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Mondriel Andrews Oct 2017
Light a candle  
For the night that swallowed, The black boy whole.
Light a candle
So that his path to the after life Is as bright , as the police lights That ended it.
Light a candle
For the next boy, As a warning That this is desecrated land.
Light a candle For his father, To hold weeping.
  Because he  fueled the fire In the small boys heart for  Revolution, and freedom.
But never expected  His little boy...  to be extinguished.
Light a candle
For the last fist in the air The one that never dies out When everyone else flees like scattered ashes.
Light a candle
Because even if he is gassed, beaten burned, or killed He never let his fire go.
Light a candle
for the loved ones we didn't love enough to teach them to survive. Light a candle
So that no more black, boys  Have to die in the dark... but instead may live..
with a little bit of light.
This is just what’s been on my mind lately.
Mondriel Andrews Feb 2015
unlock the door.
undress, clothes will just get in the way.
turn on the lights, inside your soul is where the light will pour.
take your time, select a motion that will make them pay.
your looks are what they are here for.
give them a key to your home, they are hear to stay.
no time for thought, we dont want that, we want the *****.
we want the filth of your skin, the rest can go away.
if you dont let them in they wont accept you, not anymore.
we are vampires waiting for blood.
we are trolls rolling in the mud.
we feed on your indivuality.
**** away at your pureness.
slash at your spirit.
all we want is your body.
everything else can go away.
all we want is to hurt you, no one cares anymore.
your are a women, and society wants your body.
you are a man, and society wants your body.
you are a human, and the trolls will feast on your weakness
the vampires will **** at your happiness.
until you are just skin.
which is all we really care about anymore anyway.
no more love, or thoughts.
just lust, and thots.
this is not a poem supporting any of the ideals mentioned in it
Mondriel Andrews Feb 2015
sing my song.
use the angels tone as you remember our hands touching like
the feathers of a dove.
hold on to the fact that this isnt love.
this isnt lust
this is the human holding on to the strings of its own reality .
the ideas of hate fading into the background.
use your hands to craft amazing things.
but use your voice to proclaim your stunning ideals.
make me fall for you.
like the feather of a dove i will soon fall away.
dont give me the memory of your hand if you plan to pull it away.
because as the feather falls it might soon be picked up to be put into the headdress of women with just enought time to make it fit.
but our shared emotions might be enough to engulf me in the passions of flame more powerful that the strength of my frail form.
and nobody wants a burnt feather in there headress.
if you plan on  extending your hand to me. then do so knowing that i am a fragile feather,  attached to you, because every angel needs a set of wings.
When you grow tired of me, make sure to let me fall slowly. so that when i am used in the lining of someone elses memories, they can use me as they need.
I am a feather. something that is used for other peoples needs and desires.
when you grow old and remember me, just remember to sing the feathers song.
it starts with your name.
and ends with mine.
sing my song.
just thought id right something not depressing for once lol
Mondriel Andrews Jan 2015
I used to just sit in the closet, and hide there.
I was scared. That society wasn't ready to accept my skin.

The closet isn't just for homosexuals.

We are all like worn out coats that are shoved into the closet when we are not good enough to be worn.
I used to just sit in the closet  with all the worn out coats and Match patterns with them, oddly even there I was the only brown one.
In my family, we are all white. Until I was born.
The first time I was called a ****** it was by one of my cousins. The words stung like a snake had bitten me on the neck. And injected more blackness into my skin, I was labeled something that I wasn't ready to accept. Her words where a cattle **** that branded me from that point on
I ran into the closet and his there. I didn't leave for seven hours, I counted the hours on my skin with bite marks, I tried to rip my skin off so that I could look like everyone else because my second grade teacher told me we all looked alike on the inside. And I just wanted to look like all the other people in my family with there straight hair and white skin.
I used to hide in the closet. Because it was so dark my skin would fade away into the darkness and my blackness dissolved in the blackness. I was accepted.  I was loved.
I used to hide in the closet.
When I stopped, I straightened my hair and continued to carve away at my own skin until I saw the whiteness I craved for so long. My skin was my closet for so long and for my entire life I was trying to get out.
Mondriel Andrews Dec 2014
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is biting my nails until I start to ******* fingers.
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is falling in love to quickly, like a clumsy school girl who always falls into her crushes arms, just to be dropped
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is getting rejected like a credit card that has been maxed out.
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is always saying the wrong thing. When ever I talk to a girl I become my secret identity : loser boy! My one power is repelling women away quicker than the flash runs around a shopping mall with a Visa card .
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is brushing my hair until it almost looks like something that I could love, my hair is a chain that links me to my skin color, like a slave hooked to an auctioneers stage.  So I try to brush away my skin like  getting rid of thick curls will change my heritage.
Everyone has a habit.
I have this really ****** habit of never being happy. I always pick apart things and find some reason to hate myself. Im always to tall, to black, to stupid. I can't be happy for long because when I do I destroy myself like an evil villains plot when he presses the self destruct button because he's lost confidence in his plan.
My biggest habit is smoking cigarettes made of sadness, and allowing depression to infect the rest of my body like terminal cancer. I can't recall if I smoke  a pack a day anymore, it's a part of my everyday life. With every meal, movie or social interaction, I need a drag of sadness. There's this girl though, her smile is a nicotine patch, her voice is a message from my dr saying "we've found a cure, for your depression."
Now i can put down the pack.
First work that I've posted

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