i ain’t got this poem in me
i got drafts and snippets and thoughts and feelings
and i conclude that i ain’t got this poem in me.
i’ve wasted ink
and pages
and time in my many failed attempts to write this piece
heads up,
it ain’t clean
there is no peace about this
what i got is ideas bout weaponry and poisonous recipes
and an unwavering belief in the right to self-defense.
i got this undying urge to turn vigilante
to take switchblade to the jugular of every man who grabs the arm or body of any unsuspecting woman on the street,
who barks the most disgusting thing they can possibly think to every attractive woman they see,
we are always suspecting though.
because men ain’t ever been above this.
not in my lifetime.
not in yours.
it really impresses me
that i haven’t already turned perpetrators into john doe’s at the morgue
that i don’t have a running file with JCF of open cases
to which i will gladly plead guilty.
it was his life or ours your honor,
and his became worthless the moment he internalized the idea that he was owed or deserving of anything that has to do with me or her or anyone outside himself.
every time i check these headlines,
i feel the loss of a piece of myself.
where is there any honor in rape and cold-blooded murder?
your honor, did you know
that our society has more vitriol hatred for same gender loving individuals than they do for pedophiles?
for men who destroy the lives of women and children from the inside out?
where the hell they keep kidnapping our girls to?
and who the hell is making kidnapped children profitable?
i told you,
i ain’t got this poem in me.
i got rage
and a great, growing disdain for men
despite knowing a few amazing ones.
do you know what it takes to be a “pretty amazing” man?
to not be a monster.
that’s where the bar is right now.
buried.
in a shallow grave
like the bodies of victims being found left and right
and i ain’t got this particular poem in me.
i wanna spit something that’s more for healing.
my poetry is supposed to be about cooperative economics,
rebellion,
Black Love,
something to inspire di yutes dem,
instead
we are here
and i am at a loss for words,
no.
i am at a loss of capacity to articulate the words expressing how friggin tired i am
of men
and their destruction
and ignorance
and how in these streets,
they don’t protect us
so alas, we are here
and here i am yet again
fighting oppression with my existence
telling sistas and children
“i got you”
because no one else seems seems to know what that means.
