if only someone could rise from the grave,

and tell me what lies beyond this world,

perhaps I’d wake up knowing,

heaven isn’t like this,

that it won’t stink of dead children,

that english won’t haunt our tongues,

that it isn’t discovered by Colombus or another white man who seems to discover everything for us,

that its rivers won’t be flowing with our ancestors tears

and its homes won’t be built on their steel-like spines,

because maybe, heaven won’t know grief like black mothers,

won’t have to soak in the injustices white terrorism scattered,

wont bleach out my history and skin,

because if even in heaven my people are refugees,

if they’re still numb ****** and foreign speaking terrorists,

if my existence is still a cause of discomfort for the ‘normal’ folk

then past the grave ,

nothing but stillness awaits people like me,

but at least all this pain and violence won’t follow us to the grave,

coz’ if even if our lives were designed for wounds and pain,

it won’t be here,

At least my grave,

Won’t take my life twice.

// If heaven is still like this