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I WILL NEVER BE A POET

I stopped dreaming after defying the reaper.
My existence has no shine,
I cling to life like a suicidal soul
flirting with its own boundaries.

Reckless, never fanatic,
I spit out their dogmas and their pantomimes.
I cursed their god after reading the Black Code,
and the infamous bull of a pedophile pope.
My shroud has been black since the placenta.

I will beg for neither approval
nor recognition from the butchers of my lineage.
My convictions burn like torches
in the corridors of their anti-Black empire.
I will fall with weapons in hand,
like those zealots they demonize,
never believing in their mirages of paradise.

I try to beautify my hell
by feeding my rage with the tormentors’ suffering.
Above me, a sky without brilliance,
and on my page, the dark ink of my soul.
My demons chatter like Israeli bombs
that tear through Palestine, decade after decade.

I come from Africa,
a land plundered like its mines and its fields
that have fueled the West for centuries.
My eyes carry entire mass graves,
rivers of blood dragging the weight of oppression through centuries.

I still laugh before the cross of their Christ:
that impostor never crucified my transgressions.
I blaspheme without effort,
when they pretend to teach me humanity.

I was born free on a planet that feels like a prison.
Welcome to my nightmares:
we are locked inside a jungle
where there are no victims,
only prey and predators.

I am a beast clothed in wool,
ready to bite when vengeance
becomes the only offering capable
of soothing a spirit torn by human barbarity.

I will never smoke their pipe of peace.
I am at war,
like those child soldiers
whose innocence was stolen
to be remade into machines of blood.

12th gradefree verse

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