Men Dont Cry
men don't cry
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 this a man's world so you can either stand up or be left out in it all, so when you feel yourself with a pout, your best bet is to shut that mouth, and don't let the snot fall from that snout, and you need to look out because, them men gone turn you inside out, because when you feel emotions you can't help but shout, that you can't take anymore, that the force of it all is too much to bore as it drills a hole in your heart as my soul is nailed to the floor.
the feeling of defeat when i've tried all I could just for one flaw to delete, all the triumph I meet because i'm the son of fear, the proof that a breakthrough is near, that when disappointment leers, all that flows is tears.
i'm the byproduct of a world that men set up, that we win stuck up, that we stuff all the muck, in our life that we can't overlook, because it's a "man's world" but i can't help but curl, up into that prepubescent self that never understood why I was considered girl, because I let my emotion overcome my motions to appear like a man, when life's bullets pierce and my vest cannot withstand.
tell your child today that, when they feel the flood don't let it stay, because when you overfill the dam, you take a chance at cracks, that when they build up the walls lack to, stand tall through lucifer's attack, and when life's turbulence appears in the firmament that you let the water flow because it allows you to show that, we're human after all, dispite life's blows, and they should know that it's okay to mope, it's okay to hope for a future where men are "weak", where the waterworks and our eyes dams can leak, that when we take a peak at sensitivity, it wont be steep, and where children can speak, up and say that they cried today.
Identity (PM)
identity (pm)
we ask ourselves, who is we?
we wonder why our predisposition is to make everything about our complexion and our conditions, but why are we Americans? who does the saying, who tells the lies, some called the devil in their disguise, while we look to the skies and yet,
still our people rise.
established 1776, the freedom, the stripes, but our stripes remain true, our skin torn, tattered and bruised some call blue.
as if our condition was anything close to peace, that this red on our skin still drip, but yet we still the least?
when we’re emancipated, you could say proclamated, but those chains abound, still managed to keep the black folk down, “well boy you’re free now”, as if you don’t see this frown, as if we less because this skins brown.
see we be our identity, we know that kumbaya and thoughts and prayers don’t make you the activist you pretend to be, that when our boys enter that school their stars show, 50 stars all combined in glory to rise and say that “we know our identity, and it isn’t a pretend to be”.
we know that if we waltz, or march that the revolution cannot be televised, because it requires a break free, some called wise, to break free from the all the lies, that you’d look me in my black eyes and tell me that “you did all you could, you tried”.
my identity is still true to me, not a state of blue, or a drop of red, but a pureness of white, and yet and still I know that I am not a pretend to be.
see, you can’t whitewash our history, that new building on campus cannot be held by the black bodies hiding in the dirt, as to say that you stood tall, murdered all and now you have the victory?
see, the identity of those bodies forgotten, but the mystery isn’t the names and faces its the years of lies to cover up that part of history, because when you oppress you write the rules, name the fools, and pity any and everything that stood in your way.
they mold the books as if life was a block of clay, and then show up as the heroes to save the day, this day is to remember the lives we took and pretended to pray that very sunday that the bodies in groves were better gone astray. but yet and still I know my identity, and that I’ll always be fair to me, and never settle for a pretend to be.
our american creed, to fit in, to breathe and bleed the same blood our forefathers forseen. but ask yourself, when that quill touched that page was the future they seen, mixed and black or was it mean, to be forever white mans america?
so when I ask you whats your identity, you look at me and tell me that you were meant to be, not separate but equal, not bruised or feeble, but to stand triumphant and say that “I’m not pretend to be, I’m apart of history, and I know what I’m meant to be, forever me in all its Black glory, my identity”
copyright © micah hill 2024
West
west (PM)
city on a hill, great american hope
we dream that one day our activists aren’t under a scope
that our peoples wouldn’t head ov’r yonder, neck wrapped round’ the rope
look towards the west, no need to mope
the bodies under insititutions, hid behind the idea of renewal
you tell me to work harder, while withdrawing that mule
you add fuel to the fire, while we try to ascend higher, when i say my struggles real you call me a liar.
we’re shot down with words of Division, rhetoric of Everlasting white hope, fear of an Invasion, sweeping the nation, but when you bombard the land, no need to be patient
you control the world, you dont care who in the way
those people in they land better off gone astray.
