The tale of the weary warrior
Is long, but also short.
His goal unknown
Yet, hidden under his shield.
He wanders, through the dreams, the midnight thicket, and cosmos.
Discovering
More of himself
At each destination;
But he struggles,
Often.
Watching his knees buckle, underneath the gravity of his situation
Not all wanders are lost, most are forgotten.
But his journey has brought him to a new beginning.
“We need to have more conversations like this…”
This is a lie, and we should learn to spot it. Those conversations never happen, they are imaginary, like world peace and the end of racism. When you hear someone say this, you must apply the appropriate pressure:
When will we have this conversation?
Who will partake in this conversation?
Why are we having this conversation?
If they can’t answer this, then they don’t plan to talk. Those who do can become allies. This phrase is our way of verbally ignoring the truth. How many times must we talk about the same subject, before action is taken? The situation hasn’t changed since the last time we talked, so why are we still talking?
We discuss so we can learn, and eventually, act. Words that do not create actions are wasted gasps and empty promises. If we are to fight oppression, we must learn the language of the oppressor. The key phrases they carefully develop when they have no desire to answer. This is when we must use wisdom, and choose our own words carefully.
Does anybody else feel stupider after listening to Trump?
Anyways, I’m en route to Morehead City with my dad. It’s a bumpy ride (literally), but the trip has been smooth. We’ve conversed, a lot. Something that doesn’t happen that often, not because he’s absent or anything, but because we’re usually on different wavelengths. Today, we happened to be on the same, and our discussion led to significant discoveries. Firstly, I should take the time to write my own thoughts down in a way that is authentic; if you happen to share this, I want it to be original. Tonight, I’m writing about me, something that I don’t do often. Not directly, at least. Let’s start with my thoughts on healthcare.
I think when I return to healthcare I will be involved in the public health area. We’ve slacked away from seeing patients as people, reducing them to lifeless digits and diagnoses on a chart. I think this stems from what it takes to be a healthcare provider.
Question: why is Organic Chemistry a requirement, and not Sociology? I’d rather my doctor understand me more than my biochemical make-up (at least at the molecular level). After being played a fool by the application process, I realize it’s shortcomings (I understand this may come off as bitter, but I am purged of such mundane feelings; this is critical thought).
Question: why do we have standardized tests if we preach of individuality? These archaic tools for classifying the successful, and stragglers, are only testing our probability skills. Questions are roughly thirty words, answers are ten, and yet, a single textbook page can hold thousands of words. Education failed to evolve along with technology. A student can learn an entire semester of U.S. History in a week on their computer; yet, why do we have children who can’t read aloud in class?
Education has to incorporate the free knowledge bank-the internet-that we can easily access. My brief stints with teaching have taught me that student success begins with student motivation. The term “success” must also be redefined. We have cleverly disguised “motivation” as “passion”, and our generation adores that phrase. We all imagine a flame burning in our core, reminiscent of a distant star, however, we must also come to accept that “passion” stems from suffering. Does that mean tribulations have the power to elicit triumph?
Absolutely. It ultimately depends on how the individual utilizes the elements of his or her own circumstance. The college student who works two jobs and takes care of their siblings will appreciate their rewards, just as much as the one who is in school thanks to their parents checkbook.
We must do more than push students towards success, we must also pull them out of their struggle. By doing both, I believe we will be able to see the education level, and desire for knowledge, increase over the years.
At what point will my eyes stop revolting? Pushing moisture out instead of saving it to safeguard my sight? Tear after tear after tear they fall, droplets rolling of a dried leaf, the rain that falls before the dawn, like liquid crystals hanging upon a thatched roof.
I am afraid, fearful that this powerful feeling will decide to adhere to my dreams, forming a pond of sadness. each day they congregate, meeting between mustard colored pews, my fears being baptized in the rushing river within my veins. Why, then, do I feel the touch of the moon on my breast, the tides of truth washing over my memories, causing these sandcastles to crumble, and leaving unrecognizable ruins along the shattered shells.
Tell me, when will these tears stop falling? How many reservoirs must be drained before I accept this?
Vast lakes live within my irises, blotches of the depths, hiding the real treasures that have been lost to the abyss.
I am nothing more than a half-empty vessel, a handcrafted vase with etches upon its lip, thirsting for the wellspring, but only granted the spit of the clouded sun. And yet, each day I watch as water leaks, escapes from the pores; and my eyes, my shattered prisms, my scales of shadows and souls. They dare to revolt against the death that draws near to my shore, reminding me that the spirit is liquid at body temperature.
Next to the river bank, I awake
With the scent of death upon my brow.
Droplets shatter against the gray waters
As the ghosts of the forests lull over the drenched leaves.
Palms clammy, feet soaked in viscous mud
Eyes full of nightmares long forgotten
Staring into the ominous fog,
While the ripples guide souls to the crypt.
The granite rocks, lodged next to the split roots,
Resemble graves,
Soft earth ready to swallow
Another serving.
This river is uncharted,
Untouched by the wayward wanderer
Yet I,
Alone,
Know where the delta lies,
Only accessible when the sun is gone,
Lost in the deep horizon.
The clouds come down,
to spirit away those who sleep in the woods
At the dusk,
Saying farewell in their final, frosted winter.
I’ve been cursed,
A hex placed on my soul,
Without knowledge.
I was forced to learn in school
That slavery was real, and that blood
Still flows through these melanated cells
How an entire organization of one mindset,
So brainwashed in their beliefs,
Are playing “who can pop a nigga and get away with it?”
My children, my unborn children
Whom I shouldn’t be imagining with my immature mind,
I already see shakles and rattles,
Food stamps and baby bottles,
Or dirty diapers and blood stained tees.
