...
My heart wasn’t meant to love, and love ain’t meant to be for sale. So, I sailed.
We kissed on and off, caught between being lovers and enemies.
My purple lips and anger were side effects of the love he made to me.
We separated for some time and I missed him less and less,
but I never truly let go of him cause he made me my best.
So tonight, I pulled out my favorite glass
and kissed him in a way I knew would last.
I thought I could control myself, but I obviously can’t
I’m going to bed naked and fucked up again…
Cheers.
Thank you for joining me on this celebration of self-discovery, empowerment, and art! It always trips me up when I re-read these old pieces. I can typically visualize exactly where I was and what I was growing through.
Although the messages in this modern poetry collection doesn’t always fit into the self-care and healing work that I’ve spent the past four years building my brand on, I think it’s important not to ignore what my life looked like when I was still struggling with depression, numbing myself with alcohol, and truly doing my best according to how I knew to cope at that time.
With that said, there are some incredible gems for self-empowerment sprinkled throughout this book that will make anyone who knows me now think “Oooh, that’s where she started. This makes sense now!”
Reading through the collection when I released an anniversary edition (click the link to purchase) last year, I personally had 100 full-circle moments like that myself and that was really cool. It reminds me of one of my favorite quotes by Maya Angelou, "We delight in the beauty of the butterfly but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty." which fully resonates here.