A Poem on a Friday: Hands Up, Don’t Shoot

Protest Continue Across Country In Wake Of NY Grand Jury Verdict In Chokehold Death Case

March on.

My body shakes and sweat drips from my palms

in anticipation as I stomp through the crowd.

Hand’s up!

Don’t shoot!

An orb of fire ignites in my chest, bellowing and

flickering as I tell myself this is right, this is freedom.

What does it mean to stand alone? Are you a fool

or a soldier? But the flames continue to seep through

my veins, the same blaze that flared inside Dr. King,

inside Malala, inside the boy in Tiananmen Square.

We hunt for the truth, rise to demolish our oppression.


A Poem on a Tuesday: “Alice In Wonderland”

I rub against his chest,

Nuzzling my face into

His caramel neck, inhaling,

And exhaling the sweet safety

That exudes from his pores.

He is my angel for now,

Red eyes and kisses for the day –

For his smile coaxes mine to

Reply, for his eyes latch onto

My blue orbs and declare them


And I find myself swirling,

Twirling, upside down and

Suddenly right side up –

Falling down into my own

Dark rabbit hole, and

Emerging in his arms.

A Poem on a Sunday: “You”


Schoolboy Q’s slick verses slide over my body

As the car cruises down the Ave, with summer’s

Lust and light blinding my blue eyes

If they open too wide.

I don’t mind staring, the blinding light;

It illuminates the profile of your face as

You bob your head to the music and

Place the cigar between your lips.

The smoke twirls with the sun’s rays

That have seeped through the dashboard,

Tickling my thigh as your fingers

Simultaneously caress me.

I want to say I love you, but I bite my

Tongue as you lead us back to that little

Apartment that is filled with candles along

The windowsills and has the mattress with

The red sheets splayed across the floor.

This is us. We are silence.

We are the biting of tongues, the rough kisses

And cigar smoke that fills our lungs, allowing

The music to speak words of fantasies and love

That we express only when our eyes meet at

The right time, the right beat, the right lyric.

The playlist stops as the car swirls into

It’s parking place, and the look of venom on

Your face makes stabs at the butterflies

In my stomach and I begin to shake.