A Poem After Another Mistrial Or Black Blood/White Hands Or The Blood Before A Black Out

There's a pain

A nuisance

A tricky cut

A thorn in finger

A sharp blade that we hold onto

Tightly in the palm of our hands

Clenched to keep the blood from running

It is not a proud struggle

Though it has made us strong

A strength we can take pride in

But the struggle is not one to appreciate

It was forced on us

The lot we did not choose

They were blessed with choices

And they chose to never break stride

Never told they had to carry a lot

We watched them never look back

Never weigh freedom

Never stop for a moment

To be empathetic

Or equals

And here we are still trying to numb the pain

It don’t just hurt but it haunts

Bloody reminders

And most days we can’t breathe

Short on deep breaths

Too off balance

Too many bodies on our shoulders

To find our center

We have no room for peace

Not even prayer rooms are safe

We cannot forgive

Patience does not exist

Tolerance can not be tolerated

We don't have any more passes to give

We’ve exhausted mercy

And their actions know not grace

Look us in our face

And act out

Sharp and dangerous

Reminiscent of the blade

And we bleed out

We black out

We black out

We snap

Snap into two

Too much blood loss to make sense of anything

Or to take it easy

Or lower our voices

Or keep calm

Forget calm

We lose it

Their lives perpetuate our troubles

Their lies perpetuate our troubles

Their existence

Their entitlement

Their inheritance

Their “better qualified”

Their “potential”

Their “bright future”

Their “benefit of the doubt”

Their nerve

Our nerves

Our pain

Our nuisance

Our thorn

If only we could live burden free

If only we could live free

If only we didn't know the edge of this blade

If only living weren't so sensitive

If only everything wasn't means to take offense

If only everything wasn't so offensive

But who cares about us

Who cares but us

Who tends to an old wound that never heals

We don't even care at times

Time has yet to care

Has killed more of us than it has healed

Even time is a construct of oppression

At times we don’t even feel it

But this blade is ours to feel

It continues to cut deep

We only know how to take it

They only know how to look passed it

They move passed it

We can’t get passed it

Damned if we hold on

Damned if we let it go

Damned if we let them see us bleed

Damned if we don’t

Damned if they think our blood is free

CONVERSATIONS