Violence is not a means of absolute protest
Violence is not a means of absolute protest
Violence is not a means of absolute protest
I protest with the print of ink marks
on paper, spoken aloud through the instrument
of my mouth, the sound obliterating
the shackles of the oppressed.
So hit me all you want
each fist to the gut regurgitates
literary sounds of onomatopoeia
take your knuckles and
swipe them through my teeth because
every splat of my blood hits the concrete,
and it makes my teeth feel numb
but they inspire others to speak
when they hear my story; the glory of how
I still speak when my chipped enamel
split to two, was born again and rung
anew
and later on my father later on told me two things:
1. Do not run into violence
[restrict]2. A lot of people are no longer here because of their pride.
So while you suffocate me until my
esophagus tears,
I’ll bear the fruits of my own suffering
coughing up the seeds of bloody pomegranates and juicy
nectarines, don’t you see?
I am the offspring of a violent induced
generation, do not tell me to not raise
my fists in the air, and pump them in the
air as a rally cry for despair
it’s all injustice in these streets
my own blood has leaked here
it is obsolete,
but when my face hits pavement
and my skin becomes one
with concrete
who will tell my stories then?
Because I remain trapped
in my mind like Kid Cudi
and speaking for the voiceless
I don’t echo, echo, echo
the children
of the ghetto with my words like Common
I don’t stand in the curb spitting verbs
for coins, or consciously decide what
synonyms to use in this piece,
I’m a down on my luck writer
I’ve gotten my phone and my iPod stolen
and I remain unspoken because
silence keeps within own penitentiary of correction
which I view as my own
perception of imperfection
I’m jealous, I’m materialistic, I’m careless,
I’m weak, I need words
that will help me peak to the ascension
of heaven where my grandma resides
to have her hug me one more time…
Because like me, words are flawed, but
they can be fixed. Words-
exist to be thought and then formed,
to be written and then revised and even
to be said and then denied.
They can be misused and neglected
or cared for and corrected, because
Violence is not is not a means of
absolute protest,
It’s words.
Violence is not a means of
absolute protest,
It’s stories.
So hit me all you want.
Take your knuckles
and swipe them through my teeth.
my own blood has leaked here
and it is obsolete
and one day I know this cycle will cease
because I can’t act, dance, draw or sing
but God has given me the ability
to write until my calluses bleed,
because I am
a poet, and I know it.
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