you bet not try to unite or well send in the coup, leave the nation broken, our pedigree still true
lead your people to water and are “shocked” when its drunk
claiming pure intentions on both sides, unaware of the funk,
your party of elephants showing your true trunk, when we bring up torn history you’ll tell me that ship sunk.
look towards the west, no need to fret
our people below, act as if were inept
as if were subservient to your rule, you must think we fool
other worldly bodies, blood drawn into a pool.
we watch as children and adults alike, murder proliferated, killings have spiked, while you worry about gas, they look towards the west, they see we turn a blind eye and they begin to stress, constant duress but we care about the best, we treat countries like pawns as if this life was a game of chess, bodies piled, but we only care about the west.
we have nothing to learn, although we should study the past
lack of understanding and unwillingness to change, leaving empires in the trash, you say great again, not knowing that it doesn’t last, and glorifying the past leaves rulers aghast.
but were the west, and will always know best, let money speak and don’t care about the rest.
copyright © micah hill 2024
Resentment
resentment
this silence that fills the room feels different than solace
the energy of the room feels less than soulless
my heart palpitates and fills the room with tension, ungodly spirit, different dimension, unsaid thoughts not worth the mention, what builds these walls is unspoken resentment, divergent from my intuition, is my desire to transcend my human condition, to cross that finish line and be able to say, that i filled the room with love that day.
the gloom that submerges this room is far from indifferent,
the sense of wrongdoing feels more than tense,
when i look you in the eyes id yearned to say i love you, but its intention with pedestal, as if i'm above you, as if the vice grip of shortcoming wasn't a two way street, like you sinned and my lives white cloth still complete, but this energy is reminiscent of our synergy, that 4 year old boy dancing with glee as his maker to be watches his blood drip down from his tree, this tension in this room makes mental clarity flee, as that little boys chains of cycle were soon broke free.
the mental struggle with the past creates a state of hell bound being, as the youthful innocence had soon gone fleeing, the limits of these walls make us hateful, but our unconditional love leads my souls to be grateful.
now as i stand tall i say with my chest "i forgive you", and my soul is put to rest, as its battle with ego and morals had transcended detest, our clashing heads, the spectators, whom were the root of the stress, had beaten resentment, and stood triumphant as my childhood soon became more clear, that the plan for my life was to break free from fear, i stood over my fear that day, as my love for my father had never gone away, although past battles had led my heart astray, i rose my chest to say, "ill always love you anyway".
copyright © micah hill 2024
Race
Race (pm)
as i watch in horror i have to try one last time to not make it about race
as a boy waltzing down the street candy in hand, or a man walking out the store is kneed down and sat atop, as to give us a glimpse into their supremacist dystopian, as to represent what it means when they say, great replacement.
i watch in disdain as my sisters are disregarded and considered insufficient, the words diversity, as if their blackness makes them less, equity, as if their presence would fill the room with culture, inclusion, as if we didn't come this far to fail.
i watch as my home is filled with red, white and blue every night, while i try my best one last time to not make this about race, red, my brothers blood dripping down his from his lifeless body, white his skin turns as he fades from reality, blue his face turns as the weight on his neck, resisting, becomes too much, this doesn't feel patriotic, it's not pride, as i chant "we not going back"
while i sit back slowly dying inside and once again try to not make this about race
i sit back and see as they march in the street with a sign screaming this our town, chanting that "they will not replace us" hate behind the wheel of a car, horror in the eyes of the people. but no need to fret or waste another breath because there's good people on both sides, while my sister holds her pot of peace, her way of protecting soul, i see the same story we've seen all along, as i sit back tears in my eyes
as i once again try to not make this about race
so when you ask me, why do yall always make everything about race? ill remind you genocide, congolese hands gone without a trace, i'll remind you of the crosses of hate, slurs screamed in our face, ill remind you bombs in the pulpit, not safe in our holy place,
and you'll look me in my black eyes and tell me racism wasn't the case
copyright © micah hill 2024
The Beauty Of Forgivness
In lew of Global Forgiveness Day, I created a poem on a topic that has been trapped in my mind files for awhile.
