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Poems in Which I Soar
-blood sea-
my wrists are heavy from the cuffs of my oppressors
-deppressors-
i rip my hair out
because they're my stressors
see, I
never believed the lies of system
light chrisom
hands up high cuz
i’m the victim
see, hear
the last words i said to mama
the drama
i tried to protect her fears
with black karma
NO
see, see, see
what your black boy has become
i run
whenever the damage has been done
-blood sea-
see, see, see
what your black boy has led
i bled
when trayvon martin ended up dead
-blood sea-
the lights shine bright, red, white and blue
---- YOU
your life doesn’t matter, unless i say
it’s true
why didn’t he beg for mercy?
how dare he?
to ever test my white integrity
i looked into your large brown eyes
demise
could see right through that
black disguise
NO!
see, see, see
what they made me do?
it’s true
i pointed my gun right at you
-blood sea-
see, see, see
how it made me feel
it’s real
killing black boys was never apart of the deal
-blood sea-
Institutionalized….blood sea blinding my eyes
Counting the days go by…...3…..2…...1
1 bullet through the homie
I’m locked up for the homie
I still don’t know who shot my homie
But my homies said take 1 for the team
1,2,3…..4 more years left.
-black boy-
black boy pride
black boy fly
black boy why…
do you seem
to be
within me
in the trees
in the seams
in my dreams
community hides
a black boy strives
to stay alive
to sixteen
to be
within me
in the trees
in the seams
in my dreams
-how to be an intellectual-
Intellectual minds
Freed from spirit.
Not collecting all
Of its power.
Educating themselves
With their own experiences.
Intellectual minds
Freed from spirit.
-our faces-
The look on your face
When i tell you of my history
When i tell you of my feelings
When i tell you that i wanted something
Unquestionable
The bond of strength and danger and love that couldn't be created from the idiocies of
teenage angst
The look on my face
When you tell me of your history
When you tell me of your feelings
When you tell me that you aren’t prepared for
a battle of strength and danger and love that could destroy the illusion of delusion
That you aren’t prepared to leave your cocoon.
To leave your skin lying next to mine,
clothing ourselves together.
The look on your face
When i tell you of my history
When i tell you of my feelings
When i tell you that i’ll leave without
you because that shackles that have
bound me to an unsteady foundation drives me crazy….
The realization that i can’t succumb to the lows of society with a
smile
and a kiss on your cheek
as i cater to your every need gracefully
endlessly
carelessly.
The look on my face
When you tell me of your history
When you tell me of your feelings
When you wrap me in your arms and
whisper taunts and teases in my ears,
trying to chain me to a life where you will prosper and i will have to watch from the sidelines,
through domesticated windows.
and they will laugh at the look on my face.
-moonrise & sunshine-
moonrise
sunshine
he lies, she lies
closed eyes, for the baptize
moonrise
sunshine
i know
that i won’t
be alone
when the storm blows
-strange fruit-
The pigment of my skin,
the melanin in my blood,
the plump of my lips and my country’s oppressive yet incorruptible perception of me,
every ounce of me,
every word from my mouth and shuffle of my feet:
I AM STRANGE.
But how strange?
To be marginalized within the black community as a minority,
indoctrinated at a young age, believing that I was born to be inferior.
To be strange,
to trust my oppressors and accept that my inferiority is normal.
But isn’t it strange?
Throughout my life I am taught that these oppressive perceptions of me are fact,
and I am to live up to them without protest,
that my skin defines my potential, my successful capacity
and my life satisfaction.
But isn’t that strange?
I carry the weight of my ancestors on my shoulders,
their tears and their struggle,
Their impending prayers to God asking, “Why lord! Why did I have to be
strange? In the eyes of my master I am nothing but strange! Why did
my children have to be strange! And what does that give me, nothing
but pain!”
No answer, no mercy as the shackles of slavery tightened
them to a world where they are nothing but a black body with no
worth.
A black body with no worth.
No one told them it was okay to be strange.
To destroy the label society has given to you, to live up to your repressed potential,
to fly higher than those who only dreamt of
touching a cloud.
To be strange, is to be human. To be strange, is to be human.
And I guess I'm strange.
Because I want to be human.
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I am an introvert disguised in extroverted qualities and tendencies. These poems are the reflection of my top priorities.