#poetryglobe

I was raised to believe that the act of saying sorry is the act of giving a piece of yourself away; that I should seek glory not forgiveness. that I should use the food chain to bind hands and cover my eyes. soon you learn empathy is a tool not a state of understanding; nothing matters but the will of the group. all that matters are your guts, blood, and muscle the unholy triumvirate residing squarely on the crossroads of toxic masculinity, anti-intellectualism, and ethnocentrism; a third eye in the storm. you better be the right kind of brave, with the right kind of skin, an Adonis physique, and a mouth full of war. every battle must be won I must be the captive emotion on the run--  towards the sun; towards our sons-- run!

my eyes stay open Like Draymond Green still I dream not of cash or a rolex but of how the stars look like words in an unfinished galactic codex-- of a culture parallel to Pyramids and straw huts; I’d feel outta space in Outer space; displaced like Jupiter’s last tear encased by ice and night and light! and light! and light! fall little drops of Jupiter the journey is almost done; not every warrior finds their tribe-- some stay lost. others learn to fly the same way feelings become tears. planets cry too don’t they?