it's dark.

illuminated by the light of a phone's flashlight, i write.

i write of worlds i was never a part of, worlds i am both lucky and unlucky

not to have been born into.

i write of a girl with one mother and no father, 

the smell of smoke and asphalt the only thing she remembers of him.

of a town with water the color of hardwood, 

of little black girls and little black boys crinkling water bottles beneath

tainted water fountains, biting their lips until blood seeps through and mixes with the

murk and filth of their abandoned city.

i write of women with tape over their mouths, bruises between their thighs

too light to win a court case, but dark enough for them to keep her up at night

shifting until she finds a position where the skin doesn't feel so raw, so painful,

and i write for the women who don't have mouths at all. who don't have the chance to cry.

but i am not a poet, no, i am only a messenger.

learning the ways of sharp delivery, of punctuating in improper places just to prove a point,

commas sharpened at their ends to cut through the lies and false sentiments.

periods, rounded to roll over the snide comments directed to my less fortunate brothers and sisters,

i write for those who can't. 

i create music with my poetry so i can drown out the pops and bangs of cities across America,

paint a picture to mask the blood of my fallen brothers washing down the sewer drains,

i create a new world, for those who see horrors replay beneath their eyelids, 

i promise things will get better in my soft letters and sincere words.

it's dark.

illuminated by the light of a phone flashlight, i write,

"poetry changed my life. i promise it will change yours too."