Struggle

Struggle

Black equals struggle……

Struggle: verb

Make forceful or violent efforts to get free of restraint or constriction."before she could struggle, he lifted her up".

Our existence is supposedly a verb summed up by restraint, but when the dissenters scream injustice the justice seeks to destroy all evidence of malicious intent. A system that should lift us up before the struggle, weighs us down to indirectly incite the conflict. An inherent fear of everything that is black, my eyes that are black, are cold, my hood that is black, is bold and crime filled, your hood that is white is seen as protection, but the root of what you are protecting should come into question.

“We the people” all struggle, supposedly one, under god, but some under the rod, under the eye, watching the plantation, or the prison cell, the modern day enslavement.

My existence is summed up by a verb. Black constriction, Eric Garner, George Floyd, their efforts to free themselves of control, free themselves from the grips of the very system this country was founded on, failed. Their struggle was documented, video recorded, their struggle is the microcosm of the Black experience, of us freed of the slave ship, and forced into labor, of being “freed” from the plantation, and forced into shackles behind metal bars.

The “struggle” is the woman, who can’t pay the rent because Tim is in jail, Tim who is black, and black which means lack; lack of control, lack of power, but an abundance of fear, a mirage of money, and a cycle of poverty. To be black in the America of my days is to be expected to struggle, to expose the struggle and be told to work harder. But working harder to free from restraint gets you nothing but a knee on the neck, an elbow below the vocal cords, a rope wrapped around the source of freedom.

The “struggle” is the black men and women hanging from trees, blowing in the wind the way tires do, tires being black is the biggest irony. Tires are worn out until they are of no earthly good, and thrown out, thrown in junk yards. The black body tossed in memorials and caskets when their bodies no longer serve any earthly good, except, black bodies purpose is to be the scape goat when times spoil. Blowing in the wind the way swings do, how the black body is sat atop, an artificial hierarchy where struggle is promoted.

To be black is to “struggle”, when 49.7 percent of our homes are broken, when your systems of hate perpetuate and proliferate this rate, how else could we not. When you proclaim we embody crime, but juxtapose our violence with “peaceful protest”, like the fire in the sky burned from crosses, like the cars that ram into the voices of reason, like the Stars and Stripes that assault our existence, like the oceans of red that filled Washington D.C.

To be black in America is to “struggle”.
Our “struggle” is a war that is documented but ignored, our struggle is the bodies that fill the cemetery, our struggle is the black boys and girls, who grow up without a father. Our struggle isn’t solely on us, so when you pronounce and proclaim that black on black violence is our claim to fame, let you be reminded that our struggle caused a war, caused a battle, let you be reminded that you rallied your saddle, to fight for enslavement. Let you be reminded that our struggle was shown at the White House, a supposed Birth of a Nation, while the true birth of the nation came from the backs of enslavement. Let you be reminded that our homes, and hopes and dreams were bulldozed in the name of renewal, let you be reminded that damages were never payed, let you be reminded that these voices still live. Our struggle is your struggle, because when you march to the pearly gates, your life will be indicative of hate, my struggle is yours, because my struggle is beautiful, but your prejudice filled world, is less than flattering. My struggle is black, and so is your name, to sit there and justify entrapment, under the veil of Christ, when judgement day come, your soul pays the price, because all years of suffering you made precise, it will be you who caused the strife, they who take life, ultimately will meet their match, when our struggle is realized.

When confined to a ship, dehumanized and forced to lie amongst their own shit, surrounded by Atlantic, the blue demon that holds the bodies of the men and women who sunk to the bottom to the freedom of death, rising to the surface to breath their last breath, bondage was so abhorrent, that even death seemed liberating, because alias something they could control. Their struggle was not in their hands, what captured around their ankles was not free will, but chains and conditions that marked humans off as “property”, “fugitive”, “slave”.

When land was in sights, they saw the light, but we, we saw the spite, of the shackles that hugged our ankles, of the memories of home, because what could be more patriotic than lead to the dome, of metal stuck to bone, what is more 1776, than bodies forced to pick, even then death seemed more freeing than this. So when slaves ran away, to their masters dismay, this disobedience on property seemed slave revolt display.

What could possibly be more American than black struggle, black trouble, what is more liberating than black bodies disintegrating, prohibiting integrating, protesting immigrating, what is more red, white and blue, than pairs of cuffs that come in twos. The struggle is the distance between me and Tamir Rice, the distance between my hand, and the pen, the transparency between Til and what could’ve been. My struggle isn’t invisible, so when you tell me that slavery was hundreds of years ago I’ll remind you of the bodies flowing in the river like slit from pollution, I’ll remind you of grave injustices with no solutions, and I’ll remind you, that this flag you struggled for, is the same flag that wrapped its threads around the heads of black men and women, the same flag, that tells me that we’re separate but equal, the same flag that boasts that its lethal.

So when you stand for your pledge, I urge you to remind yourself of my struggle, our struggle, and tell me that my life is simply just defined by a verb, that my name, my logo, my skin, isn’t more than just property for labor, that my body, just like yours, is protected under the same preamble that this country was founded on. So when you say “We the People”, be clear on who “We” really means.

Copyright Micah Hill

Teach

Teach

As a child I remember my first super teacher, as a black boy in a world lacking acceptance, I spent my days on the playground laughing, imagining I was smooth like MJ, fast like Usain, but I was joyful, young, black, in a world that was not ready. We had seen black anger, black blood, black loss, but I, didn’t realize how my skin and hair was any different than Justin Biebers. I spent my days on the playground running, running from reality, running from nationality, displaying my personality, through games of basketball, running, running from the truth of my home life.

See, as a boy my father tried, but fear, fear trying to keep me near, fear, knowing we lacked control of our fate, because of years of hate, fear, declarations thats because my traits were rounded, brown and, curly, that my life could be ended early and I’d wound up being another statistic, fear, because the bigotry was clear.

I remember my 2nd grade teacher, as I joyfully basked in the light of innocent play, she always took time to ensure I was okay, and when hate came knocking she barley gave it the light of day, ignorance planted into the minds of children on display, but all I ever did was play. I told my friend “shut up” this was enough to get wrote up, but when it got into the hands of my teacher that day, she ripped it up. I was an outlier in a world where I felt normal like everyone else, but outcasted for being myself, being black, going home with buddy packs, but my teacher that day, stopped the grips of prejudice from wrapping around my 6 year old neck. This lifelong respect to ignore racial haters was directed, by the hands of an educator

I remember participating in a school led fair, and as I sat in the chair, a boy with blond hair said to me “wow, brown on brown, I’ve never seen that before”, I sat there confused, as my brown from my skin protrudes, but I never had a clue, that my skin was any different than you. Insensitivity plagued the hallways of what was my safespace, so when teachers try to educate, there no way to not educate about race.

I remember freshman year sitting in Civics face full of tears, but my 9th grade teacher made sure it was clear that it was okay to cry, but it prompted me to lie, because I was a man, we aren’t supposed to cry like a girl. I thought to myself, men don't cry, so little boy wipe those tears out your eyes, because what you lack in masculinity you don't make up for in size, you act like a sissy in disguise. so young man, young man young man, wipe those tears out your eyes see as a man you should know better, because you need to be strong dispite the weather, whether or not you feel strong, and stand tall and firmly say that "i'm a real man on today". But these tears in my eyes, cast a fear deep inside that, when they flow like stream water down a waterfall, I can't help but bawl. But she supported me, even putting her job at risk, a fellow students attempt, to try to get her fired, only ignited my fire, the light within. I found myself through allowing emotion to show, allowing my light to glow. So that day, I realized, that crying is my body’s response to overwhelming emotion, a build up of everyday commotion, and I realized, that teaching is vulnerable, but connections that are built are more than just honorable through awards, and promotions, but are rewarding, going home realizing that despite how rowdy my freshmen were today, even if they didn’t grasp the nuances of a bicameral legislature, that their lives were touched by the hands of an educator.

I remember my sophomore year, sitting in a public speaking class that I took for the English credit, and a teacher who was overly zealous, and I remember the feeling of speaking, the feeling of being heard, as my words spurred, for the first time in my life I recognized my passion. Reaching others, connecting with brothers, speaking for the lost souls that came before me, to my late mother who bore me, speaking up, loud and free, molding to be, what Micah really means, a better version of me. That same semester that public speaking teacher asked me to join speech and debate, I was weary because I worried that my voice would cease to be heard, but I I’ve learned speaking and reaching, reading and teaching, were my reasons for life, and my Junior year I knew what I was going to do: follow my passion, which would’ve never happened, unless I was placed in a space that would take my poetry from paper and give it life, my ideas and mind transformed from just being on paper, because my lives torch was lit by the hands of an educator.

To my sister who is an educator, I see the passion, and to the various CPS teachers who fill the hallways, offices, and school buildings with passion and help guide students lives, thank you, for your unwavering support. Teachers constantly put their occupation and employment at risk to ensure that their students are supported. So, as I enter my senior year concluding my K-12 educational journey, along the way I bring with me the memories of inclusion, the knowledge that my voice matters, and the forever effect of education on my young life. Thank you for sharing your light with the world, and never letting that light dim, through accusations of CRT, sparking “white guilt” I will forever be grateful. To the teachers and administrators of Columbia Public Schools, thank you.

Anger

Anger

My friend tipped me over the edge, made my mind fall past the ledge, used words that demeaned, expression that exuded mean, so when my anger reached its climax, I said fuck you, blood running through my arms, my fists ready to harm, my mind screams alarms, my face starts to scrunch and my legs begin to bunch, my body bout ready to punch.

But when I looked up, I saw my reflection in the glass, my face turnt up, my mind burnt up, my mouth on the verge of violence, I recognized this person, this evil, I look just like my daddy, and his daddy, so when my anger boiled I turned the stove off before it bubbled, because I saw myself in the glass, and decided not to throw stone, and I looked just like the face of abhorrence, I looked like the creature I grew up living in fear, because I was anger.

