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Taylor Kennerly Aug 2017

My heart shudders

And ripples in fear

And I imagine

Touching my stomach

For fear of what my future child

One day may have to endure

One day may have to see

One day may have to think

One day may have to feel …
ConnectHook Sep 2015

Finish the crackers --- grab a smoke . . .
of Ferguson my muse will sing.
A call to arms --- God’s fires to stoke;
let Truth and Freedom ring!

Take to the streets; avenge this wrong
and hasten the end of racist rule.
Justice, though it may tarry long
will find its target in the duel.

Young Michael Brown, like all true saints
found himself craving Swisher Sweets.
He robbed a store, whose camera paints
impartial portrait. In the streets

the thief refused to be detained
and so threw off police restraint.
Though sin escaped, the Law remained
and made a martyr of this saint.

The agitators did their thing:
inflaming thugs to smash and loot,
while racists baited hooks, to string
the press. Officials followed suit.

Angels, although not always kind,
do not display this attitude –
aware of how the police mind
responds to such ingratitude.

We ought to thank the police force
for showing mercy under stress.
The culprit chose a foolish course
and made a God-awful mess.

Prince Michael met ignoble fate
(that ghetto-Christ, that righteous youth)
His sacrifice in vain --- though great,
could not impede the march of Truth.

Ferguson, our eyes turn towards you . . .
are you now able to admit
while reality rewards you
that looting and lying ain’t ****?
¡ Hypocrite readers -  I salute you !
almost a thousand have read this immortal screed and not ONE of you
dares to LIKE it. Poetic wusses all. Social Justice is on the way.
☻ ?  ☻
ca May 2015
they cannot contain nonconformity, they already have my soul locked up in a cellar, a speechless being with incitement and spark, removed
from the body: but as the transition approaches, so does my representation in society
              I MATTER
a lifting of faith and aspiring traits, moving the crowds of martyrs amongst the claimed saints

opinionated with my provoked past, and ripped from my own voice, i regained a
spirit indescribable, far more powerful than anger: but instead, harmony and composure
               I MATTER
                 (my voice counts, giving quirk and spark to the souls in awe)


black lives matter, as in the same sense
/all lives matter/
*born and raised in ferguson, missouri in the midst of all of the chaos in the past year*
Skylar May 2015
The human being is an inherently contentious creature.

Seven billion rock-wall eyes;
Eyes staring belligerently down seven billion sharp noses;
Noses affixed to seven billion faces;
Faces covered in creases and scars,
Framed in unruly hair
And outlined in stark exactness
By the flames cowering in bipedal shadows.

Into the human heart is chiseled "inexorable".
We are an incongruence:
We row up the rapids,
Scale the waterfall
And taunt the oily heavens from atop Devil's Tower.

We will always get what we want,
Whether it involves killing the albatross
Or playing Gondorff's chess.
Whether we wrest it from Gaia's grasp
Or that of our more miserly peers.

Robert C. crystalised our resolve.

The riot gear-clad Blue and Green with timers in their throats
Stand abreast.
Chanting "Listen to Mother. Mother knows best.",
They begin the forward press.

When an impish grenade leaps our way,
We fling it back between mouthfuls of chips.

The barricades erected
By Mother and ourselves alike
Are many and implacable and incessant,
But they will be broken and overtaken.

They will be broken and overtaken by us,
The humans,
Because we are.
Blurry Vision May 2015
Isn't about the hatred of another person
Isn't about screaming opinions at the top of your lungs
Isn't about attacking others

Social Justice
Is about standing in the middle of a crowded room and shouting what's right as they shout what's wrong
Words flowing
Blood pumping

Screaming about Baltimore and Ferguson
White people crying wolf while blacks cry fear

Social Justice
Is the construct that is refused because it's right
And we know it's right
But refuse to believe it in all of its glory
Ok, I didn't want to do this
but there's rules that you must know
Etiquette to be followed
A line that you must toe

Listen very closely now
I think you all should try it
The things that you will now learn
About a protest and a riot

Firstly, have a purpose
Just random shouting, that's persay
If you do not have a topic
Then all the new folks go away

Throwing bricks at coppers
Breaking windows on the street
Is this a sign of protest
Or is it idiots in heat

No signage, and no speakers
Just random yelling for a cause
This isn't a good protest
Just breaking random laws

A protest has a purpose
It presents a point of view
A riot is an ugly thing
Which one is right for you

MLK could run a protest
Make a point and get things done
All without a mob forcing
A cop to use his gun

The rules really are simple
Keep the young ones all at home
For people in glass houses
Should really not throw stones

A peaceful resolution
From a protest is the goal
But a riot is just aimless
It puts the city in a hole

Victims of a riot
Are not the ones who are to blame
They're just owners of the business'
Who get caught up in the game

Next time that you protest
Protest rioting instead
It will turn out for the better
And nobody will end up dead
Frecky Rosa Mar 2015
6"4 Vs 6"4.
Arms Vs Hands.

Stole cigarettes.
Being Black was his crime.

Justice was colorblind.
The color of a White bruise appeared
redder than the blood of a Black body.

Dear Humans, what color did you see?
Mary Christopher Feb 2015
I'm drowning
In the American Dream.
Everything here
Is not what it seems.

Is it your dream
To be shot on the street?
Is it your dream
To not be able to breathe?

This is what we are.
This is where we are.
This is some American Dream.

So stand with me,
Raise our hands.
"Don't shoot."
We say.
But what does that do?

As long as the guilty walk free,
And the innocent can't be,
We are stuck in this American Dream.

Please get me out.
Take me away.
This is a nightmare.
Hold your breath,
And raise up your hands,
And pray to God
That man won't shoot.
Is this all we can do?

K Jan 2015
the air feels like fire.
it’s cold but there’s something lingering in it
and it burns enough to make you warm.
it envelops you in hundreds of smells, wet pavement, fresh paint, gasoline, salt, the smells of a city alive at night.
heads and ears pulsating and ringing as the hundreds of voices surrounding you dance.
it’s been nine days since a boy was shot in cold blood
by an unpunished officer.
"protect and serve"
there are hundreds of sweating and shaking bodies surrounding your own in a protestor’s dance.
on a crisp night like this, nobody is a singled.
we are one, screaming, angry, and trembling mass.
a man walks by.
usually you would take into account his presence.
you would notice that he was tall, towering over you, or the scar that ran through his thick eyebrow like lightning. usually you’d be gripped by an unintentional fear by his overpowering existence, but tonight it doesn’t matter.
maybe take into attention the tiny pale woman who’s body was shoved into yours, and how her bones jut out like they’re trying to escape. tonight is not that night.
tonight is the night where the streets of portland, maine, and hundreds of other cities around the world
run with sweat and tears.
tonight is the night in which humanity falls like dropping a feather in the wind.
tonight is passion like boiling water from a teapot long ignored.
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