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the white race, paunched,
couched in lazy righteousness
steeped in knee-**** fright of us--
terrified by the sight of
our history of shamefulness
in every passing headline
and obit crossing the line
that makes the deadline,
day by deadly day
due to the arrogance of men
who refuse to even listen
to the obvious injustice
pouring since i don't know when--

our nation's deepest wound
forever reopened to bleed again
and again
and again
and again
Michael King Feb 5
I've seen blood dripping from the willows.

Seen it rolling in drops down the cheek
of a young girl,  not long in her adolescence.

The confusion was the worst part. She
didn't know why she was dying. Alone.
The ****** grass beneath a lost friend
of comfort.

But the white man knew. As he pulled up. his trousers,  a savage grin on his face
as he rubbed her agony over and over...

She lays. Fragile. A heart now gone. A
beautiful life now stolen.

The sun sets as the man walks off.
He is thinking about his wife and kids.

His other thought is how he put just
another ***** where she belonged.

A butterfly glides through the willows today.
It floats and lands on the outstretched
hand of a dead girl.

It looks towards her face. Another river
running red. Another of God's
master works removed from life's rhythm.
Carl Miller Feb 3
Hiding are we, the children, lost and starving
Vacant shells of free spirits now gone
The men in the moon have taken our doll away
Make what You will of it, the deed is done

Dying are we, the children, hollow and hurting
Our stomachs churn while our heads roll and pound
Raised to be slaves, shattering our insides, to cover the cost
He wept for us, we cry out to him, longing to be found

Suicidal, solemn retribution for the god they worship
Selfish, bloated and dead but never forgotten
Forever are we plagued by what they have left behind
Left to suffer from the remains of what lies, rotten

Days have passed since we saw her last
We long to embrace her, now we must bear the task
Deep in our bones, we feel her dying, fast
Armed to the teeth, malicious intent, behind My vacant doll mask
Written 01/24/29
Eslam Dabank Jan 28
Love is dead, I know.
I was the one who unleashed the arrow,
And left us a deadly hallow.

I cough out poisonous words,
Thought I'd tame you with injections,
A python you turned out to be.
One, who never kneels.
Your fangs fill my throat with lies,
You choke me with your "cuddles".
I've always yearned for power,
And dignity,
But I'm transparent in your slavery.

I was a bright star,
Now I'm nothing but a scar.

But we'll be making love like savages,
I'll absorb the venom off your kiss,
I'll let you allure me into your darkness,
I'll pretend I'm alive for one lethal bliss,
I'll sacrifice my thrones for your filthy roses,
To make love like savages.

Barefoot crossing a path of swords,
Skin on skin with devil's **** fires,
Mud blood running through my viens,
defiling my mind,
And turn it into madness.

A madness,
Where you're the god of all gods.
What ***** have I become!
Embracing servitude,
Desire no rebellion,
Please! O, my will! Succumb!
To her, with gratitude,
Besides Beauty, there’s none.

I vow to cede control,
No action beyond me,
Beauty is my master!
I’ve no need for my soul,
Beauty, I cede to thee
Fortune or disaster!

Liberty is worthless!
My eyes must stir the heart!
Why live, and not seek you?
I publicly confess,
To Beauty, to Astarte,
You command all I do.
Instagram @insightshurt
Buy “Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life” at
There are 7.6 billion fools to this day
and I build an understanding to stand among them.
I came to the haven of insecurity to find the unknown
and to worship the word of my Professors like a *****.
I bow down to the, end all be all, grades of disappointment
As if these C's will give me the edge one day;
the sway over everybody else to secure my existence.
I yearn to matter in anyway possible,
In a society that wants to ***** out my contributions.

Thus far,
I can not compare to the greats in their sepulchers,
Nor can I circumvent my disposition of miniscularity.
But one day when I know what those fancy words truly mean
I will reign down from above
And hopefully take my place next to the others...
Dead and in a grave of my own.
This poem is absolutely my truth! Hope you all enjoy!
s Willow Jan 8
Wispy moonlight beams,
enter the barren church
a place of dreams.
Outside next to a silver birch.
Inside women in search for someone,
someone long gone.
I kneel upon the alter.
The pain fills the void with slaughter.
A *****, frozen to his peace.
Nothing left to hang on.
It’s the end run.
Robbed forms,
lifted the storms.
However, my ***** flesh spared not.
What brings might?
What is it that makes you fight?
What is just,
What is right?

Why are we fighting
Why are our children dying
I’m buying time
Now I survive by mining

Mining my hopes
Sawing my dreams
Breaking knees
Sweating on the breeze

Hopes gone
Family lost
Dinner on the table
I have not...
Rebel wars if they lose... thought for food
“I am the descendant of survivors,” I think as I reflect on the lynching trees.
I think of the pain, fear, and cautiousness that my ancestors experienced in their lifetimes.
The normalcy of it.
I think of how far we’ve come.
As a nation: one inch.
As my brothers’ and sisters’ force: eons.
There is so much pride I feel in their transcendence. I am here because they learned how to survive.
I wonder was it through power? Cowardice? Hiding?
How much does it matter? Isn’t there strength in whatever method works?
There are so many generations that did not make it. I am one of the lucky ones.
I get to live out the dreams that my ancestors cried out to the stars,
The ones they whispered into the void of a tunnel lit by a single flickering light,
The ones they inhaled from a friend after they bubbled up to the water’s surface,
The ones that danced in the breeze like the leaves on hanging trees.
I have the honor.
I have the pride of knowing they survived fear and turmoil for me.
The past is dark and grim, but the future is bright because now I hold the light.
Sometimes when people ask me what it means to be African-American, I tell them
It means to be lost.
Displaced from your real home; tribe; ripped from your roots --
But does it?
When I look up at the stars that may have guided generations of them,
Sometimes I feel as if I can see some of them blinking
Watching over me.
Africa my Africa
Africa of proud warriors in the ancestral savannah,
Africa my grandmother sings of
Beside her distant river
I have never seen you
But my gaze is full of your blood
Your black blood spilt over the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your toil
The toil of your slavery
The slavery of your children.

Africa, tell me Africa
Are you the back that bends
Lies down under the weight of humbleness?
The trembling back striped red
That says yes to the sjambok on the road of noon
Solemnly a voice answers me
"Impetuous child, that young and sturdy tree
That tree that grows
There splendidly alone among white and faded flowers
Is Africa, your Africa." It put forth new shoots
With patience and stubbornness put forth new shoots
Slowly its fruits grow to have
The bitter taste of liberty
The struggle for liberty
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