I Am.

I am the dead body that you see in the street

Hoody over my head, face down in the grass

The crossroad where conviction and innocence meet

The victim is more guilty than the man with blood on his hands

I am the criminal who has committed no crime

I am the one who deserves to die for simply living my life

I am the mother afraid to give birth to a son

In fear that I will lose him to the kiss of a gun

I am the son that asks his dad why his best friend is gone

I am the dad that says “you’ll understand when you’re grown”

I am the one who grew up and became more confused

I am the hope/smoke-filled room where blacks go to sing blues

I am the renaissance man, in the cold Harlem streets

I am my new tailored suit, I am the shoes on my feet

I am a King getting beat on the side of the road

A King trying to speak over the screams of bombs in my home

I am the blood leaving wounds and the tears leaving eyes

I am the dark of the night and the sun in the sky

I am the truth being bent like a gymnast at work

I am the throat being choked by the strong arm of the law

I am harmed by those supposed to protect and serve

I am the one who’s in danger but doesn’t know who to call

I am not one, I am all. I am him, he is me

Every time one falls, that is my body you see in the street…

"A wise man told me don’t argue with fools
Cause people from a distance can’t tell who is who"



Solution.

we did not build this wretched house they have placed us in.

we are not the architects responsible for the horrid foundation on which we have been forced to try and build. the pipes were not busted by the overflow of our greed. the holes in the wall are not a result of self-inflicted damage nor were the windows shattered from the inside. there is no blood on our fists. we did not build this hell-hole of a house. we were forced into it.

how can we fix something we had no hand in building?

the infrastructure of this complex is beyond complex. the evil architect put much effort into creating this establishment. an evil genius. he has carefully crafted a broken situation and has left the residents to fix his intentional errors.

when you move into a new house, everything must be perfect. there must be no damage. but if there is, you are not expected pull out your magic toolbox and repair the problems on your own. you call on those who have knowledge on how the house was built. that is the only way any damages will be efficiently repaired.

now, let us use this analogy for the case of black life in america. history has told us that africans were shipped to america and forced to work. that was the first brick being laid for the house of horror we have come to reside in. fast forward, slaves are freed, but black men and women are still treated as less than human.

before all of this, black men and women did not view themselves as less than human. whether they were royalty or carpenters, they were their own people. they had their own idea of their identity. they did not belong to anyone. everything changed when they became possessions rather than people. purchases with only one purpose: to serve.

overtime, it has been ingrained into the black man’s mind that he is “less than”. the evil architect released the black man from the field and placed him in a house where the gaping holes in the roof allow drops of self-doubt to constantly rain on his head. the more drops that fall, the more you believe in the rain. the more you are told that you are something, the higher the chance that you will begin to believe it. african americans were not born hating themselves. they were taught. they were not born thinking they were nothing. they were told.

we currently live in a house that is crumbling, scrambling to find solutions to fix it. but we did not build this mind-state. we were forced into it. the only solution will come from those who created the situation. we did not create racism, we are simply the ones affected by it. and since we are the ones affected by it, it seems as though it is up to us to fix it.

but this is not the case.

it is up to the ones with the blood on their hands to cleanse themselves and help us rebuild from the ground up.

until then, we will remain here.

looking for shelter as our shelter falls on us.

looking for solutions to a problem we will never be able to solve on our own.

Ms. Me.

you don’t miss me

you’re just lonely

you just wish you

had a homie

who was with you

at the moment

but you don’t so

you’re alone and

you decide to

hit me up and

then you try to

bring it up like

"you remember…"

i say “no” ‘cause

i just know better

i once wrote letters

in tears of ink, and

sent them to you

return to sender

is what you would do

when there were chances

i’d barely see you

don’t say you miss me

i won’t believe you

you don’t miss me

you’re just lonely

don’t get me wrong, i’m

still your homie

but these days, you

don’t even know me

you say you miss me

i’d say then show me

but you don’t miss me

you miss the old me

these days, i don’t

need anyone to hold me

i’m not lonely

i’m just roaming

always knowing

where my home is

i know one day, i

may come back

when i say i miss you

i mean just that

i always have

and always will

but right now, we

just need to chill

you gave me chills

now my heart is cold

and if you really do miss me

i’d rather not know…

Mud.

i do not
want to be
buried
in american soil
although
it is rich
fertile
and soft as my deathbed
it is drenched
in the blood
of innocence
and although
i am dead
it would kill me
to feel the spill
of my brother’s blood
on my skin.

i am dead
and i do not
want to be
buried in blood
so do not
lower my casket
in to this mud.