I capture my eyes looking seeking So still there are words of rights Mine, yours . . . was. I had thoughts of freedom. Tales that entail stories of self-dignity not lost equality. Body of the soul over the soul in the body. So I placed my hands in a tale of seeking forgiveness and was given a chance . . . govern your choices. Entitlement to the gift of places, things and people—Like a hangman game, HUNG. For material wellbeing becomes most of our drive and we never wanna ride passenger side. Becoming disciples to the century of contemporary Babylon. So I forgave me, fool me? Lined execution to the believer of good thoughts. I fear only to the clouds and stairs . . . beyond even that. The heart lies . . . O the mind too. Situations to a pig’s world: black and blue. Dark like the skin of soul man unburied. Have you heard it? Time has tick tick tock to sounds of the march of February. Hearts of my human race broken to the belief of equity, serpents to the misconception of freedom. O but whom is I? Perhaps the watcher of the long cold knights. Let’s have our long overdue needed conversation on hypocrisy. Pictures, Pho Toes to the lost souls that fought. Fight to free murdered souls that ships held captive on waves of anger, God’s revenge. Isn’t that why my mother’s tears taste like sea salt? Peace, signs of words the deaf speak and the poor man seek. Say bye to peace . . . for where is she? What is she? I have lost sight as to what peace even is and unfamiliar of how to make my fingers stretch across such distance. Gang signs and colors, now this I know—for the sake of the mathematics of survival . . . but Peace signs? Is it in the block where the glock ring shouts? A call so many of my friends have come to worship. Cuz the rings of Bishop T D Jakes Sunday bells are too far away. And Ahlam’s recitation of Surah Rahman during her first rakat of fajr only ensure the evils of junni stay out of her home but not mine. See if Heaven had its way, this would be Hell. Good morning Jah bless . . . Rusta For I bless. So Many Troubled Souls Lost With no second change of repentance, O and Ms. Lady Liberty, let’s call her Ms. Bangkok shots My immigrant parents ran away from a beast well known to the silent cry’s behind closed doors among Africans. A life based on class status which rates your last name as your sole value in society and possibility of moving up the ranks. Where ethnic cleansing and racial tension are among those who and whom do not share the same skin tone. And the depletion of the economy is due to poor governance and its leaders rotting disease of corruption. This is why they fled and bare aims to a new battle which has isolated them from their homeland yet to become an undoable transformation that’s still not good enough for Sir Canada. It’s the S’s, R’s and L’s in my father’s British Post—secondary linguistics and the scents that fill the air from my mother’s shemma as she walks into the No Frills. We fight a new battle. Even in the’ Land of the Free’ their children still must grow accustom to fighting. Became a number or a face of stigma in these streets. I can’t even hear my screams in a city of so many broken dreams, So Many of Us Grow Accustom To Trinity. “Stop fighting” my daddy be tellin’ me. Make it easier on dear young sweet self. I suppose this means keep your head down and radical thoughts to yourself, He did not bring me here nor there for activism, sexual or fashion extermination. To him it’s all about a university education. I simply cannot fathom conformity For outer politeness makes my inwardly sick The system is something we must fight our way out of and be no longer enchained by Neither in Mama Africa or Sir Canada So I . . . double dog dare you . . . to dream. Just do it—dream Setting right there, and for a second allowing your aspirations to seem like your reality. Tucked away to a place where manifestation has its own silver lining Where destiny isn’t just a cliché from that dude trying to get your number Or a seven letter word used in a three minute infomercial as a mainstream gimmick to weightless. Dream! Now tell me . . . how was it?