Observations from the Other Side


Eyes opened wide
While I make observations from the other side
Black families were destroyed
So white families can flourish
The Black baby mama dehumanized
While white women have the privilege of motherhood
Police patrol our neighborhoods
While whites gentrify our neighborhoods
But God forbid you’re black walking in their neighborhoods
White children have fathers in their homes
While our fathers are jailed, worked to death, and buried
Justice is for whites only
A white rapist gets no time for his crime
While a black brother gets jail time for a dime of weed
White people are encouraged to breed
While Blacks and Browns are encouraged to abort
Being Black Everything is about your race
While being white is colorblind
Ain’t no such thing as being blind to color
When the world is naturally colorful
Only those who are absent of color are blind to the sand drawn war lines
But we’ll wash them up like the shore til their war lines ain’t there no more.

The Ocean In My Blood


You can’t.

I can.

I don’t know if I can do this.

I know, I can do it I just don’t want to fail.

I must learn to master the raging currents if I want to sail, I was made to.

It’s in my Sangre. By the way, that means blood.

My great grandfather was a fisherman, hypnotized and swallowed in Oshun of the Honduran coast.

As he swam deeper into her, they swam, producing a fish school of four, finding their way in the Ocean of life,

Oshun carried them, them like the weight of love, crushing on her shoulders, teaching them to master the crashing waves alone.

The teacher she taught them how to swim when my abuelito drowned. My abuelita taught her four children, three boys, and one girl, who taught their children, who taught me, to love, live, and explore the rivers, the streams, and creeks of the afro-latin life.

The scratching grains of sand stick to my skin, while the sun rays beat against my melanin like rhythms of our ancestor’s drums. The boom, tap, tap, boom, tap, tap guides my feet down the path of destiny. I am met with a dance of waves. The ocean greets me. The bubbles splash and kiss my feet. I hear my abuelito’s voice in the wind.

I feel my ancestors spirit in the tide.

I close my eyes and dive into Oshun.

Yemaya guarding my spirit, I am grateful that not only can I swim,

But I can sail.

Oppression. (Poem)


I got into a heated discussion about oppression,

right after I just rolled up for a smoke session,  

A hurricane of rage filled within my rib cage, from the words spoken from a chained brain, my king-shackled, I stood there pained by hurt and shocked, by what he hadn’t learned, it burned like propane. He was insane in a membrane that needed to be unlocked.

I’ll tell you why shit got heated

Why I got heated and he told me to beat it

Why I stormed out and slammed the door

He said Gay black men were oppressed more

Like Oppression for women was cute like that bag at that store

How it’s wrong for me to say fag, but he can still call me a bitch,

But Mitch didn’t give a fuck if he was fucking Micheal instead of Gwyneth,

Like they didn’t give a fuck if Tyrone was fucking Tone, ya’ll still are respected,

Because last time I checked your great grandmothers had to wait 50 years for the 19th amendment

Just to vote,

For white men to vote on whether she should have the right to refuse to give  life.

When it is not them who is sitting under the knife.

What the fuck is that?

Ladies what kind of lie are we living?!

Niggas want a chick with hair laid, so he can get laid, so he complain, and brag about how he gets paid, while we get less than that, like we not paid sixty cents less to a dollar, but we worked four times harder, four quarters and over time, just to get over six less dimes, to your dolla, yet you holla that you getting paid, to repeat the cycle of getting laid, when he’s really being used, as a tool, the money is yo massa, got him fooled, black women have it harder than you, gay or straight.

Not only are we black

We are women

We are the most policed,

Not only physically, but







PEMDAS and this ain’t even math class

We are the real second class, the double edged sword,

We can’t be too confident or like sex because we’re labeled whores

There is no her story in your history, y’all love white women, Asians, Latinas

But black men lovin black women is a mystery

There is no privilege given to being a black woman

Everyday there is an attack on Black womanhood

It’s every where around you, you just wear the hood

Of male privilege.

I need black men to use their privilege to protect their women

Pro-woman pro-taking care of yo business

But stop doing yo business on us, black women are not your porcelain thrones

For you to defecate on microphones while you degrade us in your songs.

Your girl is not your mama, we are not your sexual objects, we are not for your drama, we are not for preference after your first one rejects, we are not your doormats, we are not practice for your bats, your fists, or feet,

You must not have been introduced to God, cus it’ll be a black woman you’ll meet

Stop protecting these foreign women who aren’t protecting you, stop blaming your problems on your women and be accountable. Stand up for us for once! Ya’ll quick to hit us up for a dick suck, but when it’s time to fight back, line busy or no one pick up,

Wassup, with y’all being cowards for justice but wanna claim to be real niggas,

When you won’t even protect women who look like you, y’all hidden figures.

I get stressed when I talk about this shit,

I start having fits, and wanna end my shit,

I hope y’all learned some lessons,

Never have discussions about oppression

before smoke sessions,

And Don’t compare the two, it’s not cute

Grow some courage and overthrow the system

we can really be the change, but y’all don’t really listen.


Papers (Poem)

burning paper 02

Let em burn,  let them enjoy their oppression,
Mind be racing, that’s why I dodge smoke sessions.
People think I’m insane
With all this shit in my brain,
Reading lines in my books,
like they lines of cocaine
And I don’t mean to sound rude
But, why college feel like another high school?
Same structure, different professors
Don’t get it twisted,  not saying their job any lesser.
But professor,  profess to me, how this degree, gon help me in life
So I can tell you the circumference of this knife,
In my side while Bill telling me run my pockets, even the inside.
Tell me how this paper supposed to make mills,
When I see people with the same paper who can barely make the bills
Or that student addicted to them pills to get that grade.
Didn’t mean to put you on blast,  but everybody needa hero.
That’s what I was told. College graduates make one more zero.
Please massa!
I mean Fasfa …
I just wanna go to school,
So you can miseducate and sedate me
And make me your tool.
I’ll be disposed of one of two ways:
Use me till my last days or they’ll smoke me like my honey glazed js
Either way they getting paid
Which brings me to life insurance
Paying coins on my life,  when it’s ensured death is inevitable
Yet they making a killing on my people,
We die,  they collect a check, their scam is incredible.
How we praise a green that’s not even edible?
Where does money come from?
Are the numbers really credible?
Or is it made up?
Like paying fifty cent for an extra cup
It’s ridiculous
We teach our children bout“St. Nicholas”
Now they stealing shit, eating other people’s cookies
While the rich leaves crumbs for the bums and say we uncivilized,
When the truth needs to be realized
Who makes a system founded in suicide?
They poison our water,
And the food that we eat
Can’t give money for schools
But they can afford a new fleet
Taking selfies, thinking you cool
Chasing paper like a fool,
Remember the person paying for all this shit
Is You.


The slave ship never landed on American soil,

It just kept on sailing
While transforming into something else.

Slavery is NOT over,
Look around you.
It is time for you to wake up from the lies, and embrace the truth.

Once Plantations, now corporations,
Working hard for wages, that can’t pay your rent.

I’m so hell bent–
On how an unarmed black man can end up dead like Sandra Bland, In police custody with cuffs on their hands, with more than enough evidence yet the cops walk away a free man.

White privilege is so real
And so is racism,
How dare an Anglo try to tell me how to feel,
When my brothers and sisters dying left to right,
While some picking up bibles in stead of trying to fight..

This ugly war of white supremacy…

( To Be Continued..)