Dr.  King said “I have a dream”,

But his dream suffered homicide in the streets of our nightmares.

Murdered by the people who were supposed to protect us.

336 innocent people killed in 2015, because the police saw color instead of people,

I suppose the color of their skin was more important than human rights.

Because someone's melanin pigment spoke more to how people perceived them than did the color of their character.

So much has changed, but we’re not done yet.

There are still racists hiding behind screens, and cops who refuse body cams.

The white man in blue suits killings brown kid’s dreams, murdering their moments and *******.

Dr. King’s dream of peace and harmony dies in the eyes of every American citizen.

You know things ain’t right when you are more worried about your boyfriend with cops than with drug dealers.

You know something is wrong when walking with him at night is more dangerous for him than for me.

You know there’s a problem when there are too many cops, not enough justice,

Too many them and not enough us and....

Dr.  King said “I have a dream”,

And.... So much has changed, but we’re not done yet.

When there are still people like Sandra Bland, and Mike Brown, who die for no reason, then we aren't done yet.

Because when people are more comfortable on a street with gun shots than cops, then we aren't done yet.

When I still get looks for having a black boyfriend, then WE AREN'T DONE YET.

We won’t be done until there’s equality, until there’s no more violence, it may not happen in my life time, but we aren’t done yet.

Love isn’t all the Hollywood romanticism,
Love isn’t just the words I love you.
When you love someone,
You’d do anything for their well-being,
Even if they don’t like it,
When you love someone,
You’d give up something for yourself,
To get something for them,
When you love someone,
You’d hold their hair back when they throw up,
And you’d stay still when they’re asleep in your arms,
But you’d also flush their stash if they keep using,
You’d put them into rehab and help them get clean,
You’d make sure that you’re always there,
But you’d bow out, when they no longer need you.
When you love someone,
It’s all about them, never about you.

When you dip her on the dance floor,
It's the color of her dress,
As she whispers in your ear,
It's the color of her lips,
When you make love,
It's the color that she leaves on your back,
With every scratch,
It's the color of the kisses,
And hickeys,
She leaves all over your body.
It's the color of your anger,
When she pushes you away,
It's the color of the words don't touch me.
It is sharp,
It's the color of the blood that you bleed,
When you hear those words,
It's the color of your eyes after a long night with no sleep,
because you were up thinking about her.
It's the color of her eyes,
as she cries,
and begs you to come back to her.
It's the color of your fist,
moments after you break,
and punch a hole in the wall.
It's the color of her face,
when she's angry at you,
but also the color of her love.
It's the color of her tear stained face,
as you kiss her,
and tell her everything is going to be alright.
It's the color of the love,
and lust,
you have for each other.
It's the color you can't stay away from.

I am radioactive,
everyone close,
gets hurt, or dies.
I am radioactive,
my confidence is decaying,
and my spirit is dead.
I am radioactive,
my emotions are on a rampage,
and my love has fled.
I am radioactive,
every aspect of my life,
turns into a battle field.
and I, I am radioactive,
I explode,
leaving no trace of life,
or love left.
I am radioactive,
every breath I take,
is taken from someone else.
I am radioactive,
the waves of my danger,
reverberate through people's souls.
Because I am radioactive.

Being a girl in my day and age,
you get used to all the horn honks,
the wolf whistles,
and the "hey baby's",
and the guys saying "you're too pretty not to smile",
as though not having a smile on my face at all times is a sin.
But why should I smile when harassment becomes normal,
when a girl can't report it because even the police thinks she should be flattered,
but why should I be flattered that a guy wants to see up my dress so much that he 'accidentally' pushes it up,
why should I be flattered when a guy can't even use words so he whistles at me like I'm a dog.
But I am not a *****,
I cannot be won over by a whistle and sweet words,
no scratch behind my ears in the form of some misogynistic pick up line,
will give you a chance.
And if I laugh at your poor attempt,
it is not consent,
just because my lips curl into a smile,
does not mean you can come curl up with me.
My self worth does not exist on how fuckable I am in your perverted eyes,
it is not existent on if you want to 'hit that',
if you were to hit anything it should be your mindset that that is okay,
right out of your head.
Because I am not an object for your pleasure,
and I object to you treating me like I am.
I AM!
I AM!
I AM!
A WOMAN!
Built from all the things a man could never be.
And don't you ever ******* forget it.

The earth with out art is just eh,
and the words I am spewing is music to the ears of all who hear,
poetry is my art,
and it is the art of the broken,
the art of the hurt,
the art of all of us who need to be heard.
Art is the building block of everything in existence,
there is art in the wind and in the clouds,
there is art in your hair and your clothes,
there is art everywhere.
When you can no longer hear the poetry of the world,
and see the art in the earth,
it is then when you lose hope,
you don't see the leaves cascading down in the fall like rain in the spring and snow in winter,
and you don't hear the symphonies of the cars passing by,
and the whistling of the wind whispering to you,
telling you about the beauty the world has to offer.
You see nothing,
and all you hear is silence,
because someone killed your art,
they murdered your poetry in cold blood,
and in the process made you draw blood,
they broke you down with every painful word,
and they chipped away with razor blades,
they tried to make your art disappear,
they tried to cut your poetry out,
but they just just cut you up.
When they tell you your poetry is nothing special,
and your art is just eh,
they are slowly attacking it, attacking you,
your music and art and poetry is you,
when they **** it,
they are killing little pieces of you.
But it is your art,
it is extraordinary,
and your poetry has little pieces of you in it,
so it must be special,
if you let those parts be killed there is just less of you to love,
because someone will think your art is amazing,
and your poetry is genius,
and if you let those pieces be killed and you be scarred,
there will be a little bit less of you for them to love.

If you have to be mad,
be madly in love with me,
if you fall,
fall in love with me,
if you hold something,
hold my hand not grudges,
if you have to take something,
take my heart,
if you have to run,
run into my arms.
I'm yours,
take me.