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peace be still, my Baltimore

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i am tired.
i am angry.
and i don’t know what to say –
probably not the best position to be in if i call myself a writer
and a proponent for change.  sitting, quietly, is complicity to the nth degree.
don’t you see?
i am called a minister of light and yet the plight of true equality
isn’t in sight. how shall i fight?
by,
turning the other cheek and spouting
platitudes to keep the peace?
because of gross dictates by some mates
selfishly concerned with the karma
on their plates?
i have been told that my
anger will subside given wisdom and time, that my
willfulness will deride, corpse-up and die
like my brotha by the roadside.
but how can i, by that prediction, abide?

and so i cry.

real tears.
not lonely, solitary, drops of fear.
real pain!
at the blame being cast upon dead victims,
shaming their name.  I Am them.

I   Am   her.

I      Am     him.
dear,      Lord.

our game’s the same.


Filed under: pieces, prose Tagged: baltimore, God, light, love, poem, police, prose, prose poem, riots, soul, spiritual poetry, spiritual warrior, spiritualgangster, spirituality, urban poet, violence, writing

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