I knew this all too well, from that therapist office where I lied and said things were swell, to the playground when my masculinity was challenged my mind couldn’t seem to balance, when they called me a homo, my body began to rush, my blood almost seemed to gush, my mouth couldn’t shush, I said, “nigga you don’t know me”, my anger felt like fire that spread, across my forest it sped, like a California breeze, it swept over my body and corrupted my tree, turned my branches to ashes, like a violent killing spree, my blood rushed.

I was exactly what expected to be, black, violent, and angry, the image of dark red, the horrors of blood shed, I was exactly what was expected to be, a black, violent, non functioning member of society. When I entered the foster care system I was just a number in a deep void of struggle, I was the status quo for black, emotional control that lacked, chains that snapped, to make sure I stayed near. This sweeping shock that flows through my soul, the uncontrolled feeling of heat, so when I ran into the bathroom, I glanced into the mirror, I recognized the look that leered, I looked just like my daddy, and his daddy and the Black men that proceeded, I was anger.

I grew up living in the shadow of a figure of masculinity, the epitome of everything Black, from the belt, to the shoe, to the smoke that blew, from the tip of a Newport, this enigma spread, ran straight to my head, like a campsite my body began growing in temperature, every time someone questioned my authority, an illusion of power that proceeded my tower, a peak of anger that headlined the hour; coward.

I was what had been, my disposition covered in sin, the shadow had covered the unfilled parts of my soul, and corruption its goal, filling my holes, protruding out as stiff as a metal pole, what I hated, I was.

Mysterious bouts of anger, misguided sheets of rage, the storybook and my page, had been filled with intentions of shameful reign, sinful pain. My friend tipped me over the edge today, instead of calmness I had become anger.

SoulSelf and the World

SoulSelf and the World

My name is……..

I recall the stillness of sirens, where the loudness felt pressing, felt distant but present, felt imminent but avoidable all at once.

I recall my world spinning, the force of my world stopping, the loud thumping of my heart, the sound of captivity, the image of red, filling my room full of darkness, with a ray so bright it felt ethereal, as if earth had been taken over by the brutes of Satans chamber, the red pronounced so loud my skin became enthralled by its shine, combined with its rays. The red so loud, that my head began to pound, a glimpse into my fate, that no matter how hard I’d tried death would proceed me.

Laying in my bed a scared 8 year old boy, my covers became a shield for reality, the protector of my soul, the sunscreen to prevent reds glow from puncturing my spirit.

I layed, and prayed, that this extraterrestrial glow would disappear from the one space I felt safe from terror. My room became illuminated by blue, the feeling of somber, the acceptance of reality, all combining to surround my being with sorrow, as if it were mourning the loss of my youthful innocence. The sight was pronounced with the seemingly forever feeling of doom, all allusion to the collapse of my world as I knew it. The blue bounced off the walls, it flashed past my eyes, light speed meant that I could never catch it but it would wrap itself around me, it would illuminate my skin with gloom, the acceptance of entrapment.

I recall a profound whiteness, but lacking its purity, a microcosm of the human disposition, the corruption of innocence with the stains of conformity and brutish nature. I was bound by the light of nothingness, my sheet could now longer shield from the enclave of attack by the rays of evil that would hold me captive.

I recall my grandmother saying to me “you have to get up” in such a dead tone I believed that heaven had consumed me and I was interacting with a phantom of genteelness. So monotone that it exuded a beam of surrendered disposition, from the spout of usual loudness, now seemed overshadowed by the feeling of impending doom.

I recall the feeling of the satin and cotton of my wear, hugging my body in an attempt to shield it from the barrage of waves puncturing through my window. I recall the tears the flowed down my face, as each drop fell, a feeling of warmth, somber, pain, and suffocation like i’d never felt before. The police officer pleaded for my surrender, but all I wanted was home, an idea that was robbed from me long ago. Home seemed nothing more than a construct of broken connections, torn at its source and corrupted by tremendous loss.

At age 8 that night I was taken from my “home”.

I recall the car ride feeling like a life sentence where tomorrow was certain but unknown. Each neighborhood passed was a reminder of my childhood memories of broken homes, each page of my memoir filled with phantom appearances of protection, the veil of the failure of masculine predisposition to destroy what cannot be understood, the innate male human instinct to fear the loss of control, the fear of patriarchal domination sliding down a never ending slope of tenderness. In my head an imaginary film played constantly, of my Mother, cradling me in her arms, my Father smiling, with the face of pure joy, looking at the life that was. The feeling of her gentle gaze colliding with my rough and innocent soul, the warmth of Fathers love, Mothers love; this could be no more than a dream. A picture of what my life should’ve been, but instead, I had been left with a reality of a broken home. I had been taken to a foreign place, “foster care”, the words clawed at me and awoke me from my vision of fairness, and reiterated my sick, twisted reality.

At age 8, I’d find myself an alien in the very town where generations before me sowed seed for hopeful dreams and realities of nightmares. Lost, wrapped in a sea of generational gloom.

At age 11 I sit in the sterile consolers office begging for guidance, yearning for answers as to why my life had to be this way. It was met with coldness, blue, the feeling of waves of indescribable somber. I stand at the tombstone of life on it reads “Rahmah Sakari BT Hill”, to me this means nothing, but a name. A name that embodies me, a name that proceeds me, a face that fills mine, a reflection of another life. My mother wanted for me, and my sisters to be free, without ever freeing herself. Trapped in an echo chamber of fists, smoke, blood, and cancer, my mother began to write my story, but her name is all I have to finish it.

At age 16, I stand at the tombstone of the woman who gave me life, never knowing her face, I was presented with her name. A name was all that spoke to me as I stood on top of what could’ve been. A name, engraved and carved was all that spoke of my world of broken beauty. Never to be held by the clutches of my protector, never to see my face in yours, all that remains is the stains of red, white and blue that peer through my windowsill. I look for you in everything I encounter, from the dew on the morning grass, to the leaves that collapse and float to its death, I see your face. All I have is the auditory entrapment of your name, but I feel your face, each and every time I look in my reflection in the mirror, I see past 6 feet below, and to my imaginary world of perfection. I often visit the invisible realm where everything goes according to plan, in every corner an image of you, of you walking me to my first day of High School, to my first homecoming, but the vivid projection of red snaps me back to my harsh and heartbreaking reality. I feel the vibrations of your name run through my body, but your name doesn’t resonate. The tombstone below reminds me that red and white is one big metaphor for the human experience. The idea of being born white, clean as snow, to ending with nothing but red, corrupted, and torn. Your tombstone speaks out, it screams your name, but all I can seem to see is the echos of red, the reflection of white, and the waves of blue wash over me. It is now where I find solace in the brutality of earth, a reminder that no matter what characters surround, the show still proceeds, that the departure from this earth is nothing but a permanent whisper of your name. I find solace in the blueness of my existence, blue now meaning tranquility, like the waves that wash over the Pacific, the ocean that crashes onto the beach, the proof that this too shall pass. I find solace in the red of calm, like the fire that burns high, that projects smoke into the sky, shows that our passion is like wildfire that spreads amongst each other like disease. I find solace in the white, the bit of heaven that remains on earth as I stand over your tombstone, knowing that purity returns once self departs, youthfulness returns, and the sheet is washed clean with the bleach of love.

My name is Micah Hill, my name is defined, and I am the writer, my name is Micah Hill, I am more than a statistic, more than a foster care kid, I overcame, I stood tall over my fears, my fears of red, white, and blue entrapping my wonder.

My name is the culmination of all that came before me and a reflection of those who will proceed me, my name is all I have to make life with, I was surrounded by suffering but I chose the solace in the sea of agony, my name is joy and that will never be taken away.

Copyright Micah Hill

Holes (Official Edition)

Holes (End Gun Violence)

Fear is the source of evil, like our bodies, are ready to ascend, like our lives aren’t worth amends, because what it means to be American is to feed on fear, that the end is near, to pack up our resources and pick up the pieces of a broken nation, but our relations don’t have to be so polarizing, glamorizing the scopes of weapons of mass destruction, roadblocks and sectioning walls of obstruction, the America we see is one filled with holes, no matter how many people run to the poles, because we're wrapped in the Red versus Blue, that our media and articles skew further from the truth, that we’re stuck in booths of disaster rhetoric, reverberating ideas of a split reminiscent of Confederate. 

Hear ye, hear ye, to the halls of congress, where we’re worried about TikTok, while the clocks to our lives, tick, 2nd period the alarm screams “there is an active shooter in the building” tock, the school of thought, turning into a congress of haughty ideals while the holes in lockers make the halls reverberate, tick, our time bomb of damnation, creation of death, the depths of the steps to congressional, judicial repeal seem steep, while members question, conspire, claim that the Hooks of vice and the barrels of assault were faked, that the Sandy skinned aliens are to blame, and that immigration, the shame, claim that your future will take us back, but take us back to the 3rd Reich, where we burn knowledge covering the pipe of truth with duct tape, where we make issue of those who are invading this great country, tock, the clock stops as it passes October. 7th and November 9th, broken glasses, and genocidal spark, as innocent souls frolic in the parks, of the parts of a world that are not yet broken, as the holes catch up to ensure that their future is never spoken. 

I see children running, blood gushing, teachers shushing and telling students to lay low in a room of black, stacked together to protect from attack, I see officers reluctant, I see walls covered in our future, I see congresses halls filled, I see the streets of the capital filled, with seas of red while oceans of red are lost in each school hallway, always ready to move on and get over it, the blood was lost but we have nothing to show for it, we have the Nation in our hands, hands on Rifles, Associating our guns with protection, while teachers use fire extinguishers with blooded complexion, sections of bodies and candles while we march for our lives, tick, the clock strikes midnight, it's only okay if we lived right, protecting undeveloped lives, while overlooking the piles of student bodies where violence derives, while congress is worried about planned parenthood, the communities plan of parenthood is crushed as they have to rush to the schools to find that their children's bodies were turned into dust, but saving the unborn is a must, while we blindly follow giving up our trust. 

