I hear them in the background,
whispering their hate;
plotting their attack.

I was born sick,
I heard them say it.

I cant help it,
I've prayed for forgiveness,
But I was born sick.

I was born a creature of uniqueness,
A creature who should be judged,
A creature who should preach,
And a creature who should be happy.

I am happy,
And I am strong,
I rise against you,
Because I know you're wrong.

I stand tall and proud,
whilst you whisper.

I wasn't born sick,
I wasn't born wrong,
God cant save me,
Because I'm not in distress,
It was you!
You who created this mess.
And it was you,
You were born sick.

is a person who moves
from one place to another
with a trusty companion,
in a group, or whatever;
no permanent homes
of which to conquer
but the heart is in union
with a special answer;
from here to there, it travels
finding comfort in every corner
hoping to someday discern
what was never thought to uncover.

spring has the world drunk and halfway dizzy with joy
I can hardly see reality for spinning

Twigs and things
Sticks and strings
Patchwork fabric
Wallpaper of dreams
Rapture forever
In the eye turned back
Sweet cradle
Unsung in use
Robin’s loom
Of earth and tears
Sacrifice woven
Between the laths
Wallpaper sings
Children see magic
Robins see sticks
Twigs and things

there are invisible children hidden behind
miles of above ground swimming pools
and wooden swing sets. they've seen
life sized doll parts scattered across
their front lawns and were taught how to
take their first steps
as though they were being sent off to war;
knees straight. head tall.
don't flinch at the sight of blood.
a few weeks ago i turned on the local news,
the upcoming story took place in the west side of Detroit.
a photo of a young, colored girl wearing
butterfly shaped barrettes in her hair comes up,
the headline at the bottom of the screen reads,
3-YEAR OLD SHOT IN FRONT YARD
the news reporter talks about the situation
as though she's being forced to discuss
the weather in the middle of a heatwave;
it's the same. ****. thing. every. day.
i'll tell you what no one pictures
when they hear about another ******
in the same city that might as well
start building their front doors
like cemetery gates.
picture the mother
trying to sell a cradle so she has the money
to buy a 3-foot long casket. picture her
walking into her daughter's room
to tuck her into bed & remembering that she's
got nothing left but empty hands.
dear america,
tell me why some of us were born
with targets sewn into our backs, tell me if it
disturbs you at all that there are children
who want to chip off their skin, that want to be painted
a new color because they want to see if the light
will hit them in a different way,
& make them less invisible.