Our shirts have been the canvases for your painted hatred.
You power-hungry demons,
How you have cast the spell of fear
Now I can’t even look forward while driving,
Without staring in the rearview;
To look at those sirens,
The things that could be of nightmares
But they resound too loudly throughout the nights
For me to fall asleep.
I wander in my trance,
Not yet able to escape this illusion,
Mind too far stuck in the dream that we black have been in limbo
All these years
With our totem stolen so we don’t know the difference.
But, the thing about curses…is that they can be lifted.
It takes wise words, one preferebly found in an old book,
And an un-natrual expression,
*Pauses to let the police officer pass…*
Be still my heart, be still my heart,
I SAID BE STILL!
This reaction scheme we’re stuck in isn’t working,
Instead, we must respond
With calm minds and steeled hearts
What they don’t know is when the spell is lifted
And we catch a glimpse of the light
-Not like those above the abandoned homes,
Strained streets
And those upon the stage.
That light will be your bane,
The devil’s power has no hold over one who walks with God,
Don’t be afraid to believe
You will know the real you,
The one before the hex,
Before the branding,
Before the innocent blood was spilled,
For we are beautiful.
Cecil told me that he’s never been more scared at a protest. I initially thought of the unpredictable violence and how it could affect one, but that wasn’t the case. He was afraid because we were “not moving”. We united and took to the streets, but who were we following? “We looked like sheep, it looked like the perfect plan.”
I wanted to act shocked at this revelation, but that thought filled my head as well. It’s just as Ayn Rand stated, “the mob has no value, because there is no man (or woman) in the mob.” That’s what we were today, a mob of people, with no goal. Yesterday, I led the mob, today, I stood apart from it. At no point was I in the mob, I do not see myself capable of blending into the crowd. I must be my own man, and stand for my own values, not just the collective. I admit that, within my heart, I felt nothing; we did nothing.
We didn’t disrupt the system, we didn’t halt the dollar; we peacefully marched through the streets of Charlotte on designated paths. We didn’t even go where we wanted to go! Instead, we were paraded by the pigs, or led by a sheepdog like lost lambs .
Last night, at the precinct, I met a woman from Ferguson. She told us of her trials, and then made statement that started some unrest. “Now that we’re here [at the station], we don’t need to leave, until they give us what we want.” What we wanted were the tapes (of the officer involved shooting of Keith Lamont Scott). Again, my heart called to me, and I agreed; but, the mob did not. They believed that more marching would bring them closer to their demands (I’m hesitant to classify them as goals, because I am not sure if they have any).
We’re never going to win if we just march. It’s an act that appeases the masses, but it does not change anything. We moved at night, where there was little inconvenience for the city, aside from minor traffic detours; we walked on Saturday, on the weekend, while the citizens stayed indoors and watched us from the comfort of their couches.
WE DIDN’T EVEN OPPOSE THE POLICE!
We didn’t get those tapes released. Just because we had numbers does not mean that we are a force. There is power in unity, but if there is nobody to direct it, then, what is the point of having power? So much wasted potential. There has to be a more efficient way to stake our claim.
However, there is beauty in this. The protests tore down the dividing lines that the government has erected between its citizens. Out there, on the scorching streets, we realize that we are all one people, God’s children. If it wasn’t for the protest, then we wouldn’t have come together. We wouldn’t be energized and able to uplift the city from this tragedy.
The black fists instill in me a sense of hope. I believe the revolution, and combating the system, begins with black power. Everybody has black power, it is the revolutionary spirit that rages within all of those who have been victimized by the oppressor. That is the power we will use to win, but before that, we must set glorifying goals.
Will I be able to lead when my time comes? I can only pray.
The last words exchanged
Came quietly through the hotel window
I mistook the chill for the air conditioner
Until I realized the machine has been broken.
Soft sentences coming from a hardened heart
A contrast between soul and spirit,
And yet, they both manage to come together
Clashing violently in my core
As I try to make sense of your silence.
Maybe it’s not for me to know,
A question I posed but the answer
Lies elsewhere
In the pencils on your desk
In the bottles of liquor scattered on my sheets
Or, in the clouds forming in our eyes
Draining our vision
Converting it into venom
A poison planted in our retinas,
Changing baby blue irises to virulent blacks
Unable to see what was in front of us,
Seeking the light instead of holding tight.
I know, I know,
You needed this
But, I…
Needed you.
Here we now sit,
Communicating with hands rather than lips
The carpal tunnel setting in,
Wrists popping and thumbs tightening
As thoughts are converted to text
That neither of us can translate.
My skin
Is a treasured secret
Known by only you
Lips that taste of wildflowers in heat
The summer sun
Kissing our palms
Water dancing with exposed toes
Fragile hearts
Holding strong
As seasons change
But bones always find their way back home.
The dark rolls over the horizon like a cloud of smoke.
A hint of fuschia rises above the tree tops as the night shares its first kiss with the cool grass.
A streetlight, a lone temple has been lit, even before the sun started to retire. The sounds of bouncing balls and laughter form a medly with the chirping crickets and dying motors.
I’m one with this place.
It has decided to use me as a decoration; what I must look like to the passing strangers.
“How peculiar that boy looks upon the rooftop. His hand twirls while his head looks into peace.”
There is an open window, his origin.
Little do they know of this place.
I have shared this moment with only one; an arachnid whose tiger legs and hourglass upon its back protect her from touch, but yet we sit…together.
She weaves her web as I weave my words, both spilling pieces of ourselves in an effort to trap any who would come close.
It has taken her the entire dusk to complete, but that is how she works.
For in the night, she will wait while the stray bugs find their way into her net.
Maybe, I’ve become her mate, using the light of the day to build so my creation can have purpose.
The Nuclear Cottage 