What’s the point of exhaling,

When no one wants you to inhale

We are all a bunch of hypocrites, you know?

We say we love, but

We stab each other in the back

We say we heal, but

We continue with heavy grudges

We say we listen, but

We turn the other direction

We keep on walking until we lose all sympathy and break out into speed

I cannot deal with my DNA

Being heavily corrupted by ignorance, and

Blasting out dutty language as my mother would always say

Blood

So close to turning liquid black

Because we cannot sit down and bond with ourselves or another

My kin—

My yelling, ignorant, incomprehensive, unfathomed, piece of hard labor

No one is listening and so the writer stays writing.

I am because the paper exhales and I have life

I examine the fine lines and the cuts in between my heart

I see the jagged edges that my kind has engraved in me

I hate

I envy

I grieve

I turn green

I don’t want to be like this.

I want to change the form of my DNA where blood turns to red as the insides of watermelon and silk Sunday school dresses

I want to change the form of my DNA where my kin will reach the heavens gates and run their fingers through Jesus’ hair

I want to change the form of my DNA where I am not ashamed, or scared, or anything and I reign in the world with thousands of cheers for—

I am just like them, but they tear me down.

I write to deal with substance, instead of flesh

I move and feel unto the thin surface like Monet on a rainy day

I blank out the world to write few verses

I make memories out of the things that give me most emotion

I spit rhymes

I place letter

I write life

I am me, unto paper

And that gives me something no

WE or

I could ever feel.