The lockers have holes in them, the doors of the gym have holes in them, while you rush to bandage your grazed ear, children fear for their lives every time an AR-15 is near, but you could never care, because all you care about is you, no clue about what it means to walk a mile in my shoes, tock, while you hold the biggest rally's, you only have concepts of a plan to help us withstand the terror domestic, it isn't immigrants inciting political violence, filling hallways with blood, and marching the streets saying that "you will not replace us", the hate you placed will leave us gone without a trace, because while you use mace to keep us silent, we'll continue to try to calm down the violence, at the hands of the gun, tick, as the bell schedule runs, we have to run for our lives before he empty's the drum, and after, we'll get together and hum and honor those who didn't have a gun or the time to realize that they were running out of theirs, you let the lobby pull your strings Mr. Nutcracker, while we have to string together back the stitching of our community after the common attack, while you lack to action, staying with your faction of a party of hypocrites, a Democrite, a Rebloodican, while students stand in parking lots staring at the reflection of election of the right to bear arms, even if they harm and causes the people's alarms to sound, tock, the time is soon running out, while you tweet out about nonsense, we cry for the pretense of hate, saying that this country is great, while its people have to be ready to accept their fate, at the barrel of a rifle, freedom being our redeeming trait.

No matter how many times you pray, our voice goes astray, tock, we run in flocks, the march of our lives, tick, while you enact laws of ethnic ban, blame the trans, tock, but our transgressions are when we lift our voice to call out, tick, confession of a country doomed for recession is that our lesson might be cut short by the body of a weapon that leaves an impression on bodies, tock, holes in the chest, tick, brains with permanent distress, tock, impressing the image of hate and flurries of red into the minds of hind always in the back of our mind, tock, we are running out of time, hear my plea, that before you flee and stay stuck in make believe, tick, that the people that make you billions and millions are being killed in droves, by the coves of weapons, so while you worry about China owning our land, we ask that you at least give us a hand, and ensure that the plans for our lives will still stand, tock, and not be cut short and finished by grand schemes of hate, tick, and that on this date you realize that what makes this country so great is that cultures vary from state to state, tock, so what I put on your plate is the bodies of those who died at the expense of your ignorance, tick, and a challenge for you, tock, to take a clue and scope into what's really the issue, tick, of why this country is covered in holes and tell me with a straight face that our lives aren’t worth more than the right to bear arms. tock.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, 12 children dead each day, tock, more than 338,000 scarred, tick, 2032 school shootings since Columbine, tock, while you refer to women as concubines, tick, 493 dead in schools, tock, we cry for help and are called fools, tick, my people dead in the streets at the hands of the tool, tock, guns tucked to conceal the evil, blood drawn in a pool, tick, how many more bullets can the walls withstand, tock, stranding the millions of Americans who live life in fear, tick, men and children dead at the hands of the stick, or blick, tock, 4 students dead in Georgia, tick, 3 dead in Missouri, tock, 21 dead in Uvalde, 4 dead in Oxford, tick. The clock, tick, is running, tock, out, tick. Please consider before we run out of time, tick, tock, tick, tock.

Copyright © Micah Hill 2024

Alright (An American Tragedy)

Alright

“We gon' be alright, Do you hear me, do you feel me? We gon' be alright We gon' be alright”, alright as long as this flag runs red, white and blue, as long as my fist remains true, alright because this voice is heard, right?, even as slurs are spurred, alright because I got my block, my piece, my pole, my Glock, so in case anyone may pass this gun may blast, and we gon be alright, despite the terror in my town, because this Gun looks up and down, it don’t matter if you’re brown. This pole is red, guarantee you end up dead, because what’s more belligerent than militant, forces filling blood at its sources.

We gon be alright, because what’s more American than violence, and silence, leaving millions of Blacks jailed, ever since Columbus sailed, indoctrination of our Black nation of men and women who perpetuate supremacy, of Jacksons station. Manifest what our fate is, telling war was because of state is, while state is slavery, the talk of the town. Manifesto of hate, as you begin to straight, your bullets through your chamber, manifest your rule, and bulldoze over humanity, forcing Blacks, into labor, collapse our mule, retract our acres, manifest your destiny, leave a trail of blood, pails full of tears, then lie to your people to appeal to fear, but trust and believe that we gon be alright.

We gon be alright, because what’s more American than bondage, black bruises, brown marks, as the Confederates we hailed stand tall over parks. Our bodies ripped, our arms stretched, our backs scabbed, our legs stabbed, the chains grabbed and locked into our ankles, what could be more American than Black bodies in cuffs. We gon be alright, the slaves were freed, 1863, the freedom that pleads, but leads to a wall of worlds, a destruction of space, as Black bodies were seen inferior race. What so proudly we hailed, at the beginning of separate but equal, conditions, conditions, abolitions and coalitions of citizens We the People really swore to represent, under God, with cotton for all, with cash above all, while congress overlooks the inhumanity just down the hall, we gon be alright.

We gon be alright, as the urban planners come to wash community, White holiness seen immunity, as university’s, parks and genocidal parts of American history is untold, as the dirt underneath Black culture it holds, to promote a new future with supremacy bolds, emboldened to hate, march to the capital awaits, crowns of white, seas of fire, parallels to prior, whips and wires. Oh say can you see, the crosses burning in our communities, in the backyard of justice, in the playground of peace, upon the trees of hatred, where rope still hangs, to the capitol building where liberty strains, the birth of a nation, the station of hate, where Wilson portrayed, the real intentions of state, knights who march, march for hate. We gon be alright.

We gon be alright, as the hoses begin to spray, displaying how Blackness is seen as a fire that needs put out, that culture is a disease who’s leaders shout, and beg for equality, by the dawns early light, our communities fight, kick, scream, live on T.V, the walk for freedom, cut short by institution, while upholding the constitution, saying that all men, all meant not we, but we gon be alright. As we have a dream, we see beams of anger, bullets of terror, explosions in churches, governments error.

“We gon be alright”, as our leaders are taken out, if you disconnect the snakes head from its body the rest still moves, as the next generation of Black dissenters would prove, that no matter how many coups, justice would be a never ending fight, no matter how many heads you blew, freedom is still blue. One nation under blunder, blunder of Black communities, Black homes, Black culture, then wonder, why the margins are so thick, claim we don’t work hard enough, even though you price gouged homes, flight out of property, because you were scared we’d bring down the value, restricted our jobs, robbing us of opportunities, then have the audacity to claim that black communities are ghetto, not realizing the blame is a curved two way scope right back into the shooter, the shooter of discrimination, the doers of incrimination, the spewers of indoctrination, to convince a nation that Brown is lazy. But we gon’ be alright, as urban planners begin to flight, once again scared of Black world’s light, in an attempt to dim and diminish the next generation.

“Oh’ say does that star spangled banner yet wave?” Wave in the face of millions, as if liberation were one big sick joke, convincing ourselves that everything gon’ be alright, while we lack the control over our fate, our bodies, no royalties from being enslaved as we’re told we embolden the crime rate, while police stop and frisk, they shoot knowing no risk, kneel down to remind us of the first restriction on plantation, assume foul intentions, profile Black dimensions, because dreadlocks, brown skin, big curls, round nose, big men, mean criminal, but we gon’ be alright. O’er the land of the oppressed, land of distressed, scared of Black progress, claim that my presence is Diversity, as if filling the room with nuance and culture is shameful, Equitable, as if equal opportunity after years of the new slavery makes you oppressed, as if my Inclusion, is illusion of woken agenda, while failing to see the irony in your dilemma.

“My knees gettin’ weak and my gun might blow” because my words can’t show the sheer power in my disposition, and the home of the cowardly, while we elect and erect leaders of despotic intention, while framing one side as the new communists, while overlooking the case of Columbine, where bullets collide to paint a spitting image of red ignorance, while masses of people die at the expense of classes of bullets, you stand down and, I guess we gon’ be alright, as my friends and I rhetorically analyze ways to stay alive, as guns reign supreme. As children run, they run from each other scared of tag, they run from guns afraid of bag, a body bag full with the stories of repeated violence, failure to silence insanity’s drum.

I am no longer afraid to say that we wont be okay, we wont be alright, and that this land of the free, restricts and bounds our legs and arms by the same chains used years ago, worlds ago, while the dirt and ground show that history isn’t just below, but bubbles its way to the surface to remind that chattel wasn’t so long ago. This country’s great history of trails of violence, plantations of subjugation and control, institutions of justice for all, for some, eras of separate but equal; the most damming paradox, all rise and scream, the skeleton in the closet of a world not so long ago, of a world in which we still live. Whose bright stripes and bright stars, beamed off of Black bodies to remind them that they were fighters in the cause against their own interests? The red stripes on the back of laborers, the bright stars dimmed, and the light within dampened. What could be more American than pride and greed, two of the deadly sins, to be American is to be proud, but we must ask ourselves: What is there really to be proud about?

copyright © micah hill 2024

If He Wins

If He Wins

If Trump wins, I will not proclaim election fraud, but instead look at this great country with a frown stretched along my brown face. Reminded that we stress making America great again, but fail to see the greatness in the present as well as the future. I foresee an America where we embrace progress, instead of one where we seek to roll back the clock of democracy. An America that doesn’t try to restrict the reproductive rights of women, an America that doesn’t try to demean members of the LGBTQIA+ community, and an America that doesn’t ostracize and otherize Black and brown peoples. 

