Thursday, August 6, 2015

In Honor of Ntozake Shange & Sandra Bland


august 6th, 2015/2pm
dear god/
i sit here in despair as the glare of death has its nose smashed against my window.
it looks at me with some kind of evil as if i did something to ignite this war.
i am sore to the core because genocide left her blood at my door
and my feet are frozen in time...
if i had a dime for every crime committed against a person of color
or for every time senseless death was the face of a brotha
i'd be rich...
or for every chic you call "bitch" though she's somebody's motha
...or sister...
the disrespect is a blister that wont heal and i'm deeply wounded/
i mean, everybody's walking round sportin' three fingers and a circle paying homage
to a disloyal devil up in this hell...
casting spells and poppin shells where i dwell/
on the corner chiefin "els"...a soul yells...the body swells...church bells and cartels...
wit teddy bears, candles and flowers...
sometimes i shed tears for hours like showers/
I try to water the seeds in my own blackyard,
but its hard to grow roses on concrete.
flowers don't grow on my street/
just the remains of slain innocence beneath my feet.
it seems like the walls are closing in as i extend much love to the kin on my corner.
i feel like a foreigner in my hood...
where black men are misunderstood and labeled "no good"/
where youth should be runnin' round but instead they're bound by the sound of
clicks...
posts...
chats...
and tweets...
the children no longer play on my streets
and gunshots have replaced the pitter-patter of little feet/
if i could just delete the bad police
and release the walking deceased
who sit rotting in jail cells with no peace
because their innocence is tainted by disbelief
and photoshopped videos of martyred black s/heroes...
instead i just sit here and weep and try to keep
a sound mind in this matrix
and follow my basic instincts
when I feel on the brink/
of insanity/
cause solomon said it best...
all else is just vanity.