I am the shadow of trayvon martin
Lying on the ground just as he did
I'm black just as he was
I wasn't planning to die that day either
I wasn't threatning nobody either
that day
The gunshots echoed
just as loud
when I was shot down as Mike Brown
yet his name echoes through the streets years later still
mine followed me to the grave
They don't care about me it seems
If I cried "what about me"
Who would ever see?
because my hashtag has even been drowned so deep in the depths of R.I.P's that I can't barely breathe anymore
When we think black brutality
Why do the names of trayvon
Mike
Tamir
Sandra
Rush to our heads just as fast as blood once rushed to theirs?
Does my black life, too, matter?
I can't blame you
That there have been so many deaths due to oppression and police brutality that they all seem to sound the same
No matter how loud we scream Black lives matter
We will never be seen as the living
But the potentially dead
We cry for justice to a system that's no longer built to accept us
A president that tries to forget us
A black voice will always be too loud to a world who never intended on listening
Who am I?
Besides a hashtag and a t-shirt with my face on it?
A black lives matter sign and a melanin fist?
A statistic?
I am black excellence
Regardless of how much sin you may see in my kin

I stood cautiously upon the "great" hill,
The breeze, calming and 'o so very still;
And the sweet new blooms were proud.
Languid pull, curved, beneath a shroud,
Their sweet leaves of a sweetness stems,
Crowns which keep the droplet diadems
Caught from the budding tears o "Morn";
And clouds were fair, so wispy, so borne;
Fresh from the clear beck which so slept
Upon Azure plains of sky, and then crept
A faint buzzing among the green'r leaves;
Born of th' sigh that this quietude heaves.
For not the dimmest stirring in this  scene
Of all the umbrage that lie over the green
Was seen -such Joy such solace did bring.

A Way with words
A Way with wonder
A Way with thoughts
A Way with ponder

A Way with daydreams
and lucid reminiscence
A Way with bursting at the seams
with thought's threaded essence

A Way: The wrong way it is
for seriousness to attend
A Way: The wrongness from righteousness
of so many acceptences to bend

And so the plot thickens, negros getting plucked like the feathers off chickens.
It's open season and while the hurt is grieving the earth is washed with rivers of blood that sinks in.
But they got blinders on as if this **** ain't really going on; not phased at all as strong black men raise their hands only to fall.
By the wayside...they lie lifeless while the people shout for Justice, but their voices fall upon death ears.
Fatherless children growing up in fear, turning tender heart's so cold; she calls 'em super predators as if her feet could ever fit in their shoes; she'll never fathom their souls.
It's gotta be the spirit inside mankind, cuz human beings don't act this way.
It's just what I see through my own two eyes; dead bodies getting hash tagged everyday.
It's just another cold day in babylon, I know it's hard to stay high when they trying to keep us low.
As we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we can hear the screams from ghosts.
Judgement will come one day, though it may be hard to see it through those watery eyes.
In the end nobody will ever get away with   taking an innocent life.

I write poetry often, but it never writes me back.

Light shoulders, heavy wings:

Grief as elevation
Grief placed in the mouths of babes and bystanders
Grief visited in sterile places
Grief spoon fed for weeks
Grief taken to momentary extremes
Grief as a diving bell

A 10cm network for all you need/nothing can ever be too fresh

**** the religion,
**** the division,
**** the crony capitalism,
**** the drug war,
**** the shady cops, and
**** all the prisons,
**** the suits,
**** the boots,
**** the watches,
**** the rings, and for that matter,
**** the foolish pursuit of material things,
**** monopolies on property
**** this country's fake democracy,
**** the corporate aristocracy, and
**** the leaders' proud hypocrisy
**** the layered social classes,
**** the non-apportioned taxes,
**** the cars that run on gas, its 2015, aren't we past this?
**** mortgage debt,
**** student loans, and
**** the tanks, and
**** the drones
**** Wall Street,
**** stocks and bonds
**** the wars and
**** the bombs, and
**** indoctrination,
**** the public education, and
**** the institutional racism,
**** my mind for always racing, and
**** the American Dream, the one that's sold in magazines, and
**** me having to say **** a bunch, so I can vent some steam, but
Is this the best that we can do? I look around, it can't be true, but
If the answer to that question's 'yes,' I'll kindly say:

'*******!'

Sometimes, there ain't nothin' to say--
and on these days my tongue lays limp
and delicate and ashy
like one of those incense sticks
just before the ashes drop and disintegrate.

On these days my mind is an insomniac
attempting sleep just before sunrise--
jostling in a half-hazy-lazy rapid eye sedative lullaby
crooning potential plot points from French voices
about a story I've be writing for about a year.

On these days nothing seems finished
from a monster vegetable and eggs breakfast appetite
to a thought about that magic lightning stick.
It's as if there's this thick fatty mist
that smells of boiled ham and peas around my being.