So I’m from a stock
that pitch cocktail bombs and hand grenades.
We pour cayenne pepper around the perimeter of a building
to keep the police dogs at bay.
I’m the Panther Party
in the Desire Housing Projects in New Orleans.
I’m nigga turning the gun on the National…
if you Emmett Till or not,
tell the mama, “Keep that casket open,
let all the world see it ain’t just burning in Mississippi.”
Hell, it’s hot wherever you be,
from the rooftop to the cell block,
step on up to the auction block,
and bend over,
touch your toes,
son, show your teeth,
lift her titties,
examine his balls,
now, this damn near sound like a hip-hop song,
but it’s slavery at its peak.
— Sunni Patterson, We Made It (via plantaplanta)
— sunni patterson (via mindfullofthings)
for the shy boys
with their heads tilted down
watching their feet
their hands in their pockets.
she falls for the boys with
secrets to keep
their shoulders hunched
their breathing soft
and smiles so small.
they remind her of the late-
blooming blue bells
in her grandparent’s garden.
the flowers that need
a little more water
a little bit more care
for them to grow
for them to open up.
the prospect of getting
her hands dirty,
a bit of earth on her knees
feels to her like swallowing
one bee hive after another whole.
she doesn’t mind the wind
messing up her hair,
they’re not meant to stay
still anyway, she tells herself,
the way other girls
want their’s neat and perfect.
she likes the idea
of digging deeper into him,
doesn’t mind finding nothing
at all, just wants to see
and perhaps to
And painters lay on their backs to cover their canvas,
A lover gets on one knee with ring and heart in hand,
And farmers bow their backs as they tilth the land,
So why is it then considered so strange,
For a man to fall in prostration in plain view
Of all, in the middle of that street you know
Is he not an artist, or a lover, with seeds to sow?
— (via volaream)