Why I write

The I’s of the world

Hammer out revenge

Behind defense

Of a brick fence

Running in the door

Just ahead of the wind

She tries to wipe the blood away  

But she’s all read like a book

The audience only gives one look

Clenching her dress

Attempting to repent

For what this circus jury

Calls fraudulent

They surround her

Douse her in their truth

Wake up

Just a dream

I’d go back to bottlin’ up

What he did to me

Mind boggling

At eleven I was modeling

For his perfect ideal

high heels his barbie girl

More like his baby doll

Dress it up

Take it off

Today he just meant my skin

How does one rub off dirt

He asked

As he tried to reach under my shirt

Put my hand out to block him

But the words no didn’t reach his ears

His ex says to my face

I was to blame for being touched that way

I should have fought his line of thought

My throat got caught on the thirst for truth

Nervous breakdown

I was the third triangle on his crown

That he stole from innocent youth  

And what that hammer didn’t bring down

Is the sound of support

I write because no one will tell a broken heart

That falls apart in the bathroom stalls

Black art attestation must be suppressed

Words written out of the agony in my head

The I’s of the world

Don’t bang their gavels for justice

All they want to do is hang a head

The Quy’s of the world

Use a pen instead

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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