A cruel word is a harsh blow.
A)P: Honorable Mention 2026
Concealing a dagger's not legit
even if not intending to use it
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
A weapon of hope, she
stands in the breach,
firing her deadly
cannons of calamity
toward the darkness.
Screams pierce the
inky void, rising to
crescendos before
subsiding to whimpers
and finally, silence.
Still the weapon of hope,
she rises, once again
firing her deadly cannons
while behind her they live
free while she stands.
Power does not shout.
It collects.
What shocks the world
is not strategy,
but hypocrisy.
America preaches sovereignty.
Yet demands yours.
Data is sacred at home.
Disposable abroad.
African leaders,
you sign away bodies
you do not own.
Consent was never asked.
Silence was purchased.
Even foolishness
has a limit.
How long will you trade futures
for promises?
Data is not paperwork.
It is power.
He who owns it
writes tomorrow.
You hand over blood,
bones,
and breath—
then call it partnership.
You trust a deal
crafted by Donald Trump,
a man who measures nations
by profit, not dignity.
You trade minerals
for ink.
Lives
for paper.
What will your children inherit—
databases,
or chains?
Through data,
Africa is mapped.
Measured.
Exposed.
Colonies no longer need soldiers.
Only servers.
Citizens of Africa,
history is watching.
A ruler who sells his people
is not a leader.
He is a broker.
And power,
as Niccolò Machiavelli warned,
respects only those
who guard it.
Remember this:
Who controls data
controls destiny.
And destiny, once surrendered,
is rarely returned.
A voice.
A sound.
A noise.
And yet -
Mine seems to not come out,
Mine is trapped,
No mine has been hijacked,
By -
The sound of hate,
Silence they sewn my tongue with,
Violence is the song, they made as a weapon
My voice matters,
My voice matters not,
The world says no,
My purpose says yes,
And yet the odds are stacked against -
Me,
A young black woman
The firing pin is in position,
Primed awaiting the decision to fire,
The target has been acquired.
I require more information,
The operation is under observation.
I'm stationed safely in my heart,
Starting to pick apart the details.
Tailing the target so I don't forget,
It's all in my mind,
I designed how this goes.
Hiding in the shadows,
So no one knows I know,
Cloaked by a coat of intuition,
I fit in tight spaces.
Embracing the darkness,
Facing my own mess,
I press forward to the goal.
My soul flows with confidence,
Growing my experience.
The clearance has been given,
I'm aiming with precision,
The mission in critical condition.
I listen to the breeze,
Before I squeeze the trigger,
Aligned with the bigger picture.
I fire with pure intention,
Unloading my weapon of perception,
Healing a collection of souls,
Looking for their part in the whole.
I'm grown, widely woke
I leveled up
Improved my mental balance
The things that breaks me
Now strengthen me
Where they see chaos
I see opportunities
My mind is my weapon.
I'm grown, strong and bold
My future I must take hold of
No reason will let me fold
Dedicated to my goals
Always feeling at home
Even when
I am away from home
Just to get the goals
I dig deep just like coals.
I'm grown, purpose driven
I don't fit in
Steadily doing things
Beyond the society's imagination
I do things with intentions
Not for attention
Moving in the right direction
Because I'm addicted to succeeding.
The temperature drops
trees look like they are covered
in sharp icicle wings
Having the peaceful right
On a clear night
Hearing tranquil sounds
Watching the twinkling lights downtown
Not expecting any interruption
From deceitful local corruption
But to my surprise
Someone’s undermined lies
While sitting alone
There was a drone
Flying around
Taking pictures of the ground
As it buzzed
Doing what it does
I stayed still
Could it fire and kill?
After a few seconds
Of doing checking
Seeing nothing there
And I was scared
It did have a heart
And a war it did not start
You see, it is not all right
On a clear night
To bother someone alone
With an invading drone
In fact
It is classified as an attack
Beckoning the response “take that
you neighborly nosey brat”
Our pleasure is political
Our presence anarchy
Our smile a rebellion
Our hair A revolution
Our blood our fire
Our blackness A force to be reckoned with
Our joy to them is a declaration of war
Our resilience an act of political warfare
Our resilience a threat to the system of oppression they built
They don't like when we take back control
Then turn it into freedom
Their existence is threatened
By how we embrace our blackness
They can't handle when we love
Being black
Because its something they can't
Have
Be
Or steal
No matter how hard they try
Their envy betrays them
Every time they oppress us
Kill us
Target us
When they discriminate us
They know the only way they can feel superior
Is by trying to make us feel inferior
That's Our power
Joy and laughter
1946 United States authorities
chose to exercise freedom of choice
and forcibly relocated 167 Marshall islanders
King Juda he agreed as their voice
from Bikini Atoll east to Rongerik
a small island which adequate resources lacked
with the promise they would return
so much for the U.S. Right of Freedom Act
and with little regard to radiation or fallout
the beautiful coral lagoon's sad fate
was a nuclear weapon testing site
twenty-three tests in all 'til 1958
but scientists miscalculated
a dry-fuel thermonuclear bomb they blew
I tried to take something off your plate,
That was a huge mistake.
Honestly, sorry for what I ate,
Now there is no way to replace.
Trying to find a compromise,
I honestly want to apologize.
Truthfully, can’t decide,
Do I deserve to die?
The whole time, I was just along for the ride.
Got me staring at the sky
Questioning is my brain working fine,
I tried to brush it to the side,
But now it doesn’t want to hide.
Maybe it was the wrong place, wrong time.
Did I learn my lesson?
Well now I’m second-guessing
I just want to know what’s the message.
Honestly why am I stressing,
Hoping for a blessing,
Steady checking
When I didn’t even have the weapon.
Not one thought of aggressing
Is it time for me to do some reassessing?
Or will I just be regressing?
I sit here with the truth oppressed,
Wearing guilt across my chest
In this silence I’m a mess
All I wanted to do was my best.
Does the low processing power of our brain,
which fragments rather than cognising the whole,
impose upon consciousness a needless strain,
because we’ve assigned mind a prominent role,
though it can feel not pitter-patter of rain
and most certainly not, the light of our soul?
Choose your weapon, exulted God from heaven;
the wise invoke grace through our chakras seven.
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