The emotions running through my head can’t be controlled so I’m erratically trying to get it all down in writing so that I can maintain the rapid descent of mood. The world is fucked and so am I. It’s interesting to be at the intersection of good versus evil when the church bells always chime — otherwise. It’s exhilarating to have the option of running through the streets — streaked in the flag of a nation — with colors that don’t mix well with others. It’s fascinating to observe the crowded timelines — with images of deceased ideas and the victims that perished while standing in line — waiting for movement.
I hate what I am when I judge others and yet find myself precarious situations that provide hints of my self-indulgence. Who am I when I ask you to think like me and value my life as much as you stroke yours? How can I expect your level of empathy to reach the heights of enlightenment — when I’m blinded by the fear of my participation.
I wish someone could offer a tutorial on how to be a hero — because I would pay.
Show me how to step outside the glaze of inferiority into the spectrum of unwavering adherence to the army of fairness that has been working overtime — without the assistance of tweeters and the posts with luxurious letters and the bedazzlement of ignorance.
I’m nowhere near that realm of robotic inklings, but I still can’t summon the qualities of a hero — even as the ratings signal the end of the things.
I’m tired of giving my keyboard the wings to fly me into the suit of honor — as I display the skills of persuasion on behalf of a dwindling population that is actually multiplying on the watch of labeled warriors.
The temples of my mind throb with anger and rejuvenation as the leader we ordained overwhelms the courts of opinion who built the beast they’re not trying to dismantle.
I need to be coached into surrendering my days towards the boot camp of survival — that takes a spirit of grace and astonishing discipline — to manipulate the doubts that quell the air you’re supposed to inhale — after hours of sparring.
I’m depressed. The depression stems from personal losses and the helplessness of witnessing a White bastard — bastardize a nation he stole with the assistance of other White bastards — that won’t be able to produce more of their kind.
There are more of us — and there will be plenty to add to the pile that can contain us — we just have to split off to fighting stations that have been set up for however we choose to express the end of the era that is running out of holes to sodomize.
I want to be equipped with the tools of war and I need to have the dramatics that accompany the ones that kneel against the establishment — even as they gaze on the road blocks that threaten such a sacrifice.
I feel the urges — and the blood that still flows despite the circus of shit that could easily drain me — boils over with fury when I hear White men condemn Black men for being Men.
The hatred for the oppressors who still believe they did good — and constantly celebrate the rape they initiated with sweeping epics that give the notion of colonialism — the reverence it stole — is causing me to malfunction.
I imagine the hollowness of murderers who killed innocent people out of the desperation that engulfs you — when you can’t imagine dying without the reassurance that you will be resurrected each time history repeats itself.
I’m tired of living my life as if I own it and without the responsibility of other lives that have earned my devotion — through the privilege of the hues that bind us.
Black privilege is the burden of living as an American in a country where Americans are able to thrive by legally erasing our templates from the streets we drive — until we’re brutally evacuated from vehicles and thrown into the cells that end up suffocating us to death.
White privilege is the acute awareness of how your existence was mandated by the violent cleansing of cultures — that is still practiced with society’s venom and the permission that sustains willful negligence.
The intersection of adulthood and activists — past and present — who scale poles to retrieve the symbol of hate — is giving me insomniac tendencies — as as I peruse options that startle me into admission with the night light as shelter .
I’m becoming militant in thought, word and deed.
I fantasize about interrogating Trump and his teamsters — as I circle their dangling carcasses with recitals of all the essays I’ve birthed — in their honor. I want pain and suffering unleashed against all the White bastards who are currently distracted by the revolution that won’t end— once it’s begun.
These powerless motherfuckers — who are celebrating the tidings of an erratic climate — won’t be able to handle the wrath of the superhero I become — when I switch into battle gear and leap through the branches of mayhem — to thwart the residue of enslavement.
I’m ready to be suited and I’m even prepared for the worst. I need the Millennium Falcon to blast the force field — as the yellow-haired monsters with blotchy pink skin — head into a dive to escape the torrential sparks of cells that could convert them to the very thing — they envy.
I want to be hyper-spaced into the kingdom where the past warriors dwell after centuries of wisdom and might.
It all leads to this moment. The truth of why your life shouldn’t matter if death is all around — with the betrayal of institutions of power — that were erected to drive you insane in order to sustain the Whiteness of America — that will surely be swirled into consciousness — sooner rather than later.
Time is of the essence. That’s why I really need you to show me how to be a hero.