Your perception of me pre-existed, you saw black and you felt danger, you saw my skin and with it painted a personality from the prejudice of your mind.

You don’t know me, yet you assume that I am just like every other dark skinned man out there.

So that is why I feel angry when you cram yourself in the corner of elevators, if you could only realize I am the one who is truly backed into a corner, provoked by your ignorance, until I become what you painted me.

With your judging eyes, cautious smiles, and nervous actions you made me this way when in the beginning I was just me. Now after all you have done, and all I have done, I’m just trying to be me again.
I just want to be me.

Millions of daughters, sons, fathers, mothers, lost in this pointless thing us humans call war.
We’re the only species capable to forcefully make itself extinct.
Child after child,
The blood of the innocent has flooded the land they ruthlessly fight for.
Soldier after soldier,
Risking their lives for a cause that led to years of horror they never planned for.
Jealously seeking power, and coveting each other.
When will they realize that strength is for service not status,
That the very first death was between a man and his brother,
That the deeds of the father always affect the son,
And that when two elephants fight...
It’s always the grass that suffers.

I haven't slept for two days now. The nights pass by slowly as I am in deep thought, my grandmother’s radio plays at full volume in the other room, and my parents and uncle talk loudly into the ears of their loved ones an ocean away.
I hear my father tell his brother to search for his son among the bodies of the dead, I hear my mother asking for the latest news and picture her standing there holding her breathe as she listens to the tired frantic voice of the person on the other end of the line, and I play the scene over and over again where my grandmother walks slowly into my room, with a back, hunched because of years of hard labor. She stares at me with a wrinkled face and a look in her eyes that I recall seeing only a few times but only when she speaks of her past, during the rough times.
She asks me if I know what's going on, and I tell her yes. Then she begins to summarize anyways, speaking in a lowered voice so that is just above a whisper enunciating each word clearly and I understand despite the usual misunderstandings between me and her, I nod my head, and release noises known worldwide to reassure someone who is speaking that the audience is listening.
And as her words become separated by seconds that tell stories in themselves, and that look in her eyes, she says in a grave voice and in a language that seems so familiar yet foreign, “chi we dak, chi we dak” then she turns around and walks out of the room in the same fashion in which she came in.
I ponder her words as I sit there.
“The world has broken, the world has broken.”

From the moment the words splash onto the page I feel excitement like the night before Christmas. I sit collecting the thoughts and lines I conjured throughout the day, then eagerly place each piece until the puzzle is whole.
I like to imagine I have a way with words, but that's not true. I have a way of rebelling to what's been told. Unscripted lies placed in our heads by society. Schemes to make us believe we are supposed to put everything second because being “cool” is priority. Or blend in with the crowd or else you'll get pushed, shoved, and then stomped on. Until creativity is a negative connotation, they **** individualism which then gives birth to stereotypes.
I like to think I have a way of words, but that's not true. Every word has power. Though they can often be used to pierce and bruise. Tattered and misused. Each time they come out your mouth or bleed ink, paint or graphite. That's your mark and the impression you leave for the entire world to see.
I like to think I have a way with words, but that's not true. I just love a canvas to portray the good parts of me, the bad parts of me. The parts filled with animosity, fear, and definitely aren't god breathed. Just to show that sometimes I falter, so don't ever follow me.
I like to think I have a way with words, but that's not true. I'm just grabbing the torch and running with it. It's a calling not a choice. It chooses you as a vessel. The words came to me when I had nothing else, they took me under their wings and showed me destiny. The words mold me, shape me, and build me up. Give me courage to speak up.
I like to think I have a way with words, but that’s not true. The giddy feeling I get when I hear them calling to me at night, keeping me from sleep, or waking me abruptly in the morning like a cold refreshing shower just waiting to energize and excite me always reminds me that though I like to think I have a way with words, it’s not true... Words have a way with me.

The day is done,
The night has won,
The wind howls,
And the cold growls,
Loneliness creeps on and I have no one to lean on.
The past comes back to mind,
And I’m convinced I will never break its bind.