"if i had a son, he'd look like trayvon." barack hussein obama
there will never be justice on stolen land.
be concerned of the people,
and the system,
and the philosophy.
nights like these i fear:
having a son
having a black son
being black
being American
being a woman
being...
i fear raising a murderer or the murdered, of spending the rest of my life scared of a shadow, or becoming one.
victimized.
they only regard our kind when we shake the grounds in anger, when our voices boom off the walls and translate into violence. we are marching Martins.
i fear my son carrying his struggles on his shoulders, doning a black cloak like his black hood.
i can't watch him die again.
no black boy should feel like dirt when their pigment is golden.

i rather believe in angels
that men
who attribute themselves
a loss of free will
in order to just sell plastician’s extension
of what’s called life by the non-memorable
numberings in equal measure numbings
of what man isn’t given he chose neither devil’s tail
or angelic wings but the monkey’s *******!
and guided the 100m metres beyond marathon
for a measure of a chatty shadow allowing sepia
as proof of grey...
flip the ****** coin will you!
flip it!
ah... you won’t flip it...
i’ll marathon myself ready as audience +1 for
the tragedy of aeschylus... sad cosine exhausted...
sad because the fattened actors in numerology
expanded the fate of acting with the actor’s once taken
for plasticians of doning masks to later
adorning man with a fake sexuality on stage
as a forging of forgetting the sexuality of the feminine:
woman cannot fake her sexuality
man can with homosexuality...
but woman cannot fake her sexuality should
our reproduction be usurped and lost...
but isn’t that double homosexuality of
man usurping woman from faking her ***
by acting and...
ah crap... the proof came with inter-racial ***...
white girl met brown boy and sang about
a blue-eyed afghani girl in the verse of van morrisson
concerning the stranger who wasn’t a spaniard
but a scandinavian who wouldn’t return the love affair
of the stereotypical phrasing of a book material
to employ a little country in terms of how many metaphysical
spoons were sold counter to the number of soups slurred.

I looked over the frame and upward to
Meet your eyes when you passed by
A sidewalk beggar
A kenneled hound would
Present this posture to any passing uncertainty
Doning fangs or long coats and a predatory aura

Devil on my shoulder i'm thinking it's all over tell me you're the witness how often have you seen me sin and ask for forgiveness
Normal kid on the block once used to be everything handed me to me in sets of 3
time flew by but i'm still singing my musical lullaby
Simple people sever ties and break bonds something that was once here tomorrow gone
God running through your veins but i'm here doning fine sipping from my golden cup my red wine waiting for my life to align in Gods perfect design but hates gonna hate lovers are gonna love but i'm just here waiting and preying to the sky above.