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they call me blue because they don’t understand how the sky work they call you black because they don’t understand how god work
It is the irony of a ship burning at sea, surrounded by the very thing that could save us.
Tell me, at what velocity does joy travel? Does it need a harness? Or merely the right degree of force to disentangle the fear from the rapture?
i’ve seen what they make of you how they render you a multiplicity of mistakes
How one can be lulled into nostalgia by the clamor of an audacious love.
do you know what it means for your existence to be defined by someone else’s intentions?
Our stars weren’t meant for their sky. We have never known the same horizon.
when the levees broke open did the ocean intend to swallow the city or find refuge inside of it
is it still called disappearing if no one knew you were there
to survive we need the money of those who do not care who we have been but only what we offer
it would be nice to be something in a museum one day because that’s what I’ve been told means you’ve lived a meaningful life but I think instead I might like to be in a garden where even after I die the residue of me can help grow something more beautiful than I ever was
how remarkable it is to get to see you each day before the rest of the world does,
I have always used words to try and convince the world that I am worth something.
Shout out to the chalk on the blackboard for leaving its shadow behind
I listen to the sound of leaves as they decide whether or not it is time to descend from their branches.
Maybe when I was a kid a white boy told me I was marginalized and all I could think of was the edge of a sheet of paper, how empty it is— the abyss I was told never to write into.