Do you feel it?
The rage within
Bubbling and boiling
Filling to the brink
I can't even comprehend
How broken this place is
We all are...
There is so much pain
The injustice
That surrounds existence
I can't linger on it
It hurts too much
This world
It doesn't make sense
And it leads me to nothing less
Than rage
Do you feel it too?

I bought a shotgun at a flea market without knowing that it was used to commit a horrible crime.
The former owner used the shotgun to **** an entire family and I was about to have to do hard time.
The police came to my house and confiscated the shotgun.
They thought I was the guilty party, they thought I was the one.
The entire world turned against me, I was a person who billions of people hated.
People said that I should go to the gas chamber and if I did, it would be celebrated.
Even though the public had turned against me, I convinced the police to have doubts.
I told them over and over that somebody else was the killer and they decided to check it out.
They found the real killer and it wasn't long before he was placed under arrest.
The cops showed him the bodies of his victims and he broke down and confessed.
Even though I was put through hell, I'm not mad.
The real killer was brought to justice and I'm glad.
Many people have mailed apologies to me and one of the reasons why billions turned against me is because I'm mentally ill.
They thought I was a crazy ****** but now when it comes to committing ******, everybody knows that I never will.

7 billion people in the world; they say you can’t love every one,
But shouldn’t all 7 billion at least be loved by someone?
We all have our circles of family and friends,
And I’m not saying love them any less,
But what about those who aren’t as blessed?
Who loves them in their distress?
Who will look beyond the mistakes
And weep with them in their heartache?

Who weeps for the woman holding the sign
At the off-ramp for all the cars in a line,
Bearing looks of disdain behind rolled up windows
Bearing more shame as each car goes?
A helping hand might stretch out food or a twenty
But none of that helps when she says she’s so lonely,
That she’s “so **** depressed” as people drive right on by.
Who stands with her as tears fill her eyes?

Who weeps for the man on the bench waiting
For an opportunity to come, as his hope’s fading?
A former carpenter, skilled with his hands,
Willing to work but not given a second chance.
He hides his desperate eyes behind sunglasses
From all the wealth and comfort as it passes.
He doesn’t know where the past 7 months have gone,
But he’s not searching for that, just somewhere he belongs.

Who weeps for the girl who doesn’t lie about her “needs”,
Her cardboard asking for money, food, alcohol, and ****?
And for her request, it’s judgement she’s received
From people who don’t know she’s been on the streets since 16,
Kicked out of the house at the hands of abuse
By an alcoholic father who has a short fuse.
Her life reduced to just the next meal;
Who cares for her when she says it’s no big deal.

Who weeps for the man who sits on the steps
Trying to fight his addiction to ****?
He wants to change; he knows it’s ruining his life.
He lost his restaurant, his home, and even his wife.
Brochures in hand from multiple rehab centers,
The last thing he needs are glances calling him  sinner.
He needs someone who will help him through the fight.
Who will walk with him just to make it through the night?

Who weeps for Kat, Zona, Lilith and Robert
And so many like them going through hurt?
The answer to this question I’ve posed:
It’s the One whose tears matter most.
A God not distanced from His creation
But who weeps for the pain in all of the nations,
Who weeps over death even though there’s life in His name,
Who calls those who mourn blessed because He comforts them again.
Jesus loves all the least of these:
The poor in spirit, the beggar, and the meek.
He welcomes the marginalized and ostracized,
The minimized and disenfranchised,
And it’s not until we realize
This truth with our own eyes
Will we no longer just stand by.

We don’t have to tell Him about all this injustice
Because He is a sovereign God who can be trusted.
He cares about them more than we ever could,
It is in His nature to always be good.
Again, who weeps for them?
Jesus weeps BECAUSE He is for them.
He’s promised to bring healing and restore all things.
He will wipe away every tear as our King of kings.
But while this time is not yet, we shouldn’t be idle.
Out own comfort and self-preservation should not be an idol.
So go out and love and weep, but not as a project to help others,
Rather because everyone is an image bearer of God, our sister and brother.
Be ready to wait, to walk, to love, to feed His sheep
And do so in the strength of a God who loves, a God who weeps.

It ignites inside them; it does boil and swell,
Another emotion man attempts to quell.
But this vapour of hatred and these bubbles of wrath,
Seem determined to scorch those that dare cross their path.
Flames stoked by abhorrence, froth stirred by malice,
"How dare the heathens encroach into our palace?"
This typhoon of sentiment, this eruption of conviction,
I find it to be the source of many an affliction.
Man stands idly by, gawking in shock,
The opportunity passes with the hands of the clock.
The lid though of iron can't contain this hot steam,
The sensation that boasts it would tear at the seam.
Guilt simmers; hope evaporates in shame,
One more missed prevention, yet no one to blame.
Man exclaims rather loudly, "Next time I will help!"
As the downtrodden perish, with a suppressed yelp.

the sun roared with intensity
turning ebony skins golden
twelve bodies, littered on the ground
empty cases of flesh bereft of life
blood dripping out of their wounds,
seeping into the Earth's rich soil
a deep shade of brown, like their skin
around them children kneel
hollow cheeks damp with tears
as they mourn those before them
souls that once walked the earth
but never will no more
and their brothers, with skins
a light contrast to their dark ones
roams the same earth freely
fingernails caked with dried blood and
blood on their pale feet
like red wine on white silk
yet no one  bats an eye
nor do they raise a finger
their whispers never turning
into rage fueled shouts
for their own children are safe,
nestled  under their covers
certain that tomorrow
the day after tomorrow
and all the tomorrows to come
they shall walk free and unharmed
unlike the bodies on the ground
even as they leave a trail of red
b e h i n d  t h e m

America was never just great
It was flawed first
It is practically an accident
But better here than India
The explorers came, and faster than a cinnamon skinned Arawak Native American woman could yell “the colonialists are coming!” The men in lily-white shirts shoved the unsuspecting indigenous off their land.

The explorers were as lost as Louis and Clark without Sacajawea
But a determined pedophelic peony planted itself in the deep brown soil
The invasive plant started a genocidal streak all over the continent
In return it won a couple cities and holiday and the Native Americans were bestowed with accidental exposure to smallpox and enslavement.  

To repay them we allotted reservations where people live in crippling poverty, put Sacajawea on a coin and Pocahontas in a movie yet we cannot fully allow them into our society, our neighborhoods, our schools because they are uncivilized.

The only people who have any business being on this continent are uncivilized. What a shame.

America still is not great
It still shows scars and old behaviors from the 1400s, 1800s, 60s and even yesterday. The Band-Aid was applied but the wound never washed, never sewn up.
So it sets, burgundy bruises and gore gaping at our present, our future.
America’s past is far darker than anyone’s skin but is accepted while brown complexions are not. America’s roots are not up for discussion, white supremacy is not real.

We are imagining things.

We weren’t turned away at white linoleum restaurant counters, we haven’t been isolated from the rest of the country, our sufficiency in the English language hasn’t been questioned, our bodies haven’t been sexualized, politicized
It’s all in our heads.

Our heads, spinning with fiction, are buried
Sinking towards the earth’s core, waiting to come out of the other side where oppression is not pressing down on us like a molten red brick wall. Our brown heads will come up out of the grass and be greeted by the sun and all will welcome us.

Honor /an inadequacy/

To continue forward despite unimaginable obstacle.
When your children don’t have shoes
And you’ve left everything else behind
When you’re willing to face a new land’s problems in place of your home’s
Because you have nowhere else to go.

The injustice of death brought all other
injustices to the forefront of consciousness.
For a short time, right and wrong were very
clear and the world was very simple, albeit
false and irreconcilably wrong.