Tag Archives: poetry

Passive Violence

Can you relate to me?
Not for just the Blackness you see in passing.
The threat is deeper and longer lasting.
Structured in a way that we unconsciously support.
We’re forced into an indirect consort.
When our eyes align, superficial feelings are pushed aside.
The aggressive treatment of my history attempts to hide.
Thinking you know one thing or another.
You fear me.
Quite scared to be near me.
Think you know what I want and why.
Something you own like your studded purse turns to the side.
Hoping to win a friend, a nod, or acceptance.
Flagrantly suggestive, mumbles are heard.
At this point, you utter several more words.
I’m lynched by your assumptions.
Can you feel the sweat and tears with each flinch?
Do you know your methods are taking a toll?
I’m pushing the gas, we can’t stroll.
I harness the moment.
I own your violence.
You can’t deny it.
I require your compliance.
You will not harm my silence.
I’m defiant.
Your word isn’t law.
Oppression isn’t the only flaw.
You can’t relate to me.
You’re just pampered and ignorant.
I’m not trying to hear it.

 

Originally published at 12By6.

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Lone Wolf

Don’t tell me they don’t exist.

The psychological profiles are hard to miss.

Domestic leaders act ignorantly bliss.

I celebrate calling a spade, a spade.

Why can’t they be a terrorist?

Shameful fame travels beyond the name.

Creating legions of fans and foes even when some know it’s wrong.

Forcing others to sing depressing songs.

Howls in the wind won’t gain favor.

Bloody pews won’t make me see your idea later.

Why receive safekeeping when they don’t care?

If it comes to looting life, why think they did something right?

As if entitled to fight.

Hoping that others will co-sign the feverish fright.

Afraid of people’s rights?

Scared of retribution?

A mutiny was the solution.

Or the dissolution of civilian’s light.

Make their skin the brightest in the dark night.

Wanting to be the teacher.

But the lesson is in session.

The time has come.

Terrorist’ accountability will be won.

White Supremacy should be shunned.

But the White War hasn’t really begun.

Just battles played out between the loser’s sums.

Painting the streets with guns.

Blasting a message with bombs.

Spreading chemicals to engineer contagious harm.

Why aren’t more people alarmed?

There’s a problem inside of humanity’s farm.

It’s not just that they were bullied or misfits.

Assumptions fly that the guy must be shy, but damaged.

Even though it’s managed just fine when it comes to destroying innocent lives.

Misguided, the violence stings even when you understand the meaning.

The birth of this nation is guided by sudden feedings.

Death, theft, and gluttony are what they know.

It goes to show how fearful we are of the land.

Yet it looks like a cover-up is a major plan.

These lone wolves act like they are part of a team.

 

Originally published at 12BY6.

Brave Son

How do I teach my son to be brave?

Soar past others’ notions.

Fight for his dreams.

And eventually, achieve his set of keys.

The gateway to freedom comes at a cost.

Fighting for passion shouldn’t come at an extreme loss.

When do I begin to teach my son to cross?

Waves of oppression, neglect, or greed poised to make his body their new breed.

I wish we were on the same team, but society’s message bleeds into me.

Set the expendable boy free.

We’ll teach him what to see.

He’ll be what we want him to be.

He’s not the steed to showoff to degenerate thieves.

How do I teach my son to leave when faced with hatred?

He shouldn’t have to be irate or complacent.

I want him to enhance the quality of impressions cast.

His legacy should be made to last.

Not to speaking up to be killed fast.

Don’t send him up the bend hoping the charade would mend sovereign skin.

How do I teach my son to search for a mission?

It’s his decision to create the vision.

We shouldn’t only pick dropping bars, running from the law, or bouncing a ball.

There are more ways to climb up this inescapable wall.

Yes son, we all will fall.

But it’s the victors who don’t lie down or stall.

How do I teach my son that survival is a jagged ledge before a fall?

Too many of us lost, enslaved, emasculated, and underappreciated.

