To: Breonna Taylor ♥ (Video)

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I know it’s mental health awareness month, but white supremacy doesn’t give a fuck about black folks’ mental health so I hope to edumacate you a bit and bring more awareness to what goes on in a black person’s mind/life in a time like this. Nonetheless, take care of yourself. And don’t forget to take a step back so a black person can take a step forward.

@sircharlesthepoet

To: Breonna Taylor ♥

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**A poem about life, after justice is served**

What happens after justice is served?
Will the dust settle?
And so we move on to the next case

Do we mourn?
Do we make laws?
Do we make donations in large sums hoping the currency would heal the dead?

What do we do after justice has been served?

Do we take till the end of a lifetime to investigate made-up probabilities?
Shifting our gaze, away from the bloody truth
Do we impose charges and punishments for the collateral damage?
But not the damage
Do we find space in the jails for civilians?
Is that why we always run out of space for justice

What do we do after justice has been served?

Does a killer walk free? From a murderous job?
A sentence for murder.
Do we erect new leaders? Will they lead to justice?
When do we stop protesting?

What do we do after justice has been served?

Do we erect monuments in memory?
Do we tell stories of glory, innocence, and a righteous life?
Do we capture portraits with no imperfections?

What do we do after justice has been served?

Do young, healthy, angelic and prideful black women get reminded of their worth?
That it’s not worth it.
Do black mothers hold the phone closer, with their hearts tighter, when their black children are out of sight?
Perhaps sleeping.
Do black parents have to have the conversation with their black kids again, for the x time-in-a-row?
About justice.

How, in this country—and this planet—
It doesn’t belong to them.
We can’t save your life, even though you save their life.

What do we do after justice has been served?

What do we do after justice has been served?

What do we do after justice has been served?

What do we do? Now that justice has been served

Do we not know?
Is that why justice has yet to be served?

@sircharlesthepoet

I Wonder If Elijah McClain Had A Future (Video)

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Elijah Jovan McClain (February 25, 1996 – August 30, 2019) was a 23-year-old black massage therapist from Aurora, Colorado, who died after being placed in a chokehold by police and being sedated by paramedics. On August 24, 2019, an Aurora citizen reported to police that McClain was wearing a ski mask and looked “sketchy”, although the caller also indicated that he did not believe anyone was in danger, and that he believed McClain was unarmed. The three police officers who were involved in the incident, Nathan Woodyard, Jason Rosenblatt and Randy Roedema, said that their body cameras were knocked off during a struggle with McClain. McClain was forcibly held to the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back, after which an officer applied a chokehold and paramedics administered ketamine to McClain to sedate him. While being transported to the hospital McClain went into cardiac arrest. Three days after arriving at the hospital, he was declared brain dead, and was removed from life support on August 30. McClain’s autopsy was inconclusive.

@sircharlesthepoet

I Wonder If Elijah McClain Had A Future

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I wonder if Elijah McClain had a future
Perhaps he’d grow out of his shell
From behind the mask, invite others into his own world

Or maybe not. Because I think he was perfect.
The way he was.
And the world thought so, too.

I wonder if Elijah McClain had a future
At 23, very much like me,
I wonder if he was formulating his big bad plan to take over the world
In the future.
As we all do, as we’re all doing, at that age.

I wonder if Elijah McClain was ever afraid
That maybe all his plans would come to nothing
All his deeds would go to waste
Because he wouldn’t finally arrive at his future; his 30s. And perhaps his 40s
I wonder if Elijah McClain was ever afraid
That he’d be killed on his path to his future
And that the world would bring no justice to that.

I wonder if Elijah McClain had a future
I wonder if he’d initiate a Massage Therapy non-profit
Open its doors to the local communities of the hard working people of Colorado
Who, perhaps, couldn’t afford a massage
But were in great need of one.
Free of charge.
Freeing them from their charge.