If Trump wins, I’ll be reminded that no matter how qualified you are, no matter how successful you were as Attorney General, no matter how legislatively successful you were in the Senate, you will always be overshadowed by one big error; you’re a Black woman in an America not ready for you. You are a woman, but you are strong, and being strong isn’t a trait that men are predisposed to possess. To me, being strong is being able to accept defeat, staying consistent in what you believe in, and not compromising or bowing down to any one man or woman, or despotic ruler. If Trump wins, I will not be surprised or shocked, but disappointed. Disappointed in the millions of Americans who cast their vote for belligerence, ignorance, and incompetence; our voice and protest would be made in vain. If Trump wins, I will not be filled with anger, but a deep sadness that precedes me, and be punched in the chest by gloom. Kamala Harris ran an excellent campaign, but rural voters believed her to be too weak. Kamala Harris is not weak, she is not stupid, she is overqualified for office. As a Black woman, she had to work twice as hard to achieve and overcome. If Trump wins, I’ll be reminded that this country still votes blindly; many say they are voting for the economy; they in fact are voting for outrageous tariffs. I’ll be reminded that this country would rather cast their vote for an aged white man than vote for an energized, and connected woman. This has two meanings: in 2020, voters rushed in droves to elect Joe Biden; in 2024, they are choosing a bully, a felon, and a wannabe despotic leader. 36 felony convictions, flurries of sexual misconduct allegations, a man who proclaims “when you’re famous, they let you do anything……grab ‘ em by the pussy”, is seen as presidential. I have a question for the plethora of Trump supporters; would you want your children to act and talk like Donald Trump? He touts Christianity while embodying the antithesis of the practices of Christ. A man who lets his pride overfeed him, who lets his greed overcome his disposition, and a man who lets his lust get in the way of his supposed holy matrimony. This is not a man who has found the light of God; instead, he has found the light and promise of power and has emboldened a new generation of misogynists, racists, and homophobes. 

In America, we are supposedly united, yet we are broken in our values. We say we want a government by the people for the people, that we want small government while standing by as women’s rights are stripped from them. As a man, my heart breaks for the millions of American women who will feel the wrath of angry men who want no more than control. My heart breaks for the 60 women a day that go through the dehumanizing process of sexual abuse, who will be denied health care in some states. I fear for the millions of women who are at the hands of evil, the grips of Lucifer, and the despotic rule of a pretend tough guy. I hoped, going into Election Day that America would turn the page of a chapter of unprecedented levels of unprofessionalism, but my hope grows into pessimism. From what could’ve been triumph, it now sits disembodied from my blissful optimism that made up my mind and heart along the days leading up to election. The election of Donald Trump is a microcosm of the United States’ view of Black women, unintelligent, loud, obnoxious, and unfit; I detest these claims. I hoped for a dissenting class of Americans who despised corporate America; this hope now sits gloomy, overcast by the dark shadow of ignorance that fills the streets and halls of states and capitals across the United States of America. As I anxiously await America and Black people’s fate, I am reminded that each setback is a wake-up call, and the foundation for redemption. The results of the election should not end in upheaval, nor should it end in violence; America has spoken. Kamala, you tried, and you went out swinging. The little Black boy inside me that watched as Barack Obama got reelected in 2012 is proud. I am so proud of you; you defied all odds and became the nominee for the highest position in the land as a Black woman, and you represent a generation of Black women who are strong, resilient, and strong-minded. My heart aches at the thought of a Trump presidency, but the American people have spoken, and that is something that I can never deny or undermine. From Brat Summer to the polls, I’m proud to say that Kamala Harris fought on such short notice; but saddened at the lack of action on account of my community. 

Kamala Harris is no Barack Obama, but they have one thing in common: they fight. To be Black is to be resilient and never back down, no matter what. Whether that be the dehumanizing act of enslavement, or the humiliation of Black lives that was broadcast for millions of Americans to see, to the revolution that could not be televised, to freedom, and now, the White House. Black people will never back down without a fight, because no matter how many times we lose, we get back up again. To freedom and above, for the enrichment of my people, I pray, I hope, I cry, I bleed, but today, I grieve. `I am truly disappointed in America today, but even in defeat, there is triumph. Amendment 3 in Missouri was passed to ensure and enshrine a woman’s right to choose; this remains the glimmer of hope in a tunnel of 4 years of restraint and despair. What I have realized is that we are not exceptional because we are Americans; we are exceptional because we are human, and the fact that we are here alive, breathing, and seeing, is nothing but a miracle. America, we are not exceptional; we are human, and that is okay; there is nothing greater on this planet than life itself, and the freedom of choice that comes with it. Even if Kamala Harris has lost, my hope is not. Kamala is the quintessential presidential candidate, but she is stuck to cope with the paradox of foolishness that overshadows this country.

Together is the only way forward, and although I strongly disagree with the election of Donald Trump, we must fight together, forward. What makes America so great isn’t our whiteness, or our Christianity, or our bigotry; what makes America so great is that we are all different, different in beliefs, values, and traditions, but we all stand in solidarity to continue the tradition of democracy. I believe in America, but tonight I have been let down.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Black is Beautiful

black is beautiful 

The sun is shining, glowing, reflecting on this black skin, 

the sky is beautiful, the sky is black, blacker than this logo we wear, blacker than these eyes that stare, the sky is black, don’t let anyone tell you it’s blue, because black is beautiful too. 

The boys are laughing, laughing as they tie their shoes, laughing, as the blackbird flew, laughing, while they sit in the pews, listening to preacher man spew, laughing, because them fubus ain’t new, and they’re laughing because black is beautiful too.

The boys play, they fill their day with joyous pickup games, and faces of gay, they play, because the house is warm and it’s the middle of May, they play, play before the street lights begin to display, they play, they play so hard that goodbye gets tough as they begin to drift away, they play, as everything in their world collapses around them, but they have no clue, they play, because black is beautiful too.

the boys run, they run as the sun bounces on their brown skin, their black coils, their beautiful lenses, as its rays could never shun, they run, run to be first to the finish line, the invisible line down the street, to be the first to defeat, they run, run so fast that the wind may blast and blow, but their hair would never show, they run, away from all their fears, dads belt, mommas shoe, and they run because black is beautiful too.

They smile, they smile because pain may last awhile, but joy, joy is permanent, even when the tears appear in the firmament, they smile, as others words defile because this skin still glows, they smile, smile because they could never walk a mile with me or against me, they smile, smile because the day is new, the sky is too, and they smile, because black is beautiful too.

They rock, rock them new timbs, clothes bagged around them limbs, they rock, rock their set, for goals they’ve met, make a million dollars, so they can holler, don’t you wanna party with a real nigga, they rock, rock their set and make their momma upset, I raised you better than that son, they rock, rock back and forth wishing they could rewind, they rock, back and forth feeling so blue, and they rock, because black is beautiful too.

They shoot, shoot down negativity, shoot down their sensitivity, they shoot, shoot into the chest of White mans distress, they shoot, shoot back at the enemy because all activities outside our clique can’t wait to put a stick in our face, they shoot, shoot their last breath as their words have addressed, and the others have impressed a 10 mm in their chest, they shoot, shoot a movie in a box, where mom begins to rock and scream “why my baby” and stares in shock, they shoot, shoot 6 feet below the ground as the family surrounds, they shoot, as the grief chews into their chests, because black is beautiful too.

They lived because sets don’t define or describe their regret, they lived, lived life blue, souls connected with the moon, and the springs bloom, they lived, day to day, laughing, playing, running, smiling, shooting, now decaying, they lived, lived because from childhood they grew, grew around all his friends, without a clue, they lived, because black is beautiful too, and black isn’t defined by White worlds shine, or stains, saying that community is ghetto, black is beautiful because the sky is black, it’s peaceful, the flowers are black, not deceitful, the world is black, not broken, and theses words are black, not because they attack, but black because. black is beautiful too.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Sayang Mama

Sayang Mama

Sayang mama means love I never knew, it means men that blew, the tip of a cigarette that would be a microcosm of what could’ve been, it means laying at night, cold, it means that I’ll be just like my Daddy, it means smells of home, nasi kerabu and rendang, it means the sights of childhood, the impressing of limits, not knowing the sky was yours, it means the voyage to America, to start life anew, it means the man that would cheat, the “men” who would beat, the source of life, who would become three children, a girl who’s reference for love was reverence and fear, one where beatings would steer, the key to soul. 

Sayang mama means the white house of life, that you created, it means the vice in the refrigerator, the broom for the driveway, the doom of your life being the grips of Men who restrict what could’ve been, it means intelligence, elegance, it means stripping the covering and picking up the cross, of a world who’s goals would toss, it means climbing a hill of life that would climax in the form of a son, it means the lump in the hill being the destroyer of dreams, it means the grass of the mound of life falling, it means the broken, sickly world you knew, and left for a boy who knew no tenderness.

Sayang mama means a house of wisdom, one pink, one blue, an impression of the beauty of your life, it means a son who found validation in all the wrong places, a daughter who would be just like you, a daughter that had to fill your shoes. Sayang mama, saya sayang awak, this would be my final goodbye, as the box to your life closes and the safe to my madness would lock and open a world of bitterness. 

Saya rindu mama, I miss your wisdom, I miss your voice, I miss your touch,

Saya rindu mama, I miss your warmth, I miss your smile, that could light up a room and last for awhile, I miss, I miss, I miss.

sayang mama means that no matter how hard I try i’ll always be like those who came before me, the toxicness that proceeds me, the ego that overfeeds me, it means scars not in the form of clef, or in the form of left, but the fear of loss, that the women that proceed would take the lead, of the role they could never fill, it means i’m just like Father, who twisted love, i’m just like Grandfather, who’s love felt rough, I forget your face, I forget your touch, but you left for me a world that bleeds, the blood of shortcoming, Rahmah, saya sayang awak.

sayang mama, sincerely Micah.

