In a world unlike the one you hail,
from the time your eyes awake and rise,
up until the dark takes up all the space,
between is the time to which you feel out
Side is real enough to touch and feel
It still yet remains a scene that feels unlike
Your own imagination it finds the magic it sought
out of this world into the hopeful lies waste away
the day has come to an end and the sun is down
under your skin, your bones, your blood you know
there must be magic because if not the why
would God create our lids to open up each morning?

Lately, I've been very grateful for the rain
It's given me the time to not water you.
It's given me the space to excuse.
It's not held me accountable.
It's made me more tired.
It's dripped it's drops so that I can ignore you.

Lately, I've been more grateful for the rain
because when otherwise, would I have time to dig this hole?

There is shimmer in those aspen leaves,
it begins with wind’s whisper midday.
And no matter what you might say or feel,
the flowers grow wild anyway.

Only the most vulnerable were present
The strongest had left with the sun.
The rolling hills were many shades of green and brown,
painted in detail was the earth and the sky.

The contrast of the flag
bold and unforgiving
would have waved above the camp
while it whistled a soft eerie song of lies.

The signs were all there
and spread throughout
but she did not speak his language
the language of the weak.

And as the men rolled in,
drunk with power and artillery
His eyes spoke of sadness and self hatred
while his body continued on to find worth.

We had an agreement
and I followed the rules
But alas, you danced through the night
moonlight illuminated the trail of destruction.

Even you knew it went to far
Passing the plains I too,
wish I could have hidden in the river banks
to avoid the surprise of the massacre.

The clouds would have bare witness
along with Sol, Sinfeild, Tuna, and the like
while betrayal slid his fingers along her curves
or ripped the innocence from the world.

The white flag of peace
carelessly splattered with red
would only be remembered and reminded
years later, recalled.

As I looked at those hills
my heart grew cold and unforgiving
and felt the spirits of the betrayed
all around, making it hard to take in air.

And somehow, I,
I am the one who must forgive
like those that have forgiven from the past
because hate in a heart leaves no room for love.

But what is love
what is peace
but an ideal
waiting to be betrayed by you.

The air was thick with rage and heat,
the steps were covered in cries.
Our mouths were masked to ward disease,
but did not cover our eyes.

The gray steps, with heat illuminated,
Bodies spread in clumps about,
The signs and shouts echoed one another,
as the collective emotion continued to mount.

From below we heard the plan,
Spread our message, bodies, and cover
we lay down our fronts and faces
to mimic the tragedy of past blunder.

With arms a top our backs
we all began to shout
"I can't breathe" came out our mouths
louder and stronger each time it came out.

For eight minutes and forty six seconds
we all continued to chant
Both heat and sadness swelling up
the seed of reality and the word "can't"

Because we couldn't breathe
and fear overwhelmed
Gone was the distance
from the feeling of hell.

And as the tears rolled down,
the sun acting as the knee
you could feel the fear
that George must've seen.

But when it was done,
because "after" was indeed a time,
we were all able to get up
and breathe in as a sign.

The sign was that we were all still alive
The simulation of that moment was gone,
How lucky we are to rise up when we know
George and many others cannot just get up and move along.

Yes I feel it too,
The twoness that defines
my role and expectation
cemented in their minds.

Yes I feel it too,
the twoness that is there
but my twoness doesn't keep me
from freely breathing air.

Yes I feel it too,
the twoness that burdens me
Though being paid less is not the same
as being pinned down by his knee.

Yes I feel it too,
the twoness he wrote about
My double conscious thinking
but pale skin is my clout.

Because Yes I feel it too
as a woman I am less,
but if I get pulled over,
my life is not in distress.

I can't imagine your kind of twoness,
what is constantly on your mind,
when you see both red and blue lights
flashing from behind.

For how is it you can be
both black and American
when life is always fleeting
because the color of your skin.

Why does poetry often taste of wine,
it's scripture mature and somehow divine.
Cloaked in time,
Each fruit note hidden behind
the words that don't come to mind
cheapened by childish rhyme.
Caught in a dance, intertwined
between two worlds, yours and mine.
Sometimes I think poetry is but a serpentine,
a recollection we must unwind.
Under beats and rhythm we are confined,
Syllables and feeling attempting to align.

Instead, I think I'll write for human kind.