I wonder if he’d amount to being a world class guitar player
Maybe a highly sought-after violinist

I wonder if Elijah McClain would, one day, finally be offered the opportunity to perform on a world tour
But he’d kindly reject the offer
Because there are too many people in the audience
He’d rather stay behind his mask
Where he’s safe
Where it’s okay.

Or maybe he’d reject such prestigious offer for other reasons
Maybe Elijah McClain felt more comfortable performing in an animal shelter, where
Anxious cats and dogs who knew how to value him
Were his only audience.
Or maybe, perhaps, he’d reject this paramount offer because
He wanted to focus on one day starting a homeless shelter
Maybe a full-service therapy home
Because Lord knows Elijah McClain was put on Earth for the good deed of soothing our anxiety
Until he was taken away.

Black kids have the right to dream.
They have the right to achieve these dreams
And live a full life. Feeling accomplished.

I wonder if Elijah McClain had a future
I wonder if he foresaw himself growing up—like we all do.
Imagine himself becoming successful
With a stable job. Perhaps, a happy family, living in a nice neighborhood
With trees, gardens, clear skies
Because as a child in America, although Black, he has the right to that.

I wonder if he thought what happened to Emmett Till was not right
And that it didn’t matter that, years later, the lady apologized
Just like his.

You know, every little
Young
Black
Child
Young Adult
We’re all Elijah McClain.

@sircharlesthepoet

————————————

Elijah Jovan McClain (February 25, 1996 – August 30, 2019) was a 23-year-old black massage therapist from Aurora, Colorado, who died after being placed in a chokehold by police and being sedated by paramedics. On August 24, 2019, an Aurora citizen reported to police that McClain was wearing a ski mask and looked “sketchy”, although the caller also indicated that he did not believe anyone was in danger, and that he believed McClain was unarmed. The three police officers who were involved in the incident, Nathan Woodyard, Jason Rosenblatt and Randy Roedema, said that their body cameras were knocked off during a struggle with McClain. McClain was forcibly held to the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back, after which an officer applied a chokehold and paramedics administered ketamine to McClain to sedate him. While being transported to the hospital McClain went into cardiac arrest. Three days after arriving at the hospital, he was declared brain dead, and was removed from life support on August 30. McClain’s autopsy was inconclusive.

The Black Experience

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I like to maximize my time.

I hate wasting time AND I want to have more time, so
I make slight changes to fulfill this desire.

One being: waking up very early to get a head start on my day.
It’s necessary for my ambition.
I have to give my mind time to buffer, feel free.
Time to think.

But when I wake up so early in the morning,
Like around 6am
I do think, but damn
I can’t say I’m happy with what I unnoticeably think about

These scenes start playing in my head:
Potential encounters with the police, that a…
Black person is subjected to.
All the time that I meant to give myself;
That I work so hard to earn
Tic away as these thoughts flood my brain

How will I come to my end?
What will be the black man’s crime, this time?

Will I be guilty—you know, punishable by death—
Because I felt more comfortable with a mask on?
Will my execution happen after I’ve been woken up from my restful night?
But then to find out it was actually the wrong address
But it’s always the wrong address
It’s always the wrong weapon
It’s always the wrong decision

But a life is taken, and in life there is no takebacks.
Maybe carrying snacks home is punishable by death. I don’t know
But, in reality, I know my only crime is being black,
Something to warrant a false accusation that’ll get my neck kneed on

By now over 30 minutes have passed of me just standing in my bathroom
Lost in pensiveness
Toothpaste sagging off the toothbrush numbly held in my left hand

I really hope it does not end this way. So I practice
Rerun the possible encounters in my head; prepare for all the scenarios
Because, well, this is not a drill—Niggas really dying out here.
So I look in the mirror, and I imagine:
I could comply if I am told to stay calm as there are guns and yells aimed at me;
I would obey if 3, or even 6, police officers were stomping on me—pressing me down
While ordering me to stop moving

I could do it. I’m sure.
But I’m also sure they each thought the same thing, and yet…

By now, maybe an hour has already passed
I’m tired of seeing images in the mirror.
I wonder what my white friends do with all their time?
Especially the miscellaneous time spent not involuntarily imagining themselves in deadly situations warranted by the color of their skin

What do you do with all your extra time?

