I Weaponized My Words

I weaponized my words

as truth-bomb cannonfire.

Quite frankly, I’ve had enough

of the charade of playing holier.

You point a crooked finger,

smiling as you kill.

Maybe you didn’t pull the trigger,

but you align with a culture that will.

You go to church on Sunday

and wear the false-humility veil.

I don’t see you doing the work.

There’s no dirt under your fingernails.

Yeah, you show up and pass out canned food

shortly after it has just been bought.

You don’t get to say you worked the streets

when you never left your church parking lot.

You don’t meet people where they actually are.

You use their poverty as your torch

to lure them where necessity begets,

to lure them straight to your elaborate front porch.

Your mission trips just look like vacations,

and maybe you did some good deeds along the way.

You go back year after year to save souls and

to teach them in person the way you pray.

You call that sweet salvation.

You have saved them from the eternal flame.

All I see is you, you, you.

The Bible never once mentioned your name.

I read “pray in secret.”

Your left hand shouldn’t know the deeds of the right.

Yet, you’re the poster child for Merican Jesus Christ,

but you won’t vote to help human plight.

You call yourselves the Body of Christ.

You say the Kingdom of Heaven is magnificent.

But if bodies within the Body are melanated,

then they’re somehow less significant.

In case you don’t know the history

or just don’t care to learn,

I have a honesty missile just for you,

Jesus Christ was Middle Eastern.

Nah, maybe you didn’t pull the trigger.

Your ballot promotes a culture that will.

So, I weaponized each and every word

to launch truth bombs from my quill.



There were explosions in your brain

that led us down this trail,

justifying the means for financial gain.

That’s how you go to sleep to yourself.

Dehumanize. Subjugate. Discredit.

You’ve cemented our historical part.

You operate under the guise of human rights,

but you only deal from a fragmented heart.

MYocardium might be a bleeder.

No. I can’t just look the other way.

Your chest cavity is the ultimate deceiver,

because you suffer from cardiovascular decay.

I can see and hear blocked arteries

from all the things you do and say.

Preserving your power structure

is your only driver to be sure,

laced with iniquity and inequity,

because you’re rupt down to your cor.



Blood should be thicker than water.

and overrule destructive ideologies.

It takes both to survive in this world

to help fight against biological disease.

Some humans possess an infection

that transfusions cannot cure.

It comes from place of unfortunate perception

with a hate that seems to forever endure.

I’ve met many universal donors;

melanin doesn’t determine the blood.

Manhattan might be O positive,

but so is the East Harlem neighborhood.

One might seem like a shiny haven—

both can claim cultural nuance.

 Let’s give props where props are due.

Only one can claim a renaissance.

I’ve walked the streets of human hatred

and seen injuries with my own eyes.

Constructs that have built a division

to the very architects’ demise.

Would you discriminate against your life being saved

when you’re bleeding out on a cold, metal table?

That vial doesn’t have a race or ethnicity.

There’s no demographic-distinguishing label.

It’s just you in need of living

and a human who was willing and able.

The moment that we realize,

we’re all lifeforce wrapped in skin;

we can let go of social constructs

and let healing humanity begin.

We are all interconnected,

 and blood is the master weaver.

Acceptance is the only way forward, and

I will always aim to be a universal receiver.


The United States of Human

I am inspired by the achievement

and admire the long-haul roar.

Every single system was set against you,

and despite it, you managed to soar.

I can’t pretend I understand the trauma

or the pain behind every shrill.

I don’t understand the synapses of drama,

and I likely never will.

I try my best to see from your shoes;

I employ empathy as much as I’m able.

I can see the reality of cruel, inhumane systems

is they serve enduring trauma to every table.

I wish I could wipe away histories

and correct the dominant-cultural lies.

I’m living a life that aligns with more-promising futures

and making choices that bake equal socio-economic pies.

I’m raising the future of informed voters

in a blended household of globalization.

It’s a human right to have an equitable playing field,

because we belong to the Sapien nation.

I’ve always been a composer at heart

of the written lyric and musical noise.

I can see the pain and the deliberation

that goes into every single choice.

Pain is embedded in legacy,

and that’s what fuels the long-haul run.

I’m eager to create a new motion-picture soundtrack

to The United States of Human.