We are robbed of the joy we’re supposed to have.

And told to work harder to “earn” back a fraction.

Walling off sections of our brain.

Is a battle to remain sane.

How do I teach my son to be brave?

Knowing that everyone doesn’t get saved.

Originally published at 12BY6.

Writer’s Fear

Jotting down notes, my pen is swimming.

Chasing the dream of celebrity splendor.

Better then mimicking collectors on the market.

Scavengers of short-term profit.

I hold my thoughts close to the page.

Not daring to let loose until copyright law has the stage.

I don’t want to be the one receiving the damning call.

Someone has created the project’s downfall.

It’s a scheme.

Pushed over the edge, becoming a meme.

I don’t want to be obscene.

Crushing wealth is deemed supreme.

Losing in the name of greedy theft.

There’s little reward in what’s left.

Cashed checks gone into someone else’s dream.

Turns people into the combating team.

I shouldn’t want to hide.

I don’t want it taken.

Ripped before I can partake in the reawakening.

I want to nurture my dreams before another team takes the shot.

Even if the story doesn’t get the published slot.

Searching for the gold that needs to be caught.

Does it bring additional growth outside the changing of my cot?

Do the words reflect the shifting land?

To have artistry stolen.

Is it worth trolling?

People need something to claim.

Especially if they get it from another name.

Why dine on my spine?

Why kill my fame?

Ghostwriting wasn’t apart of gain.

I acknowledge the damage done.

I’ll hold my creativity accountable until the battle is won.

Taking a measurement to release entrepreneurial sums.

Will I be rewarded?

Can I truly afford it?

The lessons of each session come in clearer?

Though my apex may be endearing.

My fear grows when drama is nearing.

It’s time to open the gap and stop pretending.

Close to the point, the words must anoint.

My spirit prevails whenever the words swell.

Breath.

Be at ease.

My writer’s fear will blow away with the breeze.

 

Originally published at 12BY6.

Rugged Fluff

Destruction.

Written across my face.

Clear as if meant common enough.

The flaw.

An assumption made on being tough.

I don’t like having to be rough.

But damn it, I said, “Enough is Enough.”

The look on your face as you sit there looking shy.

Clearly it states you don’t understand why.

Makes my sanity tumble when all you do is mumble.

There’s no point.

Your path will not be my direct gain.

Not at least because I won’t be the same.

I won’t conceive it.

Believe it.

I’m through with your rugged fluff.

babbling

Babbling of the Irrational Mind

Critical Justice

Where is justice when you need it?

I’m feeling broken down and defeated.

They took his life faster than he could plead.

Now all I have is an image of him on his knees.

Red blossomed all over his shirt.

Realizing it was cold murder hurts.

Gunned down for looking part.

My family is looking to heal it’s heart.

Any trend to defend themselves, shows an agitated self.

Seeking peace was the decision.

Arguing the story to the court.

Too many are still unsure of which side to support.

Validating their excuse.

“We need more proof.”

What proof do you need to see blatant disgust?

There’s little left we can truly trust.

Made his life end in vain.

Our community is critically insane.

They say there’s Justice.

But I see Just Us losing.

Do we fight where we fall?

Or jump past an ever-growing wall?

Babbling of the Irrational Mind.

 

Broke As A Joke

This is me.

Broken by the trusting of black-hearted commissions.

The decision has become my economic submission.

I’m a fish on dry land.

The donkey chasing the carrot.

Grasping for a needle in a wet haystack.

My intuition gone.

Replaced by the brace of the handheld drone called my phone.

Leading down alleys and doors.

Made to look even more deplorable.

I scrub at the dirt of my oppressive force.

Hoping it won’t keep me consistently sore.

I’d like to say I’d rather be poor.

But look at my bank account and your eyes will see the red score.

I’m not poor, I’m broke.

Everyone makes me the bunt of their jokes.

 

Released on Babbling of the Irrational Mind

babbling

Babbling of the Irrational Mind