The time I spend looking at my black body in the mirror
Imagining the unending innovative possibilities of how I may die, legally murdered; lynched

What do white people do with all their extra time?

Do you leverage that time to, perhaps, take control over a society?
Maybe rule a world?
Create schemes to push those that are not you further below
And then have them point fingers at each other?

Every morning, I wake up like 2 hours earlier than I really need to.
I want to fuel my ambition
Give myself time to chase those big dreams
You know, do the impossible.
But, instead, I just walk around–air in my head
My body stuck.
Mind in imagination.
And I think, I think; I imagine, I imagine; I wonder, I wonder
Without noticing that 3 hours has already passed
Plus I still have to write this poem…
Maybe that is why we’re always behind.

@sircharlesthepoet

Under The Sea

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Some people would rather sink than swim.

To slowly descend
Legs moving patiently
Hands grasping diligently.

There’s no need to fight
You can stop fighting
And give in

I can escape the rush
The brutality of civilization that everyone
Has grown accustomed to,

That I’ve grown accustomed to.

Some people would rather sink than swim

We all speak the same language under water
No one makes sense—so maybe, that’s better?

What you say is not stupidity
His words are not too wise.

I don’t have a,
“where are you from? You got an accent!”

The way I speak doesn’t decide my salary
The way I sound doesn’t decide my ethnicity

Some people would rather sink than swim

If all around is blue
We could all get lost in the skies,
That is very true

We don’t have to fight
Because we are all defeated,
Or we all have won.

It’s okay to swim.
But, I think it’s also very fine,
If you choose to drown

@sircharlesthepoet

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It’s okay to just relax, and not give in to the chase.

Hymn Of The Sinner

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Alas I sin
With this joy I sing—
The whispering in my Shadow’s inn

These “facts” and deeds, my constant yearn
Lay inside my veins, intensely earned:
A space to fill, instill with vain

Liquid so sweet, salt with brute
Lips of mango, among tropical fruit
Such pleasure often, I dabble in

I sing my hymn
Twas sung to Him:
The High of Seas, Thee sees all scenes

What if Jesus had called a legion of Angels to remove Him from the cross?

I lift and shout
With glories sprout.
I nod and praise, though raised with doubt

Perhaps, I’m a fool
The Satan’s tool—
The more, I wonder: am I of sin, am I A sin?

My flesh; such smell of swine’s curse
While in this casc’t, I land first…
Thy giveth me hope, but I tighten the rope

I stretch my mouth
I fist my chest—
Fighting the beast; upon the self, I feast

My whole is weak…
I ask not for strength.

@sircharlesthepoet

Finding Home

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Home is a place where you don’t have to be___
But you can just be.
It’s peace. Safety. It’s acceptance.
Home is closed eyes inhaling an atmosphere
Tainted with that distinct recipe.
Stern face—illuminated in a golden cloud
The music—a tragedy of natural composition;
The rawness of life in explosion.
Many have left, some returned
An osculation of the ocean that takes, sometimes gives.

Very often, home is within these walls
Captivity. Prison. Even when you’re free.
But I’ve made homes outside this world
Some, I carry no word nor trace to relive the place
Some, I’ve started tsunamis, lullabies
That echo my name to the end of earth.
I made a home when it was taken from me—
A place to be-long
Safe, open, peaceful.
Right here. Inside of me.

@sircharlesthepoet

May you find home within. ❤

Of Stars And Men (Video)

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Two things:
Thing 1 – I pronounce “inquiries” with an English accent because I real life hate the way it sounds with the American accent
Thing 2 – no, no, no, I do not blink a million times every 5 seconds. Watchu talking about? 🧐

Thank you for watching. I would love to know what you think ❤

@sircharlesthepoet