the beauty of forgiveness
anger, and hate, things that consume us
they cloud our life with immense hatred
drown us with thoughts of negativity
surround us with trauma, and repackage themselves through words and actions
words that cannot be taken back because we cannot forget
actions that cannot be undone because we do not forgive
we allow words and actions to dictate and control us
they continue cycles of vice
exacerbate mental illness
exuberantly filing our lives with shortcoming
we say forgive but never forget
in doing this, we're still surrounding ourselves in inhumane mental punishment
subjecting others to entrapment and waves of guilt
letting life's waves wash our soul to shore, and let negativity sink
allowing anger to float, and pain to fill our tank
the beauty of forgiveness is a release of moral shortcomings, and an embrace of peace of mind
forgiveness is the bridge between our virtues and leaps over the human condition
forgiveness bandages the punctured wounds of soul, and replenishes helpless wicked state of mind
forgiveness unlocks our cell, overflown with guilt, hatred and emotion, it reincarnates youthful bliss, and encompasses compassion
forgiveness teaches us that, there is hope in the mundane and vice filled earth, that there is a slither of light at the end of the tunnel of human suffering, and that forgiveness is a prerequisite for love, and peace
the beauty of forgiveness.
copyright © micah hill 2024
The Cost of Lust
the cost of lust (rhyme)
immoral insanity
loss of feeling for humanity
lustful intentions, loveful superficial coating
euphoric feeling, unstoppable, ego maniac bloating
the true price of lust is loss of soul
loss of feeling, in favor for a final goal
manipulation, false predications
ending of sentences with “i love you”
this love conditional, unofficial, artificial, assertion all in the name of lust
the true price of lust is loss of meaning
our words detaching from the truth
canisters of lies, unfounded claims, many without proof
our predisposition to desire for novelty
our want for domination, gripped by sovereignty
dishonest, undermining what love means
the cost of lust is loss of love
thinking to yourself, which one or was it the latter
want for sexual gratification, human treated like matter
lust is ruining connections for temporary euphoria
lust is jeopardizing relationships for greener grass
lifelong love, memories gone in a flash
years of dedication all thrown in the trash
one moment of climax now that love was in the “past”
our culture climate is one that glorifies lust
meshing of man made matches, created to “smash”
desire for what’s different, the ultimate human clash
the cost of lust is loss of self
loss of soul, loss of meaning, loss of humanity, disconnection from all sanity
while we showcase ourselves in obscenity, and uncovered profanity
the human condition and disposition needs healing
before the debt to lust becomes bankruptcy
copyright © micah hill 2024
Tree (PM)
tree (revised)
my trunk shows history of torn lives
my branches weighed down by misunderstanding
they bare odd fruit, novel to anything I’ve seen
the fruit screams sways with the wind, and pleads
these branches, wrapped in rope to bare strange fruit
the likes unseen by me, this fruit seems bruised and expired
covered in its own fluid
battered and damaged as if it had witnessed war
strong winds sway my leaves, and branches
the odd fruit i bare floating and swaying with the wind too
i see crowds of children and adults alike
frolicking and full of joy, they surround the odd fruit
i hear chants and screams from the crowd
wishing that could rid the weight of this odd fruit
the children who seem blue and carefree
the adults seen in triumph
as if they were joyous to see this strange fruit
as if the rotten byproduct was a victory
as if the smell and sight was transparent and undetectable
my branches cannot bare the weight of this fruit any longer
the vices of the people weighing me down
the condition of humans is one of pride
for they do not have interest in sparing this fruit
they’d rather it rot than partake in it
my tree branches too short to box with God
my thoughts not loud enough to project dissatisfaction
my old tree trunk covered in strange fruit
the toxins of rotten product
the byproduct of vice, the killer of joy
what killed me the most is the families that could’ve benefited from this strange fruit, those who hunger, those who thirst
tree
copyright © micah hill 2024
Conditions
conditions (spoken word)
our male human contract
it reads that “this life is conditional”
it means that we can treat women as meat
it believes that what we do is unoriginal
cycles of toxins, gripped by shortcoming
it means that our kids are being taught to be a man
but what does being one mean?
is it pimping the hoes, to show that you half of one?
is it beating the disrespect out of bodies that use their mouth as ammunition?
is it showcasing anger because that’s what we does?
is it strutting down the street because its a mans world?
