Concrete Flower (published) 

Concrete Flower
Indefinite petals fall from a concrete Flower.

 Each petal a tear.

 Yet the environment gives no comfort.

 A withering stem

 of a faulty root support.

 The structured root ground deep.

 Rotten from within.

 You ask about the flower 

that won’t grow from its roots.


You say the flower has

 What it needs to survive.

 Food to grow a few times of the month.

 Learning life as days go by.

 You say it has no reason to fail

 to shine beautiful

 as the true flower does.


Yet, We don’t ask

 Why it’s life’s so short 

despite being a concrete flower?

 Imprinted by headstrong boots

 from all that follow,

 weakening each life it holds.

 We don’t ask

 why it feels purposeless,

 withdrawn and forced to live bounded.

 Why it must remain cold

 while the True flower grows.


No fruit from the ambrosia

 that the true flower gets.

 Or why each branch of roots tend to

 Break it’s own support.

 The roots recede, the yellow dims.

 There is no life



 Concrete Flower.

Post Requiscante 

What is that is wanted from me?

I am black.

My nose is big.

My scalp is dry.

My heart is weak.

My Dick is big.

My body is different.

You should hate me.

Put me under your thumb.

Be like others who have done to me.

Here I accepted blacklivesdontmatter.

Even accepting that my race is inferior.

I am lied to everyday by alleged supporters.

But why do you stand aside when the fight matters?

I get it.

The society is right.

My big lips and big nose.

The ‘extra‘ bone in my leg to jump

So many things about me that you immediately hate.

Yeah I get it.

Me too.

I hate it.

I don’t want to be black anymore.

Side affects are heartache, hate, inferiority, mass incarceration, murder, systemic social order with us coming last, and more.

I get it.

I’m a nigger.

Its my fault I am this way.

I refuse my color. I hate to be black.

God should have made me white.

Lord knows how all good things are made white.

No More

I was asked to speak out if these issues are true.

I am told my voice is strong and too important to lose.

My, how they were wrong and I was used.

No more.

How could I be so strong?

How could I have been so naive?

In schools of 70 percent white

But three percent is black.

No more.

My issues easily become irrelevant.

My voice is a nuisance. 

No more.

You people of power that claim to support,

Do you even support me or is it because of the influence of society?

Is it your convenience or do you support with me?

Why is it you make me stand alone against the voices of my peers?

With an institution like you, yet you say and do nothing.

No more.

My oppression, my suffering, my life.

I cannot feel.

I cannot love.

Screw being numb.

I am lost!

No more.

Do not support me if you refuse to be active.

You have power to change yet it remains dormant.

You only care about not being called a racist.

Not about racism.

No more.

I cannot feel.

I cannot see.

I cannot BLACK.

I am ashamed.

So take this color off me.

Me, Afrika (published)

Me, Afrika.

Jibril church
Me long for warmth of the motherland.

Where language me spoke was language of wealth.

Where her waters stay strong and loving.

Calls of Ma Afrika , Ma Afrika.

They women are soul of land.

They tend, they make, they give.

Men hunt, men work politiek, men conceive.

They Afrika, me Afrika.

Me did not come here on boat.

Me did not come here like Eddie Murphy’s  Coming to America.

Me was born here. In ghettos, 

Prone to street violence,

And white authority brutality.

Me, Afrika.

Remember in America my color is my currency.

Me, Afrika. 

Remember me culture and wealth.

The authority placed a protocol to make up forget.

We are viewed as violent thieves, rapists, and lazy thugs.

We are given little education and little jobs.

We are deemed as least desirable and terrible choices.

But how we like that if our blood is rich?

Our culture embodies royalty and ethnicity!

How our history not taught in American history yet,

We remain pivotal in shaping America.

Like our rich culture and knowledge had made us prosperous,

Once in ancient Afrika.

Me must remember as they Afrika,

Me, Afrika.

Woke (published)


Jibril church 
Stay woke my children,

We are in dark times.

Our safety nets are faulty 

And we are alone.

We must remain strong.

Build from all.

We are the grace in evil

The light in darkness.

We are of sound mind and body.

Do not give in to the militant.

Provide peaceful reconciliation. 

Your words must be the offense and defense,

Against what they claim is purely aggressive offense.

Words are your physical dimensions,

Not to mention

The distension.

We protest up and down the Magnificent Mile

Against a force that is more vicious and vile.

Rally up your brothers and sisters.

Our war started with one voice.

Now more that speak,

Carry the receipt of their own registered violence of aggressors. 

Spread the real news and reveal the media’s secrets.

Help the others that remain anonymous

To awaken as soldiers who will be pivotal in our rise.

Just remember to stay woke.

Seun van Afrika (published) 

Seun van Afrika

What is the definition of color? 

Is it a hue to which an artist learns,

Or is it what we use to label one another.

Color which is misused and mistreated.

Delegations of all colors fumed and unappreciated.

Culture is robbed, stripped naked of it’s youth.

But if you’re brown does it mean it was taken from you?

A black boy learning his new disposition.

Living in a white man’s world is the first transition.

How do you think it makes me feel,

Being labeled a monster based off my skins heel.

Being told my hair is a mess and I should perm,

Pulling and tugging and tugging my African hair hurt.

A teacher turning a blind eye to a racial bullying. 

Being the subject to disciplinary mulling 

Coining a term called white silence 

Its when a white person gets away with violence,

But the only colored kid gets a negative highlight.

You ask me to speak about my peoples situation,

But silence me and place me behind the privileged white people,

 who complain about their nation.

My pleas and cries covered up by lies as annotation. 

Telling me I should be grateful for my emancipation.

Growing older I knew it would only worsen.

A white old woman clutching purse and

These dark times we dare to wonder what is missin’

Reporting to the world yet nobody of authority cares to listen.

I am seun van Africa.

You may oppress me but I stand as Afrika.

Afrika will rise up strong.

There is a higher stand to which we belong.

No, it won’t be long.

Independence and equality for,

Seun van Afrika.