As a child I never knew the normality of home, I never knew the motherly love that’s bounds were unconditional. My mother passed away when I was 2 years old, but the legacy she left is felt even if i’ve never met her. Her life is a story of struggle, a struggle for power in a world ran by Men, who wanted no more than what was between her legs. Men that wanted no more than control, to feel that they had power over something. Her biggest weakness was her world that said that the roof was the limit. It left her a world that shows “I love you” is conditional, a world where women couldn’t get ahead. In this piece I use Malay to communicate love, sayang mama means I love you Mommy, but for me, it means so much more. Dear Rahmah, I cry for you, you deserved the world but we’re given the window of a kitchen to the backyard of gloom. This is a love letter to apart of a world I never knew but felt.

 copyright © micah hill 2024

Game

game

My mind races at the thought of you, my body shivers and swoons over you. you feel like the final boss of life’s story mode, the end goal of soul, that fills the hole in my chest, that was left behind, debris from my mother’s decline. You make my hands feel like the sun shining on a beautiful humid summer day, you make my feet feel light, like the words that follow, you make my body feel hollow. you feel like prancing in the backyard, not a care in the world, like the bounds of my mother, the sounds of above. You make my mind race, my heart chase, the feeling of you, my intentions true, you make my body blue, to exude the bliss of autumn’s kiss, like the leaves that fall, so do I, like the trees that breathe, the fresh air of peace, you complete the feat of me, from the depths of my curls to the ends of my feet, you make my soul and heart, feel complete. 

You’ve beaten the high score, the number on the floor compared to the limit of the sky, that makes me shy. You feel like the nervousness of long-awaited victories, where I defeat my woes, you feel like the sword of life, how I defeat my foes. You feel like the game of pickup, when I take my shot, and turn around because the ball feels hot, like the suns rays reflecting off my skin, the brown of life, to where I’m akin, to all the beauty’s of the earth, but you top them all, because you fulfill my worth. You feel like the pigskin that graces my hands, to the sprint to the invisible endzone, where it meets its end, like the breeze of winter, the sky and moon, where I forget my problems, and where I swoon. 

You feel like a late night, where the rain collapses on my roof, and the drops slide and collide on my window, like the loud cracks of thunder, like the carefree blunder of youthful disposition. you parallel my mother, you allow me to feel safe, and you don’t leave me wondering, what if? 

You feel like the field of grass, the piles of wheat, like my life’s restarted and a clean white sheet, you feel like the warmth of night, the security of obscurity, where all my insecurities cease to exist, you feel like the red of the sky, when the sun sets and makes me feel so high, you feel like the gentleness of spring, when the flowers sing, the blossoming of love instead of strife, you feel like the bed of my soul, where I can rest my head to bask in the sheet of life, you feel like the morning wind, the light that spins, around my head as I start my day. 

You feel like the flash of light from the photo booth, like the peace and tranquility of summers truth, like the ends of the earth from sea to sea, like the image of happiness, of you and me. To me, you aren’t a game, but you call my name, and when I hear your voice, it’s not the same, as everyone else that I wish would leave, you feel special to me and I want you to know, that nothing on this planet would allow me to show, how I truly feel about you so I write this poem, to let you know that I’ll always be home.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Control

control

your demeanor is one to be meaner because you can't stand the fact you aren't in control, that you can't patrol each and every crevice, and part of a world you once knew, blew away because you placed your grip upon the key to your ego, but it slipped away and it flew, away to a world where it could start anew, free from the grasp of your despotic hands, that your pulse and glands retract and expands every time the key to control is near, fear that they'll sense your disingenuous attitude, the feeling of self gratitude that all that could matter to you isn't a how are you and i'll care for you still, it's a lingering anger where jealousy trills, and fills your spirit with lakes of madness, that when you reflect, all you feel is sadness, of why it had to be this way, of this bed I’ve layed. 

when I love you tickles the tip of my tongue, I feel the feeling of grips of pride, that my soul abides to put on a front of tough where sin arrives, and prescribes my spirt a pill that fills my heart with rage, when the previous print of page, wages war on my need to control, and patrol the streets of your secrets, the need to gather my key to your mind, and unlock the part where I find, it easy to undermine your self intuition and give myself permission to steer you near, and hold you close and play on fear. 

my recipe for toxic, my key re locks it, to veil what I love you means, the fact it's really the means in which i'll preen over myself and my manipulative stunt, giving up my soul to put on a front, of a loving man who's willing to stand, and tell you with a straight face and take your hand, and tell you it's for the best even if it's stress that rests in the bed that you made with vice, splicing the door to the portal of past, its vast fields of the shortcomings of my forefathers, the passing on of the need to flick, the sticks of the controller I use to control what it means to be, your plea be make believe because when my jealousy speaks my shortcomings leak, to show i'm weak and can't stand the fact that you seek a world where, you can't be controlled by me.

when jealousy speaks it reeks of fear, that its grips on your life are losing steer, of your vehicle to your heart, that when my key does its part, the rage inside begins to harp, a sharp pain inside, where vice derives because what it means to be is to control, every hook of your temple, from your feet to your pimples, simply because of cycles of toxics power, that because dysfunctional carries my soul shall be towered, by figures of anger when jealousy showers, it's hasty works on my body. 

copyright © micah hill 2024

Takeover (Free Palestine)

takeover

The frontier, to appear that we know best, the West version of distress, inflicting years of occupation, segregation, later, “emancipation”, while still keeping your exceptionalism true, to enact laws of one race rule to those whom you say not have a clue, but they do. They watched as you marched across their land and stand, with a ruling fist that proclaimed, this hand of land is ours, it says so in our text, let’s conquer and divide, and lay these savages to rest. The line between savage and Holy, the new frontier of Zionist sully of anything in the way. From years of oppression, your lesson not learned, because your chosen land of people, redemption they yearned, taken out on so-called evil, so-called “people” of an uncivilized land, while you stand grand, proclaiming that you’re the one true democracy of the Middle East, while your actions defile and showcase genocidal intent paralleled to the Congolese, the leasts. While you feast upon the feats of Western democracy, unruly hypocrisy, horrific atrocities. To stand to say that your neighbors are less than martyrs because that distinction requires they be human. 

From millions of deaths, souls put to rest because of the branding as unequal, culture gone in an upheaval, to marching land, just like Columbus, to a world where the savage run rampant, where their voices would be dampened. Bulldozing humanity, part insanity, of a people who too were human. Guards with weapons, children in sections, of a hell you created to prevent history be restated, because the books are written by the victorious, whose name would be glorious, and enshrined in the minds of those made blind, to the oppression of evil obsession to re-do the pain inflicted unto you. 

Children cry, adults cry, families say goodbye, to a part of a world they once knew, to them was always controlled by you. Buildings fly, hallways fly, your actions imply that you yearn for ethnostate, while people you exonerate for crimes of mass murder, are enshrined in statues to solidify your firmer, grip on control, control of the savage, whose communities you destroyed, whose homes you ravaged. Children die, children die, while you sigh at the thought of being referred as apartheid state, while you spew the same rhetoric of hate, that Hitler’s regime would create, that your nation is great, and needs kept pure, that killing of others and force would ensure. 

The line between sovereignty and poverty create a line of punitive action, to create factions of right-wing zealots who want the feeling of power, and the right to devour, Muslim faith, who needs no wait to lead them to their fate. Checkpoints ensure that your government endures, military lures the allure of freedom, while martyrs galore, bodies fallen to the floor. You claim terrorists while occupying homeland, sectioning into 3, then destroying history so the rest can’t see, the imputative nature of your despotic rule. 

As we takeover, 135 homes in the Old City, we figure a world with just “we” would be more fitting, after enduring documented atrocity of man, we plan to do it again. You will not replace us, as the Palestinian people just want their land, spewing the same hatred of those who despise you, to the same hate that right arms were rised to, that Jews were displaced to, Blacks were erased to, cracks in the base of the plans to degrade and erase a generation of dissenters, for you to turn your back to justice and turn into Xenophobic presenters, of a world of misery.

You strike the hospitals, children running through the streets, while their arms appear dark red where they have to play dead. You strike the playgrounds, where children no longer play, instead their days filled with body decay. You strike the homes, where families comb through the rubble of drywall, enthralled by the horrific sight of seeing your child’s height, 6 feet below the ground, where the songs of life sing, the difference between buying and selling apartments, to buying and selling hope, to Palestinians who have to cope with the loss of reality, no sense of regard for legality, of the destruction of a Nation, while leaders negate the severity of genocide taking the Iron Fist winner side, of a government of evil who want to destroy and deploy plans of upheaval. 

You employ tactics to try and raise empathy while lacking the sympathy to realize the horror of the drums of death, the sounds of fear, the blood that smears, the violence that rears, itself into the back of a child’s ears. You dehumanize a population of innocent souls, for your own intended goals to seek vengeance for haunting past, where Jews came last. Juxtaposing your actions with the faction of 3rd Riech, a fraction of population turned majority overnight, asking Natives to flight, into a cell of control, a chamber of War, from shore to shore, of occupation galore, of soldiers who bore, Guns for fear so you can steer, innocent souls to make your message more clear that, “this is a takeover” a makeover of space, so we can fill your Holy place, with propaganda for victorious triumph, while understating the lives you ruined to proudly declare your defeat of Goliath and end of nightmare; willingly opening the book to foundations shook, to the building of Islamic existence, of human resistance, and the graves of lives who were caught in the crossfire, unleashing the beast of propagation of least, while filling the streets while fleets of human bodies covered in sheets.

