They Don’t Want Us to Recite Our Poems


They don’t want us to recite our poems, don’t want the people to behold any signs or see any symbols and they d-mn sure don’t want us to know that the ancestors are with us. They don’t want us to recite our poems.

They fear the foreign sounds of our secret language: Hope. They thought it long dead. They are afraid of the spread of our fever how it creeps along the sense—our hearing and seeing, our awakening perception, our ability to sniff out what’s false.

The willingness to feel our most painful wound, the taste of blood on our lips. They don’t want us to recite our poems.

They are afraid of the promise of our spring, the way mother earth blushes green for us, hiding her gift in full view of both the strong and weak alike.

She has shown us fine stones in a babbling brook: love, faith, courage, tenacity, and understanding. They fear the inevitable fall of their rampaging giants.

They don’t want us to recite our poems. They want us to die with our songs unsung. They want to bury our burnt-out husks perfectly preserved shells, with sightless eyes of bitter black smoke and a mouthful of tightly clenched pearl-white teeth, trapping inside, for all eternity, the music that they desperately fear.

They don’t want us to recite our poems.

Drumming Pains


Listen to the pains of the beating drum
Mental Anguish
The sounds of a mind taking a beating
Sent to the ghettos, stripped from their kingdom
Its hide screams at every beat that comes
Rhythm & Blues; Pain never sounded so good
Embracing our culture, if they only understood
Heavy bass on the beat soothes my mind on these streets
Nighttime, my baby went to sleep on my heartbeat
Voluptuous hips rock to the heavy beat of the soul
Synchronized to the sound of its own
A powerful nation, the beat of its throne
An unstoppable machine feared cuz they know
That soulful beat passed down for centuries
Voices are heard from lungs never empty – full of life
These drumming pains have history
So next time you hear heavy bass or that bellowing drum
Listen to its spirt; that beat where I come from

Human Nature


Every day I struggle and ask are we fighting for a cause or just because.
Ain’t no sense in raising your fist if you don’t even know what you’re fighting for.
But I’m scared to put my hands down to keep from getting hit in the face.
I won’t just brace up against anything, but I refuse to turn the other cheek.
There’s a very thin line between caution and paranoia,
but I’m not gonna keep looking over my shoulder
and I won’t keep peeking out the blinds.
Outside of my windows there’s someone peeking inside.
I keep telling myself to pay attention and stay focused.
I can’t afford to lose my mind; my heritage gives me pride.
Cause my ancestors died for me to live.
I’m equipped with a mustard seed that moves mountains and I’ll prove happiness is priceless.
To be confused will cost you to become self-righteous and self-centered.
My feet are cemented in the streets.
A product of the fiend my mother was and she was never there…but my father was?
And that’s a flipside of the black family portrait.
We are depicted amongst society as failures.
We’ve inherited hell on earth cause heaven ain’t within crumbs distance.
Unless, I put my brothers and sisters on my shoulders to get closer to grab the ribbon in the sky.