Mister Maxwell reads the paper
Of the party that he pays for
And with subtle nods agrees
With each printed word he reads
He knows all the phrases to say
About the topics of the day
And he's politically engaged
(Marching in manifestations)
And appropriately enraged
(By violence and discrimination)
To be a hero of society:
A once-born self that's ceased to be,
A real symptom of democracy!
A truly enlightened zombie!

There is no justice today,
when allies say wait.

When they need to get paid
to keep their people saved.
So, the truth coming out
might be a little delayed,
but please just wait.

When fear of violence
keeps white allies silenced,
but they forget
fears where this ****
starts.

When I sit back and write
with a hollow sense of pride
but I’m not a ride or die ally.

I am the good man
who says he understands
social justice demands
in facebook posts,
and when I’ve paid
lip service to those
hurting,
I go back to my
comfortable life.

This time the excuse
that I honestly use
is fear of covid 19,
but the last time
I could’ve helped,
I was writing out my guilt
to help myself.

I haven’t stepped foot in the fray
since 2011
when I was advocating
for the rights of lesbians,
transgenders, and gays.

So, this is my shame,
such a stupid hypocrite
cause better men then me
are on the streets getting hit,
marginalized,
terrorized ,
brutalized,
while I get to wake up
and live a pretty tame life.

siguro nga tama ang mga nang-aatake sa atin.

"bakit ka matatakot,
terorista ka ba?"

bakit nga ba matatakot táyo kung hindi tayo terorista?

hindi naman, hindi ba?

táyo'y mga aktibista;
aktibista sa ating mga sariling pamamaraan.

táyo ang magpapabago sa takbo ng bayan,
sa bawat sistema nito,
sa bawat institusyon nito,
at sa bawat pagkakamali nito.

hindi lang din táyo mga aktibista
táyo ay mga rebolusyonaryo.

bakit nga ba táyo kailangan pang matakot?

“From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”
–William Shakespeare (Prologue to Romeo and Juliet)

I was hewn from the helpless limbs of a tree
Which could have grown
To become something magnificent

Through sanding and carving
Through varnishing and the work of human hands
I was formed

In a way, the tree which was mutilated to give me life
Was a foreshadowing of my truncheon fate

I swing through the air once again
A weapon in the hands of a vehement oppressor

Skin splits
Blood sprays
Bone shatters

Bodies litter the dust
Staining the earth with crimson testament
To the cruelty I have wrought
Some of the figures are marred
Reminiscent of the tree from which I was hewn
Which died to give me life

The dark throng of protestors
Are but mortals
Faced by the immortal power
Of those lighter beings
Who wield me, mercilessly

I wish to weep
For the destruction, pain
Anguish I leave in my wake

I wish I was still a living bough
Capable of shedding resin tears
Capable of yielding to greater forces
Not to force the vulnerable to break

But I cannot weep
I cannot yield

I am a baton
A weapon in the hands of those who swore to protect
Yet scythe down those who rise to protect what is rightfully theirs

Ancient grudge of black and white
Break to new mutiny of segregation
Where civil blood of those who seek protection
Makes civil hands who swore to guard them
Unclean.

Her pale skin knew all the secrets.
When the maze would twist,
and when it would turn,
when it etched a clear path,
and whispered the escape route.

His dark skin was trapped.
The maze unleashed its branches,
tightening the grip around his body,
tangling him up in the mess
that she had created.

It was designed
by her ancestors,
for only one to win.
This maze
is the one they call life.

She needed to forge a new path.
One where he leads, she follows.
One where the branches
only burden the deserved,
and not for the colour of their skin.