Please consider because the only option is for despotic rule to cease, not just fire but to announce the dire situation of humans just like you and me, so please, please, please, call for an end to murder, an end to atrocity, to stop evil in its tracks of all its ferocity, for you Netanyahu, to swallow a pill of the foundations of violence, and your continued silence of the Palestinian people, and for you to listen, to the officials calling your mess, the ideas they stress, that the situation in Gaza is a production of war crime, political grime, and enshrine, of the echos of monstrous death. I ask, that you take off the blindfold and hold, the body count of civilians, the displacement of millions, and reflect on your ignorance and harsh belligerence, and understand those whose beliefs are the difference between life and death, who breathe their last breath, at the hands of missiles and bullets, and to humanize them, instead of euphemize them, and end your battle with revenge, avenge them not,

for you Mister. Prime Minister.

I find the scenes in Gaza to be deeply disturbing, and I find the actions of the Zionist regime to be ironic. The Holocaust was a terrible tragedy and is a horrifying glimpse into what happens when rulers preach Ethnostate and reek of hateful rhetoric. What is unfolding in Gaza is the culmination of years of Zionist rath at the expense of the Palestinian people, who are not inherently savage or terrorists. Oct. 7th was the climax event of a century-long struggle for equality. Many Palestinians refer to the Israeli occupation, originally in Area C, now throughout nearly all of Gaza, as an apartheid state. This piece was inspired by Ta-Neshi Coates’s “Message” and is my commentary on a deeply disturbing everlasting loop of violence in Gaza. Free Palestine.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Budweiser

Budweiser

The bottle cracks open again, the lid pops up and a world of sin reappears. The bottle meant more than just a container for evil, but years of destruction in its past.

As a child I’d yearned for I love you to never mean I’m above you, that you were a man of God, that didn’t spare the rod, to protect me from foolishness. Each cigarette burned, the ash representing how I felt when I watched you destroy your body; to preach to your clients and friends to seem more godly. The ash being tossed to Earth, like how you threw your worth, the smell of smoke; would make me choke, on the tobacco of death, the smell stuck on your breath, and clothes as you re-entered our broken home. Cope, coping with the ramifications of mother’s loss, the house that cost, the kids that were lost, who could blame you?

I look at you with love, that could only come from above, but when you crack open the Budweiser, I wish you were wiser. You tell me stories, stories of defeat, that you stood at the feet of the bottle of shortcoming, that you did the unthinkable, things that were unspeakable, that you changed as a man the day you dropped the sin, but then you picked it back up as if you could never win. I always gave you the benefit of the doubt because of the stress, but the spirit of Lucifer would never be put to rest, you’d impress into me the image of make-believe; that you were a changed man, you take the hand of God and blacken it with the liquid of drunkenness. Each sip makes you more confident, more confident in the fact that life has to be this way, that your kids would never stay because they love their mom more than you; that they don’t know how it feels to walk a mile in your shoes, but you have no clue, of how it feels to watch the man of the house abuse his spouse, then show up on Sunday and project his louse, of the invasion of wickedness, the occasion of oppression, stressing that you were the head, while inflicting pain unto those who were fed, the lies of pride, impressing the bud of a cigarette on the face of light.

A vision of you, showing up drunk, before a family vacation in which you stunk, of the smell of Bud. As we rode to the airport, you bloat your shortcoming, and when we arrived you sparked a rage inside, that when I looked at you I’d thought that the devil had derived, from the bottle of stupidity evil in the vicinity. As we passed through the terminal, you’d fallen flat on your face, the space felt loud, like eyes were burning on the back of my head, it made me wish you would’ve stayed at home and gotten a stead, soon we lead, to a terminal to a brighter place, but you needed your fix so you removed yourself from the space, to light up a bud, not a bottle but a stick of peace, that would put your mind at ease. Minutes went by, and you never arrived, despite the fact we boarded the flight, you were nowhere in sight, the pure fright that you’d wasted your money, more precious than me, and that you’d missed your shot at getting a glance of the sea, the words you texted me were “I missed my flight”, and I felt nothing but spite. You found a way to make it in time, but my image of you was now blind, that no matter what you did I was inclined, to have hatred for you, for having no spine.

I call back to when we boarded the cruise, and instead of precious family time, you found it more important; to sit with drunkenness. Excursion after excursion and you wanted to stay, reminiscent of that 4-year-old boy who just wanted to play, but was towered by a shadow of reverence that would overcast my day.

But what I learned that day is that nobody is perfect, it could never excuse your actions, but the faction between us held strong like the ocean beneath us; reminding me of my mother who called me her little genius. My heart dropped and felt for you because no matter how hard I tried I’d be just like you, my heart filled with anger, my heart blackened with rage, and although you’d been a fool you still maintained sage, and allowed me to fill my pages with poems about you, because no matter how hard I’d tried I’d always filled your shoes, and became just like you.

I don’t hate you, I hate the bottles of Budweiser that stack up to remind me of your past, I don’t hate you I hate the burning of the bodies of death, the buds of cancer, the ash of the stick, I don’t hate you, I hate that it had to be this way, that the kids and I couldn’t just stay, but had to move away to a place that was safe. I don’t hate you, I hate myself, for being more like you than you would ever know, and exuding rage that to me you’d always show, I don’t hate you, I love you dispute all that happened because you showed me that my love should be the opposite of how coarse yours felt, to chose tenderness over reverence, to choose tranquility over the ability to hurt, and most importantly to choose love, no matter the source because throughout life’s course you remain the main event I will always remember. I love you, I love you more than you love the bottle of vice, I love you more than you love the wad of cash in your pocket, I love you more than the green and white pack of sin you carry, and I love you more than you would ever know, because the cycle of shortcoming makes it hard to show, that I love you always, whether rain or snow, or anything that stands in the way of my hearts glow.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Abandon

abandon

My sweet world of fall leaves, winter breeze, where the tip of my nose would freeze, transitioning into a blossoming of life, rays of light, as the sun hits my window seal, I'm reminded everything is alright, my father tries his best, to not show stress, as his world is filled with gloom, walls of black, clouds of smoke begin to stack, where the trees look lifeless, the flowers never bloom, stuck in a loop of doom, my youth of ignorance, and his belligerence of love, casted a shadow that towered from above.

Like a puppy I sped away, fast from the barrel of gloom, it seemed my world collided with power, challenged a world that seemed so sour, but my white painted red and black, filling soul by the hour. I wanted to speed away, from a world of hurt, a triangle pyramid where love is the foundation, reverence next, use of the rod, the hex of masculinity, on top was fear, that catastrophe was near, so each level was used to steer me, and keep me near, but each tier, would cause tears to flow from my eyes, afraid of his size, predisposed to tell lies, to hide from marks behind. 

I'd be taken to a new world, aided by pigs, my animal control because home didn't feel like home, I recall sitting, laying, in an office so sterile, the silence of the room, almost made me feral, I was clutched, in the arms of my sister, the fear of mister, unsettling feeling of the unknown, prone to being hunted like a fox to a hound. In a world so evil I had become abound, to the cycles of suffering, turned into a hound, the sound of leaves ruffled, caused me to scoff, nose perked up, ready to take off, the winter wind meant no more than resting season, the expansion of pedals, meant no more than deaths reason, of a natural cycle to dominate, rule over the acres, of cruel trophic past, ruse of a tough guy, it could never last. I had just wanted to bask in my father’s arms, even though he had harmed, because the foundation he'd laid for me was one to farm, and leave once the ground had nothing of charm. 

My life seemed more than to hunt and stunt, to walk aimlessly in the forest, nose tucked in front, I had the tenderness in my heart, to not tear you apart, because your presence warmed my spirit and my intuition would dart, the way I should view you, ought to be with caution, ever my mother left, she left me alert, and prepared to expect the worst to disperse, from any entity, my tendency to trust too hard, turned to fear of betrayal, natures portrayal of an endless movie of gloom, but you touch the tender part of my soul that knows that you don't mean doom.

abandon me doesn't mean you left me standing, but it means my world is tossed and hurled, as I begin to curl, back into that puppy whose nose got stuffy every time you'd say you love me, my winters turned warm, my summers became dark, and the leaves in the park on autumn day fail to stay, because of the cycle of grief, and disbelief that I could ever change.

copyright © micah hill 2024

The movie “Fox and the Hound” compelled me to feel sentimental and it forced me to reflect, as I watched the simplistic imagery, and the sweet, gentle, and sour story; it captivated my attention. It reminded me how I too had let my environment and expectations that hung over my life to define who I was as a person. Seeing Copper and Todd interact was a reminder that hate isn’t predisposed, but taught. The mean and calculated demeanor of Chief reminded me of my father, that deep down inside he truly did love me and wanted the best, but what would ensue showed the opposite. Love has no bounds, and sometimes we need a reminder of our social contract and a reminder that tenderness and gentleness always prevail. This poem is about my childhood experiences and interactions with the cycle of trauma, and a commentary on the sweetness that love exudes.

Love

Love

Love is tender, it feels like the gentle breeze of summer trees, waving in the wind, extending its branches out to reach for the sky, flapping its leaves, prepared to fly, the feeling of shy, when words do not form but I cannot say goodbye, wondering why I feel this way, but I allow feelings deep inside my soul to stay.

Love is rosey, it tickles my cheeks red, sped away quickly because I believed that love was dead, but tread lightly because some love is cursed, it bewitches us to a spell only one can break, and only one can make, it grips our consciences and corrupts our thinking, it changes our speaking and even our blinking, overthinking of human action, fraction of mind souls combine, to create a feeling only heart can bind, the feeling of tension not worth the mention, suspension of world, my worry's retention. 

The blissful climax of human emotion, my mind washed by love’s potion, going through the motions of intended charm, unaware of the potential harm. My heart skips a beat and begins to speed every time your gentle face meets my personal space, the walls of defense, protection from attack, lack to stand tall as they begin to fall, because gentleness breaks the code to the fortress and draws the bridge to my heart, the feeling of safety knowing you’re near, but the fear that separation is inevitable. Reminded of past, when my love was last, lost away because humans cannot stay, and one day we shall all pass away, never again to feel the motherly touch, of her sweet gentle hands and allow them to clutch, the padlock to my soul, and allow me to dole in the vastness of her arms, the blueness of her charm, because the only amount of harm, was the feeling of abandonment, you left for me a big world at age 16.

