Revolutionary

I am

a revolutionary, fighting

for the ones who are

afraid, for the ones who are

unable, for the ones who are

here, and for the ones who are

not yet born.

 

I am 

a revolutionary, screaming

at the top of my

lungs ‘power’ and ‘freedom.’ We

fight wars on the 

other side of the world, in

the name of freedom and

democracy, but us—the

people in this very nation—

we don’t get it.

 

I am a revolutionary

writing these words down, unrhyming

and angry, broken

sentences and broken

lines, broken just like

me. Just like my mother

just like you. Just like 

all of us. I write

our pain, our strife, of

our bondage and our

truths—our truths we hold

self evident that equality

is a lie and that only people

born with bleached skin are

privileged. They are free. They

get the life, liberty, and pursuit of

happiness. On our backs.

 

I am

a revolutionary, drowning

in anguish and helplessness.

I am drowning, I 

cannot get my head

above water—I cannot

breathe. I fight the 

waves but they’re so strong.

Too strong and I am just 

one girl. One in a million, 

one in so many. I am drowning in

the blood and tears

shed by those

like me.

Like us.

 

I am 

a revolutionary, praying

for liberation, praying

that I can split this sea of

strife and voicelessness with

my cry of power—my 

cry of power that

makes so many uncomfortable,

angry, confused, sad—

but the idea, just the thought

of true freedom is enough

to make my hands tremble,

enough to make my hair stand

on end. Enough to 

make my eyes burn

with unshed tears.

 

I am 

a revolutionary.

I am 

fighting, screaming, and

writing, because 

I am

tired of drowning,

and praying just doesn’t

seem to work any more.

 

I am 

black.

And I am 

a revolutionary.

This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world

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