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

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.

—

Coping,

Coping,

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, 

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 like 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,

Confident—

more confident in the fact that life has to be this way,

that your kids would never stay—

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,

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.

—

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 become 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 despite all that happened

because you showed me that my love should be the opposite of how coarse yours felt,

to choose 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,

I love you more than you love the bottle of vice,

more than you love the wad of cash in your pocket,

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 heart’s 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

Peace Has a Name

peace has a name

blue isn’t just a color, it has the capacity to allow us to feel love like no other, that motherly love that has no conditions, that reminder that we aren’t always self-sufficient, and sometimes we need a beam of hope to come and cover, us in the blue, meaning that sometimes we need the gloom, the feeling of doom, to help us understand our oceans mood. 

one thing will always be true, and that is that blue wraps us with tranquility, the ability to hug our souls and open our availability, we say we’re too busy, and overwhelmed, but the state of blue shows us that to love one another it takes two. we are often caught up in the thick, and never in the mundane, we brush it off as unimportant and lame, and shame on those who feel their pain and allow river flow to gush once again, stuck on the red versus blue, on which side is true, telling unalike minds to just shoo, but they don’t have a clue, that blue isn’t party lines or political grime, its the tranquil of basking ourselves in our mother’s arms, and leading us to feel free from all harm, the freedom of being safe from painful alarms, tapping into ourselves unaware of the charm. 

blueness isn’t a temporary condition, its lifes rendition that reminds us that we aren’t so different, that when we prance into the vastness of its waves, the lustfulness we crave passes away, the hate that consumes goes astray, and the peacefulness of the blue paves the way for my soul to be healed from the enclave of toxicness, the grips of sin, the need to win, because blue makes me forget my veil of a toxic male, meaning that when im surrounded by the waves it forces me to say, that “I love today” because for once my heart doesnt feel the pain, of the weight of the world ripping at my soul as it starts to shave, all of the layers of love I have left start to fade, but blue resets my souls yearning, to fillfull that role that that 6-year-old boy was constantly learning that, life comes in waves, and if you dont bask in the blueness of the unconditional love that life gives you, you’ll begin to hate the world, feeling as if God forgets you. 

my blueness allows me to forget the newness of hate, division, precision of colonial visions of a world to be dominated, it allows me to see myself as my fathers creation and my mother’s haven, as the world begins to cave, i can say i forgave, i let go of hates claim, and didnt allow pain and vice to prevail once again, because at the end of the day, my state of blue will always triumph, as i remind myself that giants fall, bad conditions stall, but through it all blue stands tall to tell us that love isnt jealous, creation isnt hellish, and that life should be zealous, that when we march outside the sky is blue, the ocean too, the bees fly peacefully without a clue, and my day is beautiful and always new. 

copyright © micah hill 2024

Word Flow

word flow

when this pen touches paper my words flow, that when I rise up and scream, my mind shows, that I’m just like my ancestors that my voice lifts up to say that it aint no light gesture, my voice has a purpose, that when my thoughts brew they don’t fester, that when you say my words lesser, I must confess that these words flow. 

when my mind concocts sentences, it’s like mental repentance, so when I rise to say, my words aren’t full of resentment, you listen and let my words be your apprentice. my life story unfolding on a page, to showcase my rage, the voice through the sage, to forgo all the hate, because I’m poets son and my lifes a rerun of the chosen one, that when I lift my chest to say that your mind goes frozen. these words flow, and this tone shows, that I’m not ever backing down, I won’t wear a frown, I won’t move a pound because I know who I am, I’m the brother of triumph and the cousin of justice.

when these hands begin to sway, you better hope and pray that I don’t throw shade, because this tongue is unfiltered, its the lifter of all things me, that when you can’t stand my voice your mind makes it impossible to see, my mental processes, my mind possesses the capacity to create projects of hope, obsesses over failure that when I don’t succeed, my mind sows seeds of doubt and tears and pout when, in fact, I’m a success story, I’m the epitome of a part-time truth seeker and a full-time Black man, so much that when I write these words your mind has to adapt, to the fact that, I’m picking up the scraps of our twisted reality. because when my mind races these words flow, so I can show, that this world blows, but when life hits me with its vicious strikes, and injures the world with famine and strife, I don’t fear because I’m the friend of peace, and the enemy of congressional thinking, that right can be 50/50. 

when my body swoons, I can’t help but prune, so when I walk down the street with my same ole tune, you’ll look at me and think I’m baffoon. because when this life balloons, my right to move, I can’t help but choose to pop it, it may be a shock, but when my mind goes, these words flow, and come to create, a mind show, it shows that these words go over your head onto the floor, and pours like a drink of truth and a mix of love.

when these words flow, these hands go, so when my poems show they create elements of mind, you’ll find that when these words flow, they don’t lay low, they stand up and project, and have a resounding effect, on this world, because all that life hurls, I still let these words flow, like so.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Kids Should Be Seen Not Heard

Kids Should Be Seen Not Heard (WR)

The feeling of defeat, of being unseen. The reality of being a child and staying in a kid’s place. “Kids should be seen not heard”, was a phrase that haunted me. Never really understanding why elders were deserving of reverence, because like me, they were still learning, still filled with flaws. What we fail to do is listen to our youth, we’re quick to write them off as inexperienced, and lacking in wisdom. Human nature is creating power structures that we are obligated to abide by, the same way we treat “uneducated” people who are without college degrees, juxtapositions the way we view children. The reality is that, in fact, we can afford to listen to everyone, because they add perspective. 