the condition of masculinity is unoriginal, artificial
our condition is a two way contract
many fail to stop and read between the lines
when we skip over life we miss the goal
we fail each other, we fail our men, our kids, our women
being taught that love is unconditional
but actions that show the opposite
acts of lust, not stopping to find obscurity in the mundane
failing to see the beauty in the unknown
our systems, set to keep us on top
while creating an account i was prompted with a screen to read the terms and conditions
but instead of skipping it i stopped to read
learning how they’ll use my data
seeing all the nuances of the platform
i thought to myself, why can’t we do the same
teach our boys to stop and read the conditions
teach them to slow life down and appreciate the struggle
teach them to navigate the human condition, not with anger
teach them that anger is a furnace filled with vice and misunderstanding
show them that healing comes through unconditional, not superficial, unoriginal masculinity
show them that love doesn’t have to be this way
tell them that they’re seen, that they’re loved
tell them that the condition of life can be amended
tell them that they have the power to change
conditions
copyright © micah hill 2024
In the Shadow of My Father
You are your maker, be weary of generational vices
in the shadow of my father revised
masculinity is complex
its nature is one that we want to amend
is it strength and gains driven by sex?
is it primal instinct to destroy we cannot understand?
is it proximity to masculinity, distance to femininity?
in one night, I learned I wanted to break free from the cycle
narrow backseat of a police car, almost to give me a glimpse of my future
questions I did not truly understand
a smell I’d never forget
the vivid memory of the stillness of the moment
hands around the neck, hands that were served to protect
hands that would burn, light, and ignite the fire of division
the controller was my solace
the controller was where I found peace
its intentions never meant to harm
unconditional love, handcuffed by the charm
the end of childhood lied in the door of a police cruiser
the blueness of life would be overcast by the dark shadows of abuse
my youthful and innocent existence didn’t understand
the cruiser would be the bridge into newness
a peek into my future
a picture of the vices of my maker
“what happens in this house stays”
a condemn of challenge
afraid of consequence
refusal to admit ones flaws, the deadliest vice
gripped by the shadow of masculinity
gripped by the strong hands of the controller
opposite to normality that was plugged into the PlayStation
hit and scorned by the one who I found solace in
the blueness of my being was overcast by the vice of the controller
my new environment was novel and strange
blowup mattress with a hole that was too wide
my youthfulness was punctured and deflated by dawn
by the grips of the shadow of my father
what had chained and captured me, I had become
the controller, the abuser
always the victor, never the loser
intentions never to harm or abuse her
ones to admire, adding fuel to the fire
“what happens between us stays”
afraid of outside influence
refusal to admit my vices
gripped by the cycle of what I despised
controlled by the web of lies
the engravment of the shortcomings of man
forever pressed into the psyche
despite my desire to ascend higher and forgo my makers vices
I will be forever in the shadow of my father
copyright © micah hill 2024
Motions and Notions
motions and notions (prose)
we go through the motions of life
brainlessly self guiding ourselves through its waves
going through the motions, with impure motive
artificial, our thoughts two tongued
superficial, say one thing, internally preying upon failure
our motives impure, our desire takes precedence
motions and notions, check how you navigate life, check what you believe
quick to jump, and point fingers
putting vices under a microscope
the human condition full of judgement
quick to judge, even quicker to hate
our notions premeditated, our instincts delegated and shown through clicks and likes
artificial, fake connections, disembodied brain and disassociated from reality
superficial, guise of perfection, notions of malice
motions and notions, check your motions and notions
fast to persecute, delegated to the most high, erecting vice, glorifying shortcomings
our souls disembodied and replaced by artificial wisdom, man curated hate
our disposition one to divide, our leaders and system's polarized
people vs people, endless loop of coliseums and gladiators
while we sit and watch the loss of reality
the human experience washes over us like high tides in the water
many let the vastness of the sea surround them, many watch as their fellow being drowns.
