Waking up to sirens
Just another day in the hood
   But we living

Kid gets shot
But he's not living
Cop goes free
And they still killing

People we gotta love each other
Black lives should matter
even when we killing each other

People we gotta love each other
if all lives matter why we killing each other

I done lost
so many friends
So many brothers
Growing up in the hood
You get shot over your color
Who's gonna hold the weeping mother
Who's gonna raise there children
they ain't ask To be here
And they wonder why when we see police we show fear  

It's a 2 way street
We protest for the trevons
But who gonna protest when
Tyreek **** tyreek

People we gotta love each other
Black lives should matter
Even when we killing each other

People we gotta love each other
if all lives matter why we killing each other

Peace

Today I thought about burning bibles and how my house is surrounded by cobwebs and how do I explain that to people.
It burns my veins when I think of the god that lets children die and creates maelstroms inside people so they’re left begging for change in the streets and all those prayers are like pinpricks on my forefinger because if I was created in his image, then why do I curl my fists when I look in the mirror
It’s not easy being cut-cloth and vacancy motels in foreign cities I will never return to because I know their owner
I know the freckles in your back like constellations in my head
I've heard your voice when I was on the bathroom floor sinking, sinking
There’s no anchor in this ship and the tossed waves are like your tousled hair
and maybe the sternum in your chest is the Bermuda triangle
but I could have sworn I held your hand, I know this for a fact
because my pulse danced with yours those days
but now it’s these days and I can’t get a grip
and I bend my knees but the bruises are stubborn
I keep opening doors but I don’t know what I’m looking for
I want to call, for help, to my mother, to my father whose clothes cling to him like death and I want you to know that this isn't about you
When I was a little girl, I would go to church and hope that someday my knuckles would get kissed and not murdered
I wanted everything my parents didn't get
I used to think it was because god was too busy with other people's families and that's why their lawns were always greener than ours  
I wanted for you to exist so badly, I forgot that I did too.

-I've learned to take the sheets off of the bed and wash them and if my hands were big enough I would curl them into fists and call you to tell you that your ghost no longer resides in here but I don't have your phone number anymore and I don't miss you quite as often.

-You're white flag, your war-rage reverb inside a rib-cage and there's no microphone to mutter into. Slam poetry isn't your thing but ******* sometimes there's an itch, a scream half-muffled that wants to talk about your hair raining down on their cold pillows just before the lights go out.

-I've never owned an ashtray despite the chimney that mimics my mouth sometimes. It's telling your mama you made it for her birthday because you don't want to see her face every-time you check in once again for the last time into a hospital. Even if making it is keeping a plant alive.

-The scattered light rays that travel into your room in the afternoon when you're getting drunk alone again and don't you dare call me bad because baby, I was raised that way. You can't put a band-aid over a broken bone. There's a fire in my palms no psalm can actually pronounce.

-your writing career has plummeted so now you sit in a bus stop as people tell you their life story and you feel like a priest but there's never any relief and the confessions get more heavy so you write about it but there's never anyone to hear, and even if there was would it heal the bruises?

I'm that one girl, who sits in the back of the class.
Just so I can go unnoticed, make my life last.
I always hide in my room.
Just so I don't get beaten, and bruised.
The kids at school, call me worthless, and stupid.
The teachers, say I don't try, but I do try...
I try my hardest at everything, but they don't seem to notice.
My sibling's all they do is torture me.
As if they feed off of my pain, and fear.
I'm that one girl, who only wears ear buds.
To block out the voices of anger, and hurt.
My arms, are not that clean, or neat.
I'm not pretty, and when I say that I mean it.
Maybe I'm not worth it, maybe I'm just a piece of *******.
I am stupid, and I have come to believe it.
Maybe I really don't try hard enough, and I am not trying harder.
My sibling's can feed off me all they want, I don't care anymore.
I've taken my ear buds out, and I'm listening to the screaming of hate.
Yeah my arms are cut, and they will always be cut.
Yes I am not pretty, and that's the truth.
But I am me, and that's okay.