Nomadic eyes

 Our skins seemed like sincere apologies of burnt victims

A lifetime of not crying

Tainted wombs that birthed fatherless royalties

Kids who spend their lives searching for homes in isolated streets

Deaf to her voice calling them back

They are foreign to their own names

And maybe life is a transition

through the fire, the desert,

spilt oceans, mountains and crossing over

It is hard to learn that when you are consumed

by the sins that turned our ancestors’ skins

to said disgrace of fallen angels who carry dark souls

Our children have eyes that run and never settle

They tell stories of children free of lynch mobs

But still caught in not being great enough


Our skins are shades of honey and rising in fires

When your sons tell you their eyes are running

And their country infuses war on their skins and tongues

What do you say if you are a mother to a casualty of war?

How do you stop your men from dying young?

How do you make them look alive and remind them of how beautiful black is?

When they feel like weapons of mass destruction against their own people?


I’ve seen my people set a man alight

in the fight of who belongs where

Maybe they didn’t look in the mirror

They looked alike

set apart

by the hate in their eyes