I allow you to bypass my body’s security because you feel like my mother, whose love like no other, you feel like Sunday dinner after we’ve all felt sinners, the rays of sun, the blood that runs, through my face down to my feet. You feel like the warmth of July, and August, your presence hugs my body like the humidity of swamp weather, the steam of gleam, like a beam of light on a Monday clean. My words flow like the blood in my veins, taking over the reins of veil, the feeling that when you’re around my mind sails and allows me to be who I am in the night when the blue light of the moon shows that my condition has not yet pruned, but that I swoon over you, the feeling of new, the appearance of blue. 

I love you means I have given you power, to allow you to see my coward, to see my lowest, and to see the top of my tower, from my hair to my knees, my soul speaks, and from my eyes to my shin, my mind screams, as you place your arms around me my heart preens, and as it beats, I feel the weight of the bumping to veins, I feel the chains of toxic break once again. 

Love is my final destination, it is the creation of life, the remedy for strife, it is the ability to cry for help, when lifes stones become too much and bed doesn’t feel like home, it is the red of my body, the blue to my soul, it fills the holes that were placed by abandonments moles, it is the hope for the future and our self-worth, the foundation for peace, the piece of God that lives on earth. 

copyright © micah hill 2024

United in Divison

United in Divison

Colonial ruling, precursor to American drooling over ideas of separation, waste of the Black nation, for we are united in division, our revolution won’t be on television, but realized on the block of justice, corner store of peace, for all our complexity we’re still the least, last in wealth, wealth of Western atrocity, the creation of our democracy, that all men are created equal, expect the those who outer being has no earthly good, the them that live in that hood, the ones who word ain’t no good, jive turkeys. 

We sailed, and you hailed, yourself as the beginning of greatness, the savors of humanity, who could believe your vanity, you marked our skin, like our bodies were letters for labor, and then blessed your voyage as if hate was something to pray-for, many a few jumped overboard, to escape the hell you curated, trying to create heaven, trying to play God, who could believe these frauds, you settled, conquistadores of a future full of hierarchy, oligarchy of men who call themselves West, while you beat your subjects whos bodies weren’t allowed to rest, and impressed your culture, in hopes of creating master race, and traced a trail of tears, from sea to shining sea, the seas painted and tainted, from the bodies of lesser, who could believe the gesture. 1776, Thomas Jefferson called for an end to slavery, who could question his bravery, while his plantation of evil made the aftertaste not so savory.

The United States of the Disphora, the temporary worth of euphoria, to rule the mens and the thems who can’t swim, stims, from the creation of separate, the boats of cells, the depths of hells, firey gates open for the welcoming of settlers, hecklers who march the streets, the real defeat of Columbus’s feat, at the feet of the Lord where man retreats, and swears his feet skins pure as sheep. Rise to speak, to say that you seized the day and the land of the savage, ravaged through culture, stepped over Brown skin like vulture, then pull out the bible and begin to pray, who does Christ look like? 

I say my body is a temple, but life isn't so simple, if it weren't for the sheer disrespect and disregard of my peers, it all links to fear, that feeling that despotic rulers are near, their right to bear arms and our lack to bear witness, we pin this on whiteness but it isn't so sinless, it's endless. A Rice, brown, Massey, Hampton, Floyd, Martin, all disparted from this earth because of the cardinal of fear, that because this skin is darkened and blemished, an outbreak of violence was near, the sheer force of my rounded nose is the key to my soul, that when you suppress it, inflect great pain onto it, suffocate it until it breathes its last breath, and raise your chest to say that the west is best while stressing that God knows best, and that he gave you this land, and greenlighted these hands to, beat your black body til it’s black and blue. 

Divided and decided that negro means less, brand us as you confess to the murderous crimes you possessed and processed ready for a capital-filled future, give up your land, today’s big loser. Destroy my temple to build yours, grand cathedrals filled with evil, the brick of steeple built by the so-called feeble-minded negro, we are violent, but let us not forget Martin, his head pierced like a spartan, or Martin whose Black body was ripped apart, tried to break his heart, or Hampton, whos ultimate crime was ensuring Black kids would eat on time, whos Black body to you wasn’t worth a dime, but worth all the corruption in the world because of your evil consumption, of the bread of man, which fill your pan, of plans to prevail and preserve and force we serve, your ultimate clan. 

West, the best of civilization, the hallmark of human achievement, if you ignore the inhumanity, glorification of insanity, that our fathers who not in heaven the seven of your sins, the pridefulness of your barrage on humans, the greed to bleed those who stood in your way of conquest, lusting over Native and enslaved women, but claimed the sinnin’, envy of other European achievement, need for competition driven by aristocrats, your gluttony that proceeds you, that your ego overfeeds you, your wrath you enact, while the bodies, they stack, your sloth and laziness to force the weak, to build your temples and buildings of prideful superhuman evil. 

My people are united in division, the byproducts of visions to imprison the souls with goals to crush our spirit, from Timbuktu to Ethiopian origins of Christ, our Black temples have paid the price, and sliced our culture, split our people, for riches inhumane, inflicting pain onto those whose skin has stained, trained our people to associate evil with you, because you have no clue what it means to aboriginally be me. 

copyright © micah hill 2024

Tradition

tradition 

“you don’t fit my description of a Christian, or my concept of affliction, you don’t understand my persecution, my execution of thinking, the bombardment of soul, your knowledge has holes”. because of my rejection of tradition, my rendition of a world where my addiction isn’t pleasure or wealth, but my clean slate of love, I shall not want, but you lie to the congregation sir, you put on a front.

come and wash me in the blood, the blood of the lamb, so when we walk through the doors we don’t feel sham, because the doors to the gates of heaven have opened, and the doors of the sanctuary have closed, the problems they’ve posed, to stack human against flesh, the disposition they’ve chose is one to hate, that because of the freedom to love, you’ve chosen your fate, Laying the foundation of division, a Groundbreaking school of thought, to lay our hands on those who don’t align, to enshrine our minds with generations of grime, Breaking my body, taking the key to my soul, the gains of power, raising pride and ego being the final goal, Taking my right to choose, marking my shortcoming so you can use the ruse of high ground, my right to lose, the control of my mind creating a bind, that the hill we climb is taken on blind.

hear my prayer oh gentle savor, when the pockets of the people have opened, the self proclaimed man of God has spoken, hes awoken to say that blessings will come if you pray, “if you stay with me, and fail to see, that my pockets enrich, while I become bewitched by the spell of power, the wealth begins to shower, and the word of the hour is about earthly possesion, the obseession with me instead of we, of sanctuary instead of church, that all our Godly worth is in greed, so let me take lead and you take heed, that when you bleed for me, you cant see that, sin has overcome my soul, it has filled my holes of a past where I yearned for power, my riches have towered, and you the coward, because you cant endure, your inflection demure in the presense of the Lord. You don’t pray about land, or ask for a hand in building your empire, to ascend higher, not to heaven but to the realm of all power, so when you come to church each Sunday give me my flowers, for being the messenger of prosperity, and giving you clarity, that my veil of Goodman will proceed its rarity”.

wrestle not with flesh and bone, but judge those who see your stone, of a heart while the Devil plays his part, to start a conspiracy of carnal sin, you let the enemy win, and pin your transgressions on the congregation, the station of rhetoric, to make us hate, to run the state, because all that matters to you is power, you want to be a ruler, a demagogue, and prey on fear so you can steer, the minds of the people, pretense of evil, to stack the odds against love, that your hate comes from above, and when push comes to shove, my kingdom is cleansed like doves, while we overlook vice and make you pay the price. hear my prayers, that you won’t turn the people into slayers, of man, or ban the right to think, while you’re on the brink of multi-millions, the billions of people have absorbed your evil. you give a platform to hate, claim that the replacement is great, while preaching laws of love, you’ll mock the scrubs, who differ from you, but you naught have a clue, of the issues of those whose sin was “I love you”.

the doors of the church are now open, your word has spoken and slammed the gates of heaven shut, the rut of division, you’ve made your decision to box with God, and he have not spare the rod, hes strucken your pod of a faction of rulers with a white fist, while you continue to list, out the shortcoming of man with a blackened hand, grand announcment of ignorance, beligerent is he when people are filled with glee about the right to choose, the right to love, the capacity of our souls coming from above, the right to control, our destiny because we dig our hole, that our final goal is to not allow tradition overcome our addition onto a broken world, and to come together to say that our future is one where judgement is allotted to the most high, and that love when pronouned doesnt have to be shy, and to imply that your time has come to answer up above, and your glove fits, so your vice throws a fit, as your soul desends into the fiery pits.  