To me, wisdom is knowledge of the human experience and understanding how others lives to play out. I’ve seen countless times, adults who think they have nothing to learn from youth. They’re quick to shut their ears off as soon as the mouth of a child opens, but what they fail to acknowledge is that generational differences make giving everyone a listen worthwhile. Children should listen to adults to gain perspective, but parents also need to start listening to their children. Relationships thrive off of reciprocated acknowledgment of each other, this is why many Black families are defunct. Because one-sided, cult-like reverence is engraved in the culture of Black parenting. As soon as a child pops up to share an exciting moment in their life “Kids should be seen not heard”. This could be as mundane as learning a new dance move, but the memory of their parent sitting there supporting them along the way is priceless. I believe that “Inside Out” depicts how memories control our lives. The idea of a “core memory” is a concept I find particularly intriguing because for every human, we all have moments in time that we’ll never forget. Our first book, that one night that you and your siblings bonded over boredom, and I believe the dismissal of a child blocks core memories. Often in the Black community the ones who are ignored and dismissed grow up not knowing they’re loved, or thinking that they aren’t unique enough to be deserving of captivating others’ attention. 

To me, this is why children should be heard not seen, because taking a moment to listen, to process, is detrimental to the development of a child. Take 30 minutes today, and when you ask them how was their day, don’t treat it like a TikTok video that you can pause and play, and tell your child today, that you see them, you hear them, and you love them forever and always

copyright © micah hill 2024

Target

target

when you see this figure in public, i figure you dont see much more than a nigger

that this walk and these curls, guaranteed to see the pearls of heaven, the fight all out just to end up in second

that when i enter this store, you see a hundred more, that when i strut on this floor, your mind plays tricks galore

your eyes stuck like a lock on, hair on that arm stuck up straight like it shocked on, placed on this target, think I’m a thiefin artist, because of that law when I lift my voice and sing you send in the sergeant

say i fit a description of a extracurricular criminal, when i call out the mess you swear it ain’t subliminal, the truth of the past of torn houses we know because the people still living and when i call out the trash disappear is the sheep’s mask, that when i walk down the street, my tone will never be discreet because, I’m exhibit A and yall cant wait until my bodies covered in sheet, but when you covered in the sheet, we know we gotta fleet, cause when you poke your eyes, we can see the devil in disguise, and when we look to the skies we see fire and smoke covered is the most high. see you cant drown this body down the river, you can’t poke the bear in the liver, because when we rise you begin to shiver, because you never thought me more than a nigger. 

this target glows right on my back, that when you see me walking, you’d think you under attack, that when you delegate your leaders you cant wait to go back, because what you lack in melanin equal is the cell we in, the loss of freedom, dichotomy of space, the conditions of our race, that when we fill the place, you wont leave a trace, of evidence 

say i dont fit in, say my communities covered in sin, but you cant wait to scribble the pen, that when we apply you dont ever want us in. 

see the America we live is one of destruction and men, who prey on weakness, who say that your failure aint no more than a sequence, supposed matrix, but the America we live they hate to see us with savings. that when i show up in the room, it seems inevitable doom, that when we see the moon we appear blue. 

when you expect us, you heavily disrespect us, that when you check us, youll find we can never settle for second, the holes in our armor covered by years of sections, of hate, and when you see us in power and support you claim we no more than section 8, that cant wait for the next race, because if we win we could take over the place. this target got holes in it that when you see a garvey, or a marley, a baraka, dhoruba you cant wait to plan evil when i walk you hope and prey i dont have traces of malcom, or martin, or hampton, and hughes, so you can use your weapons of mass destruction and abuse, my people still bruised, so you feel purposed, so you feel choosed, this life is unfair and we’re set up to lose.

see my target doesnt glow bright red, or have traces of blue from the right to shoot, but it has a clean white sheet because when you attack youll find youll never win, that when you kill our people, lock so-called evil, mock the feeble, inflict inconceivable, harm and swear you legal. but you cant lock away my voice, you dont have a choice, remember that justice always wins, look at mandela, emancipate, but we proclamiate that we’ll always be originally We.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Insecure

insecure 

that reflection in the mirror leers to remind me that i'm less than my peers, that my childhood fears of mediocrity all suddenly reappear. 

insecurity means inferiority, as if because this nose is round, i've let the world down, that this hair atop my head is less than crown, like this fat that surrounds my body is worn like a gown, that the peace i've found is because i'm now sound, in the fact that, i finally feel passable, that when I walk through the halls my face isn't laughable, like my appearance was creation, like it was craftable. 

the gloom that consumes, my mind when the thoughts not so divine come to say that i'm running out of time, that the truth I find, is in social media clicks, meant to create devils binds, oblivious called blind that when I see this reflection in the mirror i can't help but mind that my appearance is less than kind. often i wish i could rewind to a time that my outer being wasn't the topic of conversation, that my relations wasn't based on how my skin intertwines to create something so divine, because in my mind im no different than that 12 year old boy that wished he was blind, everytime he looked in the mirror because he couldn't find, the goodness in the way my nose drooped, my clef left and my hair stoped. 

i'm an insecure man which means I don't understand that, what appears to be bland is what makes me able to stand and say that I love myself forever and always, that when I prance the hallways, my mind stands on my hate, of myself for not being the mate that God creates, that i'm so insecure I can't seem to find the cure to my insanity, for all my humanity, there's no vanity in what I wear because no amount of clothes can cover up the holes that were created by the moles of hate, the mass of laugh and the glee of make believe, hating myself because I couldn't see, the worth in not being a perfect man. i'm an insecure man who can't understand that my worth shouldn't be measured by hurt, that I should stand to say that I love my self forever and always.

copyright © micah hill 2024

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