i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that if the phrase “adding insult to injury” had a feeling,
that would be it.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it sounds like “hands up, don’t shoot,” like “i can’t breathe,”
like blood hitting a pavement that seems as though it was built
to catch those droplets.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it tastes like skittles and arizona tea,
four years old but still carrying the fresh sting of a wound just opened.
i imagine that it tastes 
like history repeating itself,
like seeing your son or daughter recycled each week
on every news report, on every tv station.
each time it is a different body, 
but it is always the same hand pulling the trigger,
the same black blood being spilled,
the same cries left unheard;
we shout “black lives matter”
and yet, still,
they cut them too short.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it looks like a web of lies too thick to cut through — 
every strand another weapon that he did or did not have,
another order that he did or did not follow,
another sin that he did or did not commit;
the only black they care about
is the color of the ink they use
to draw your angel-headed boy
a set of horns.
i imagine that it looks like evidence hidden,
like sparknotes-type skim-throughs labeled “thorough investigations,”
like another unindicted officer walking freely atop the cries of those 
who charged into a battle they knew they would, but hoped they would not, lose.
a battle they have fought too many times before.
i imagine that it looks
like an empty chair at the dinner table,
like cold-blooded ****** disguised as justice
with the help of a blue hat and a badge.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but if you listen closely enough,
you can hear it
in every cautious goodbye she says to her children whenever they leave the house,
or in the silence that those goodbyes used to fill.

can you hear it?
you will have to push past the shouts
of the big bold letters that they want you to believe.

somewhere,
somewhere in there,
a black mother’s heart is crying.
it is a gentle, hushed cry 
that the world does not want to hear.

but the tears are still just as wet.

(a.m.)

"My son didn't deserve it. Nobody's child deserves to be treated like that - nobody's.” – Lesley McSpadden

How can we continue to
allow innocent lives
to be lost to gunshots,
the “lawful” judicial system,
and the officers that
“fear for their lives”?

When will we rescue the
312 Americans
(who happen to be *black)
who will die this year
at the hands of those
hired to protect them?

Can we save the 2.8 million in cages
or the shadows that lie along
the pavements and
cling against hope?

Or can we prevent more teens
from falling flat onto
Earth’s face while silhouettes
rise from it?

How can a cop fear an unarmed
American? Was it because he
was black?

*“He was just a normal
18-year-old, finding his way."

they cannot contain nonconformity, they already have my soul locked up in a cellar, a speechless being with incitement and spark, removed
from the body: but as the transition approaches, so does my representation in society
     I MATTER
I MATTER
              I MATTER
a lifting of faith and aspiring traits, moving the crowds of martyrs amongst the claimed saints

opinionated with my provoked past, and ripped from my own voice, i regained a
spirit indescribable, far more powerful than anger: but instead, harmony and composure
               I MATTER
I MATTER
                 (my voice counts, giving quirk and spark to the souls in awe)

YOU MATTER
YOU MATTER

black lives matter, as in the same sense
/all lives matter/

For you
I am walking on rocks
holding unburnt match sticks,
you want me to throw them
behind me.

To step down in lake
for washing sins
from the snuffed out
skylights.
Between green and blue I climb on leaves.

Remained pygmies
till end,
in frail human relationships.
All that we saw, was only for ourselves
in questions and replies.

Wasting shine of titles,
followed by empty looks.
Nothing remained to be said.
Food was left on the plate
untouched.

tell me can you love my black
even when it's about to crack
falling through gates of hell
your black don't crack but mine did
after too many lies and too many wounds that never healed before others grew
your black don't crack but mine did
after too many burns by kind actions with ill intent and too many souls that came but did not stay
your black don't crack but mine did
after too many cries of help that went unanswered and too many words that went unsaid
-Mena W.

Black lives matter
Not a war cry, but a plea
An affirmation, united nation
A cry of passion and a
call to action
The coming together
Of "we"
All lives matter--or rather--
White lives matter
When the police say, please
Put the gun down, cease!
As our brothers and sisters lie deceased
In the streets
With their murders captured, viral, shared
Not a human, but a piece of meat

The enemy of the people
The enemies of "we"
Sit high upon their thrones
Dictating laws for you
And me
They tell us we are free
While they force us to our knees
Our enemy is not beside but
The persons above, who reside
"They" "the man" "big brother" "the suits"
Obama, Trump, Clinton--Bernie Sanders, too
United we stand, united "they" fall
And perhaps, on that day, we can say "all"

But for now
Black Lives Matter
To fight is our choice
The power is in the people and
Our collective voice
Stand together, make things better
And hear humanity rejoice

I was never going to be that girl,
The one who wanted
What she obviously couldn't have.

The one who wished a boy like him
Would like her instead,
Of her best-friend who is perfect for him

I didn't want to be that jealous friend
But now look at me.
I am.