The Grieving Chamber and Blooming Atrium

You think you have forever –

that is, until you don’t.

Then, there is no time to process.

There is no anecdote.

There’s simply you in a chamber of grieving,

far removed from  your blooming atrium.

A line in the sand has been drawn on what once was,

and there’s no going back again.

The flowers have never wilted,

and they really never will.

They were planted over years of good memories.

To smell them, you just need to heal.

The heart is a wonderous vessel,

full of brokenness, love, and feeling.

More flowers will bloom in your atrium

once your heart has begun its healing.


The Persistence of Ego Masturbation

I’ve been gone for far too long

in a hibernation of despair,

sleeping off egos and chess matches

from people who barely pretend to care.

They only do it for perception.

God forbid their malice actually get caught.

They hide behind Dali-painted smiles and interactions,

believing their surrealism is actually being bought.

Their Escher-like mind fucks are daunting

–a relativity of dilusions.

Except, they’re the only ones warped while performing,

blinded by their own optical illusions.

They are the Metamorphosis of Narcissus

and embody paranoiac deprecation.

They steer the helm of irrational knowledge

into the delirium of interpretation.

They may be the ones holding the crystal ball,

forecasting predictions from their long run.

I’m just waiting for the burning glass effect to set in,

melting clocks and igniting flames from being exposed in the sun.


Salix Babylonica

Hey there drooping Willow,
have you been weeping for about 36 years
while the earth has been shaking out your roots
and the dirt has been collecting your tears?
You’re a beauty in all your grieving
with the weight of your limbs draping over the earth.
You see to some, your posture is deceiving.
I think your branches are full of mirth.
Your tresses wisp and sway in the summer breeze,
dancing to songs of the wind.
You move with finesse and the greatest of ease
as you curtsy, bow, and bend.
You offered me shade during my childhood–
that is until they chopped you down.
I suppose your weeping wasn’t conducive
to mowing straight lines in the ground.
Your limbs enveloped a fifty-foot circumference–
a natural tent from the hot, summer skies.
I guess they believed you drooped to low,
and they didn’t understand all your cries.
They didn’t harness and process all your raw gifts.
They tossed you away and don’t think of you.
They still have no idea all the purposes you serve;
you take away pain like feverfew.
You even treat spinal disease,
despite your short lifespan.
But, they’ll continue to be cowardice as they please.
Straight lines are driving the plan.
They’d rather slump and twist in their old age,
remembering all their manicured lines
and gripe about the wild-haired young ones
who’d rather play in Willow’s wispy vines.
You’re as ancient as Egypt and Assyria,
and when I swung, I was Tarzan.
God forbid little girls be so vulgar–
pretending they could be a half-naked man.
I could care less about straight-line appearance;
it was about being wild and free,
finding my voice and purpose
in the wilderness of just being me.
Now that Willow has been chopped down,
and I am grown with adult eyes,
I can see the bigger-picture playbook,
and these lines that feed the self-imposed lies.
Spines will continue to shrivel,
and Willow will keep being cut down.
But, I care not for well-manicured straight lines
being mowed in chemically-fertilized ground.
So, I’ll plant seeds of wispy tresses,
where the wind blows wild and free.
If I please, I might wear dresses
in the wilderness of just being me.
Willows don’t offer an explanation
for threatening the image of the overworked earth.
They don’t qualify other’s ideas of crying and weeping;
they just keep dancing in their own mirth.


Songs about Factories

Some days I love traveling
the memories of my mind,
revisiting the ruins of the lost ones–
never knowing the emotions I may find;
tracing through people I’ve loved
and the people that I’ve feared–
the ones I’ve left behind,
and the ones who’ve disappeared.
Martha Wainwright, playing in the background–
the soundtrack to curtains flapping in the breeze
as the suds are filling the kitchen sink
and the wind is sawing through the blackjack trees.
Sometimes, I have flashbacks to summer days,
and I’m not sure if they’re figments of my mind.
Isn’t it funny how reality and imagination blur together
when you’re just not the linear kind?
You’re the one who showed me “Factory.”
I’m the one who put it on repeat for a day
and contemplated the life I’ve lived.
Despite the pain, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
So cheers to you and those figments
and the reality too.
I’m headed back down neurological trails again.
I have some fabricating to do.