Context:

Megachurch culture in America, and the idea of the prosperity gospel, is crippling the Christian community. It is not representative of the teachings of Christ, and the yearning for earthly goods goes against the gospel. The rampant hate of LGBTQ+ members and otherizing of many minority groups showcases a trend of a sense of religious nationalism. What is scary about nationalism is that it always means genocide, removal of the evil. Even if you aren’t a member of a marginalized community or the LGBTQ+ community this should startle you. You should care because fascism and extremism are at the end of the race and we are feet away from the finish line. We need to steer clear from despotic rule and we need to watch out for patterns and parallels to the past.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Holes

holes

fear is the source of evil, like our bodies are ready to ascend, like our lives aren’t worth amends, because what it means to be American is to feed on fear, that the end is near, to pack up our resources and pick up the pieces of a broken nation, that if the other side wins our hand’s gon be gone like Haitains, but our relations don’t have to be so polarizing, glamorizing the scopes of weapons of mass destruction, road blocks and sectioning walls of obstruction, the America we see is one filled with holes, no matter how many people run to the poles, because were wrapped in the red verse blue, that our media and articles skew further from the truth, that we’re stuck in booths of disaster rhetoric, reverberating ideas of a split reminiscent of confederate. 

hear ye, hear ye, to the halls of congress, where we’re worried about TikTok, while the clocks to our lives tick, 2nd period the alarm screams “there is an active shooter in the building” tock, the school of thought, turning into a congress of haughty ideals while the holes in lockers make the halls reverberate, tick, our time bomb of damnation, creation of death, the depths of the steps to congressional, judicial repeal seem steep, while members question, conspire, claim that the hooks of vice and the barrels of assault were faked, that the sandy skinned aliens are to blame, and that immigration, the shame, claim that your future will take us back, take us back to the 3rd riech, where we burn knowledge covering the pipe of truth with duct tape, where we make issue of those who are invading this great country, tock, the clock stops as it passes october. 7th and November 9th, broken glasses, and genocidal spark, as innocent souls frolic in the parks, of the parts of a world that is not yet broken, as the holes catch up to ensure that their future is never spoken. 

I see children running, blood gushing, teachers shushing and telling students to lay low in a room of black, stacked together to protect from attack, i see officers reluctant, i see walls covered in our future, i see congresses halls filled, i see the streets of the capital filled, with seas of red while oceans of red are lost in each school hallway, always ready to move on and get over it, the blood was lost but we have nothing to show for it, we have the nation in our hands, hands on rifles, associating our guns with protection, while teachers use fire hydrants with blooded complexion, sections of bodies and candles while we march for our lives, tick, the clock strikes midnight, it's only okay if we lived right, protecting undeveloped lives, while overlooking the piles of student bodies where violence derives, while congress is worried about planned parenthood, the communities plan of parenthood is crushed as they have to rush to the schools to find that their children's bodies were turned into dust, but saving the unborn is a must, while we blindly follow giving up our trust. 

the lockers have holes in them, the doors of the gym have holes in them, while you rush to bandage your grazed ear, children fear for their lives every time an AR-15 is near, but you could never care, because all you care about is you, no clue about what it means to walk a mile in my shoes, tock, while you hold the biggest rally's, you only have concepts of a plan to help us withstand the terror domestic, it isn't immigrants inciting political violence, filling hallways with blood, and marching the streets saying that "you will not replace us" the hate you placed will leave us gone without a trace, because while you use mace to keep us silent, we'll continue to try to calm down the violence, at the hands of the gun, tick, as the bell schedule runs, we have to run for our lives before he empty's the drum, and after, we'll get together and hum and honor those who didn't have a gun or the time to realize that they were running out of theirs, you let the lobby pull your strings Mr. Nutcracker, while we have to string together back the stitching of our community after the common attack, while you lack to action, staying with your faction of a party of hypocrites, a democrite, a rebloodican, while students stand in parking lots staring at the reflection of election of the right to bear arms, even if they harm and causes the people's alarms to sound, tock, the time is soon running out, while you tweet out about nonsense, we cry for the pretense of hate, saying that this country is great, while its people have to be ready to accept their fate, at the barrel of a rifle, freedom being our redeeming trait.

no matter how many times you pray, our voice goes astray, tock, we run in flocks, the march of our lives, while you enact laws of ethnic ban, blame the trans, but our transgressions are when we lift our voice to call out, confession of a country doomed for recession is that our lesson might be cut short by the body of a weapon that leaves an impression on bodies, holes in the chest, brains with permanent distress, impressing the image of hate and flurries of red into the minds of hind always in the back of our mind, tock, we are running out of time, hear my plea, that before you flee and stay stuck in make believe, that the people that make you billions and millions are being killed in droves, by the coves of weapons, so while you worry about China owning our land, we ask that you atleast give us a hand, and ensure that the plans for our lives will still stand, and not be cut short and finished by grand schemes of hate, and that on this date you realize that what makes this country so great is that cultures vary from state to state, so what i put on your plate is the bodies of those who died at the expense of your ignorance, and a challenge for you, to take a clue and scope into what's really the issue, of why this country is covered in holes and tell me with a straight face that our lives arent worth more than the right to bear arms.

copyright © micah hill 2024

School shootings in America have become entrenched in our culture and guns have been made apart of our national identity, this fact is deeply troubling and facilitates a trend of increased mass shootings. Change must come, amendment must come, because inaction of politicians, mockery by politician’s like MTG, means the blood is on the hands of our government. Time and time again, Uvalde, Virginia Tech, Parkway, Columbine, now a Georgia school shooting, we hear “thoughts and prayers” but no congressional change. This is an injustice and a failure on all levels of government. We can leave the right to choose up to the states but wont give guns a second look. Take action, ask for gun buybacks, ask for constitutional change, be the change we seek. Help usher in a new generation of students who dont fear for their lives at the one place they should be protected.

Sensitive

sensitive 

you don't fight with your hands or your mouth you must be sweet, you just let them men run over you accepting defeat, as if because you're weak and feeble it deletes, the fact that you're human too, but they don't have a clue that what they say undos the wounds of childhood blues, the feeling that them boys can say whatever, do whatever and I must accept, that because I’m sensitive I’m defect, but my response to attack is much more direct, it's pent up frustration, of saddened effect, because when you use your mouth to speak words to mock the weak, all I can do is seem to weep. 

they say in this world there will be verbally violent people, but a world where we push the feeble, penetrate the thin walls of a broken man, because it's legal to assault with tongue, so young man you can't be so sensitive, representative of what it means to be a man is tough, toughest on the block, toughest to lead the flock, toughest to mock anyone that doesn't fit your description of affliction that a man should do, as if because I don't strike with fists you'll infiltrate my mind like a coup, because no event or task will ever allow you to fit in my shoes. my childhood blues of passed down vice, that because my daddy's mean to me I can't play nice, that because i need to prove I’m a man you must pay the price. little boy you're too sensitive, sentencing your body to lifelong struggle, ruffle your soul because you not a real man, real men kick, the doors to your soul because the goal is to demolish the opposition, real men shoot, shoot down your esteem in hopes of filling the wounds of ego and pride, colliding with bodies, carnal sin takes a ride, real men punch, punch in your chest in hopes of reaching your heart, so that they can dissect the source of the part that makes you so sissy, that your mind goes misty and privy to the fact that your manhood is under attack. 

i'll never let you win even though you've pinned, your weakness on me hoping that it leaves my soul to fend, for a spot in a world where men must fight, you must be slight but mighty in the fact that your ego has reached new heights. 

young man you're too sensitive, not privy to your body, not one with your hands, every ounce and inch of your body brands you as gay, that sweet little strut doesn't go away, no matter how hard you try to hide behind clothes, no matter how many times you try to pimp the hoes, because your woes are indicative of a lackluster man, you can't even stand and raise your fist to execute your makers plan, to withstand the enemies attack by fighting back, with this temple, but it could never be so simple, because I’m a test result of a disemboweled creature, my features show signs of a boy who never listened to the preacher when he said that "no weapon formed against me shall prosper" what this did is fostered my mind to put on a front, of a man who could stand up against the evil and put on a stunt, but the blunt force trauma of the unconscious mind, causes what comes out to not be so kind. 

sissy, you too weak, them tears coming out them eyes won't even let you speak, and stand up to me and check my weak ego, sissy, you're too sweet, you couldn't tear me down if you tired, you might aswell hide, because if you don't abide by our male contract, i'll contact your face with fists of fury, purely because you're too sensitive to check me, and tell me like a man that these hands gonna stand, up for myself. sissy, you can't see, that the pain inside of you won't pass onto me, but everything done against me allows me to speak, and say that you aren't a real man, you're just a fan of the patriarchy stereotype of a real man, you can't even stand to look at yourself in the mirror because sin speaks, and your pride leaks out from your mind everytime your words reek. i may be sensitive, i may be weak, but the glory i seek is in being able to have the capacity to love, the vastness of my soul coming from above, so when you attack with your words, with your body, i let you collapse my walls because my soul stands strong and affirms my beliefs i've had all along that I am a real man today, because i didn't let your hate stay, i released your claim on my life and didn't let it pain, but your soul remains stained.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Cycle

cycle

change comes for those who wait, but the weight of the stress makes you wait too late, those grips of addiction make me hate, to see you broken down and torn because you've accepted your fate, that when you recognize the pattern you still can't break free, that ascension from vice proves to not be filled with glee, because when the mind try's to escape the souls intentions, our bodies and lucifer begin to resist, confining us between our 4 walls our souls remised, but our mind key doesn't unlock the pad to the fiery abyss. 

the intent of i love you covered in lust, making empty promises breaking connections trust, our foul intentions stink of must, the idea that if things aren't urgent we'll begin to fuss, because our patience is shorter than our will to transform and willingness to trust. the cycle of fear, you passed unto me because you were worried the attack were near, not knowing that you were the confederate, in our own camp, the betrayal of youth impurity leers, the sheer force of it all made you panic, the abuse I endured almost made me manic. each strike, like clockwork made the moment of fear a perfect circle, you'd cause years of pain, years of personal mental strife, because I live a life of fear, that my peers are ready to tear my fragile lock of trust, my thin layer of security, unintentionally letting the devil in, letting my enemy win, because of the cardinal sin, your pride too thick that you left me to fend, for myself in a world covered in the other 6, fixed to destroy every fiber of my being, attacking each chromosome, slowly killing my identity, leaving to question if you were really home, or if your cycle cut so deep that the hill to climb didn't feel as steep, running over my carton of hope, leaving me emotionally weak. 

even though you've inflected great harm, I’m still captivated by your charm, now armed with the power to stand up and bring the fight back, every muscle in my body wanting to attack, but i'm reminded that if my body wins, my mind grins, and my soul sins, this vicious cycle of vice will soon come to an end.

copyright © micah hill 2024