superficial, quick to play the good guy, foul intent on the inside
motions and notions, check your motions and notions
waves of impurity, hand selected immunity
crowns of thorn in every community
hand selecting the enemy
battle of vice, claiming moral high ground
while we watch from vip seats at the vice we gave power
artificial, human made conflict, online debacle
superficial, quick with words, vocabulary of bullets
while soul is dying on the inside
motions and notions
copyright © micah hill 2024
Capitol Hill (PM)
capitol hill
human existence, made for competition
wrestling with those who differ,
an attempt to dominate
the human condition is one of conflict
those ready to clash heads
we the people, the spectators in a coliseum, a stadium
egging on as we watch the battle
we watch as the warriors take each other on in a theatrical spectacle
we watch as the warriors do everything in their might to eliminate the other side
never do we question the character of these warriors
for they are god-like
never do we doubt their legitimacy
we see the warrior as our protector
our livelihood in the palm of their hands
our wellbeing mounting on the edge of their spear
for this is a republic
under god
never do our leaders go against the people
never do the judges roe and roe until wade has faded
never do they leave the people patiently waiting
anticipating war, conflict
we who are the other side are victors
impeach the people to death
the voices slowly muffled in the background of warriors who will go to any lengths to destroy
the warriors are nobly obedient to the elite
they go against what seems plausible to the people
see throughout history one thing has remained a constant, conflict at the expense of those who are on the bottom
copyright © micah hill 2024
Piece of the Puzzle (WR)
piece of the puzzle
"To get ahead you gotta work twice as hard for half the reward", these were the words that resonated within me spoken by my Grandpa. It forever changed my perspective on life and work and helped me come to the realization that I couldn't be a piece of the puzzle for what white America expects of me, I have to create my own puzzle and identify for my future. I vowed to never entrap myself in the cycle of incarceration and to be the light and justice for my community.
Oftentimes, growing up, I didn't see myself as a black and asian kid. I didn't see how I was any different than everyone else. I didn't realize the nuances of blackness. When I sat in the classroom I saw myself as equal to everyone else, even though this was not true. As a child on the playground I found myself playing basketball on the blacktop court, I wanted to fly like LeBron, shoot like Paul Pierce. These were the figures I saw, but what I didn't know is that I could be more than a basketball player. I all knew was that they, like me, had brown skin. They were my superheroes, and for many other black boys, that was making it. Becoming an NBA player, an NFL player, becoming the next Usain Bolt. I too wanted to become an NBA player, days on the playground spent shooting, one on ones and knockout. What our elementary school minds didn't understand was that athletics as a black man doesn't have a safety net, if one day our knee snapped the reality would be that we would have no guidance, no way of life without sports. Oftentimes black boys' futures for themselves are limited, they don't see representation in the media, or in real life. One day while my friend and I were playing amongst ourselves we were going through our typical 1v1 banter, what I didn't know was that it would be my first real experience of racism. We were written up for inappropriate behavior and language, what was that you may ask? We were telling each other to "shut up". We were one of only 3 black boys in our grade at our school, and at the time we didn't realize that as black boys and men, we have to work twice as hard as everyone for half. We didn't know that we have an automatic target on our back because the expectations for black kids are to be unruly, aggressive and loud. We didn't know that to them, we weren't anything but two future trouble makers.
As a preteen, I started to better understand what role my race played in my life, and I hated it. I wanted so badly just to be the same as the White boys I grew up with. I denounced my Blackness, and tried to remove myself from its culture. Little did I know that my Blackness was a logo, and despite how hard I tried, I would never be the same as everyone else. As I sat at the table full of 6th grade white boys who did no more than tolerate me, a phrase was said that has stuck with me since then. "You're one of the good ones, Micah". What I didn't know with my 6th grade mind was that not only was this a backhanded compliment, it was racism. I wanted so much to be a puzzle piece that could fit in with them, but my rough and mismatched sides would never allow for that. This phase is one that has layers to it, the first layer being that you're one of them. The second being that the exceptions of Black kids are so low that it is considered an anomaly to be as "civilized" as them. The third being that I wasn't truly one of them, it was still acknowledging my Blackness, but my proximity to Whiteness made me passable, allowed me to fit in. What my 6th grade mind couldn't comprehend is that peeling off my logo wasn't going to make me fit the piece of the puzzle.
As a teenager, I started to acknowledge my blackness but just like before it came at the expense of my character and knowledge of oneself. I wanted to make up for lost years, I was black and that meant I had to be with my people. This mindset is an after effect of segregation in America, kids self separating themselves but not truly knowing why. I found myself still feeling like I did not truly fulfill my role as a puzzle piece, I still felt out of place. I remember my first time hearing the phrase white washed. "Mike, you lowkey whitewashed" were the words that came out of my friend's mouth one summer day. I didn't understand the nuance of the phrase. I was whitewashed but what does it mean to be white washed? Is it proximity to whiteness, is it denouncing oneself in favor of supremacy? The answer is that it's complicated. To me whitewashing isn't an intentional way of living, it's a byproduct of white supremacy. Many black kids who grow up in proximity to white kids feel like they're out of place, so imitating their behavior is the only way to be passable, to be safe. It's the same in the Black community, many boys grow up doing the things that make them passable. Putting on a facade of what they see it means to be a Black man or woman. To survive, is the human condition but true liberation isn't within stereotypes or imitation it's finding oneself BY yourself.
