I am always inclined

to question closed eyes–

lives lost in the street

and found on the news

for everyone to see.

I question closed eyes.

When my deep red blood is spilled by white hands,

all I can do is sing of the blues because

god forbid I choose to sing of something else.

I, too, sing America:

the answer is always yes,

even when the answer is no

because America only takes what he wants and calls it his

and this is why we can’t have nice things;img_3118

the night might bring a flash of light

to blind me,

lay me down,

and close my eyes to sleep uncomfortably under

thick blankets of hate and summer,

on the same streets

that many a person black like me

have fallen into before–

caught slippin’

by flashing red and blue lights

and white men

who believe they can treat me like dogshit.

When we see each other, the safety is off

because each of them has a gun

and assumes I have one as well.

“Where’s your ID? I hope it’s not in your pocket.”

Contrary to what those with closed eyes may think,

he’ll reach for one of his tools,

as if to fix whatever laws I broke,

but instead he will try to break me,

and if I demand more answers or

ask for more


than what he decides to provide

I will be met with the hard surface of a wall

or the floor.

And if I’m lying I’m flying–

like black angels

who told that man that they were being hurt,

that they didn’t have anything to hurt him,

that the wallet which contained the ID he asked for was,

in fact,

in their pocket.

A black body is a weapon.

So it must be dropped.

And I must question closed eyes.

And when I lay mine

on another post on Twitter–

“Another Nigger Has Died”


I must question those who decide

to close their eyes,

because when said nigger was still alive,

all they saw was black.


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