Poem for young strugglers

A poem for young strugglers

This is not the first time we have thrown rocks and black bodies

At blood enemies
this is not the first time we have martyred our young

We have joined hands and hearts many times to fight this

We have marched

Bloody feet

Hands

Heads

From batons and bullets

In our young minds we forget

That we have done this before

Our old minds want to forget the pain of police batons

And dog bites

The sting of tear gas and the stench that never leaves your clothes

We want to forget the hate that burns us

The crosses burning on lawns

The men swinging from trees

Black bodies put on the line again and again

for what?

What are we fighting for?

Before we have burned

Bombed Black Wall Street
Bombed W. Philly

We have burned down Detroit
Watts

Long and hot summers

Why are they burning down their own neighborhoods?

Burn your cages, burn your cells, burn it all

But when you are finished burning

Be ready and willing, be able to build something new

that works

They/We are purging and burning the things you use to suck our blood

Burn the likker stores

The dollar stores

Check cashing

Smoke shops

Burn the mfs that put little girls on the ho stroll

And the ones that sell rocks to who ever has the money

Burn them too

Burn the shit that does not serve you

But be willing and ready to create something that does

Burn the whole thing

Be willing to sacrifice to get something better

We are.

We have

They say….pull yourself up by your bootstraps

But I have no boots

So I grab my ankles

And you fuck me

We made a mistake by not leaving this land to you

We keep saying we spilled blood here, we fought and died for this

But would the people we came from have done that?

doors. a poem for Baltimore and everywhere els

they say

we brought you here to work!

This place is not yours

all fancy free

busy shutting doors

so I knock and I wait

patiently and kindly while

you have your debate

“should we?”

some say

“nay”

say others

meanwhile, we are hungry

myself, my sisters and brothers

so I knock again

this time, a little more strength

the man answered the door

looking quite tense

“Um, please go stand over there and mind that fence”

“I guess you’ve been here for a while with me...how about twopence?”

I wait and I watch

but the door remains closed

Now the windows are shut.

I go back and I pound

The door opens a crack and out come the hounds

They tear at me

I run and then I attack

I’ve had enough of knocking politely on closed doors.

I’ve had enough of this wait to get what is mine.

I’m not tricked your sweet talks, the bribes, the lines.

I’ve put away distractions, the weed, the women, the sweet sweet wine.

Why do you treat me this way?

I know it’s because I am Black.