Today, I've found that I shouldn't be a piece of someone or something else's puzzle but I should be many pieces of the puzzle I've paved and created for myself. You should be the foundation for YOU not for white folks, not for Black folks, without loving yourself and finding peace of mind you'll never finish your puzzle of personality, of love, of self. Then are you truly a piece of the puzzle.
copyright © micah hill 2024
Blackness (SW)
Blackness
institutionalized
made to believe that self worth is street rank
kept in cells as new enslavement
gerrymandered and redlined
to keep us behind
tales to keep us second class mankind
disconnected like a phone off the hook
black above reality
blackness is against legality
monarchy and oligarchy galore
those at bottom designed to stay poor
manipulated
warped black reality
made our communities urban
infiltrated our groups and tried to destroy the black nation
this skin makes us less, unless its the slave trade
afraid of supposed black domination
change the history, distort the truth
try to indoctrinate impressionable white youth
cycle
this never ending loop of poverty
my communities filled with crime and crack
under ronald reagans sovenrty
killed our leaders, murdered the troop
take out the head and who’s running the group
put supremacy in power and divide and keep the loop
kill our people in the street hands up don’t shoot
this skin means power, power to be
to be great
but instead we embody the crime rate
this generational hatred
jim crow taking shape
we shall come together and slay all the hate
and one day we shall all truly, be free
Imperfectly Perfect (WR)
Imperfectly Perfect
my struggle with self-image is a never-ending losing battle, often times i feel insufficient. every picture taken of me seems to emphasize my flaws, my clef lip, my crooked nose, my acne. theres an always ringing voice in my head heckling me telling me I’m ugly, telling me to fix my nose, the remaining resonance of my middle school years, being the butt of every joke, every sly comment. comments that still haunt me to this day. but as I have gotten older I have realized that I’m imperfectly perfect, I’ve learned to embrace my flaws as these are things I cannot control, so it is foolish to dwell on them. I’ve come to the realization that I’m imperfectly perfect, that even though my nose may be crooked it’s perfect that way. I’ve come to realize that I’m imperfectly perfect, sure my face is covered in acne but that it is perfect that way. I’ve come to realize that comparison is the thief of joy and that the grass is always greener on the other side, if I was granted the wishes of these dream features I would still be wishing for more, wishing I was more attractive. this never-ending battle with self-image is remedied by my “perfection”. those comments that haunt me are beginning to be background noise in a tunnel filled with negativity and society’s ideals of masculinity, with me being able to push my way past and make it to the other side with space and daylight. the peace of mind and tranquility that come with being imperfectly perfect, knowing that no matter how you look there is always people who love you for who you are, able to look past your imperfections, I believe is the highlight of the human condition and is indicative of the pure natural state of humans, filled with love and companionship.
copyright © micah hill 2024
Music (PM)
music
music inspires us
it reignites the fire in us
it transcends race
it tiptoes past culture
it makes us forget our virtues
music is to supposed to inspire
instead its added fuel to the fire
black boys not going any higher
when the status-quo is 223s and trees
when the art is telling us that the life we're living ain't free
the truth is loss of soul comes with a fee
while white politicians look at black youth with glee
no longer do they have to apartheid or genocide
when we're doing it to ourselves
body's stacked in droves
because of greediness and loathe
hate in our communities, division
blue vs red, your side, my side fatal collision
many fail to understand the human condition
when i was a kid i listened to music and wished my hair was fine like justin bieber's
preconditioned to hate oneself
as a teen i listened to music and wished i had the abrasiveness and audacity of kanye
preconditioned to berate and negate my existence
music transcends time
music reignites the desire in us
music lights the fire in us
so why is it that we aren't getting any higher?
