different lanes, same mission ;)

some must work through the trash of misuse and abuse. to fashion the lives they choose. heartbreak heavy over illness, and the casual disappearance of those who did not love you as much as we

should have been loved. no support. the sacrifices you make to watch women rise, out of the madness of doing it all — through your words. hurting. fighting back against pain that does not mean, these men are bad. they don’t understand, how to be better. to heal from what hurts them. they are wounded soldiers, these men who make this music that

degrades us, and follow men who tell them that the way to be better, is to change the words,

but still, oppress us.

make us believe that we are the ones to blame for their pain. warriors in a land that has forgotten them. celibacy is for the woman who knows forgiveness, is key to an open heart. i see the stones they cast at you. they have done that here too. you are no jezebel,

or harlot. those are holy words from holy books that keep us at

war.

war.

war. books that honor men and their sacrifices. but never the women who make the most.

wounded women. i wish i could be free like that. but i must teach them how to be,

men. to stand up for us when no one will. to rise from guns, and drugs, and our exploitation. that is my mission. my nana came to me again last night, “you rough and tough, like an alligator baggie. and you gon’ be alright”. i stand in a land that has crucified me. for never being silent about what has been done. to help them give back to US. you are fighting for your voice. that was stolen. don’t say anything. be quiet.

make black boys READ!

it is a hard hard road, when you walk alone. no one is coming to save you. you know. while i resist by being celibate, you look for love everywhere, by offering yourself to the highest bidder. that is not

love. and you are NOT a bad woman. block them. write. that’s what their music has taught you. i’m trying to change it. so that no more women live their lives for men, who do not appreciate

US.

hurt. because while they have it bad, we have it much much worse. we are brown girls. in a land that refuses to acknowledge our existence. with men who refuse to see who we be. men, who tell us what we SHOULD be doing instead of helping us do what we must to save this planet from

permanent destruction. we write bravery on fire fingers. water in our minds. we stand tall in our skin. we reject their advances. their sexual harassments. their lovers that matter. and still smile on the streets. running from their eyes. that tell the tale of a 1,000 women like us. and they will not leave what they have created. at least two know now, the pain — in the wrong direction — always running from what is not convenient, to the money they don’t deserve. shielded, by mothers, and sisters, and aunts, and cousins, while we are raw and open

and unprotected. refusing to acknowlege what they have done. i speak to men with

daughters, best. they change the music. to let them know this is what they can expect for their own girls. a man who is not loyal. a man who will not hold you down. a man who will run from the truth. a man who will demonize

you.

they will hear all your words, see all your actions against us, and think “my daddy doesn’t love me”. there are no exceptions for girls. and the next generation of men are, too, about to have their spirits

broken. learning that women are slaves. mothers of the planet. no one protects us. they kill us and say we are to blame for our own deaths. for our resistance to their continued oppression, in our names. men with mothers, who sacrifice everything, supporting women with men who don’t do anything worthwhile but find more women to

capitalize

on.

it’s a tragedy, that will kill this planet. and i am a revolutionary who crafts my own words, like you, to fight back against this abuse. you deserve so much better than you know. for what you have given to women. and you will not heal should you hurt women more, to get your freedom. it is another prison. these men who climb ladders on our backs. there is a emperor for you too. but it’s not who you think it is.

go to africa.

find HIM.

(disclaimer: i love you. thank you for your poetry. lol)

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