copyright © micah hill 2024
Youth (PM)
Youth
I sometimes miss the innocence of childhood
the way the sun shined and reflected off my skin
the way the spokes on my bike cranked and twisted
the way i laughed carefree
the way i built connections
hours on end spent in a state of peace of mind
the blueness of my being
the youthfulness of my disposition
i sometimes miss the late summers with ice cream melting in my hands
the way i viewed the world
the way my imagination ran wild
my state of youthfulness cut short by wickedness
cut short by misplacement of anger
cut short by the projection of the shortcomings of man
cut short by the face of evilness
cut short by the figure who is ordained to protect
as sudden as the cycle of the seasons passing, my season of youth passed
no longer with an optimistic overview of the world
no longer carefree, and exuding of creativity
it seemed as if the sun was dimmer and the wickedness of the shortcoming of man had consumed me
i soon became the killer of youthfulness
the face of evilness
the misplacement of anger
the trap of masculinity i had fallen into, in the shadow of wickedness
what i had grown up with disdain for, i had become.
copyright © micah hill 2024
Moonlight (WR)
In the moonlight black boys look blue
Moonlight
There’s an age-old saying “In the moonlight, black boys look blue”. In essence, this means that despite society’s low expectations for black men, and despite the fact that many black men are viewed as aggressive, hyper-masculine figures, there’s still tenderness and tranquility in every black man. Blue means peace, something that isn’t portrayed in media, we see the typical strict black dad, we see the angry, abusive, toxic masculine dad. Often times black boys are the most intimidating in the room by default, this is the world standard for us. Often times when we walk into a store we are immediately suspects. Often times black boys grow up, but the environment they grow up in is telling them that they aren’t man enough, they’re too feminine, they aren’t black enough, they aren’t hard enough and these kids fall into the trap of trying to portray a character. An attempt at making them passable, an attempt at surviving, because as a black man that’s the only option you’re given. I have a different approach to masculinity and that is I believe that blue shouldn’t just be showcased at night, black boys should look blue at all times. Blueness isn’t a temporary condition, it is indicative of the struggle that they grow up with, the ability to stay strong, when times are hard, when the father isn’t present and the mother is struggling, the boy shows compassion and tenderness. have a revision to this adage “Outside black boys look black but in reality they’re blue”.
copyright © micah hill 2024
World Power (SW)
It must be nice to be a world power…….
world power
it must be nice to be a world power
children who hope and dream for futures of wealth
children who go to school each day with clouds of peace and air of tranquility
children who have days filled with play and joy
it must be nice to be a world power
adults who are hopeful for tomorrow
adults who go to sleep at night in the safety and comfort of their bed
adults who have been shielded from war their entire life
adults who know where their children are
it must be nice to be a world power
a congress who's agenda is to ban social media platforms and regress back to pre-cold war politics
a congress who's more worried about identity politics than the protection of women's rights
a congress who allows supremacy to be showcased and reverberated through the streets and halls of capitol hill
it must be nice being a world power
while children are crying and in fear of death at every turn of their world
every street corner being a possible strike
every place of worship being a possible graveyard
every home a target
it must be nice being a world power
while children may never see their parents again are singing "inshallah I will see my parents again"
the images of genocide forever drawn in their minds
it must be nice being a world power
children so desensitized to violence it has become daily reality
adults who are killed while providing aid
government who want nothing more than to destroy the other side
in a world filled with hate i choose peace
in a world filled with genocide i choose peace
in a world filled with fear i choose peace
it is not gaza or israel, it is people vs people and the sooner we realize this less blood will be on our hands
the children of tomorrow will flourish and grow up in an environment where they too can dream
in a time of uncertainty we must choose peace
in a time of unrest we must humanize one another
in a time of genocide we must remember our similarities
world power or not we all drip the same color
copyright 2024 © micah hill
Ammunition (PM)
Power of the tongue
ammunition by micah hill
in war ammunition means death
in battles ammunition means destruction
ammunition being the bridge between life and death
ammunition being the destroyer of man
ammunition once fired cannot be unfired
ammunition once fired cannot be forgotten
ammunition is the tongue
the tongue being the gate between thoughts and words
the tongue is a powerful weapon
words that cannot be unsaid
words that cannot be forgotten
the bridge between peace and conflict
control is key with ammunition
if you allow it to fire, destruction is inevitable
we must put our mouths on safety
we must uncock our tongue and take our teeth off of the trigger
for our tongue wields more power than any firearm
copyright micah hill 2024 ©