Holes

holes

fear is the source of evil, like our bodies are ready to ascend, like our lives aren’t worth amends, because what it means to be American is to feed on fear, that the end is near, to pack up our resources and pick up the pieces of a broken nation, that if the other side wins our hand’s gon be gone like Haitains, but our relations don’t have to be so polarizing, glamorizing the scopes of weapons of mass destruction, road blocks and sectioning walls of obstruction, the America we see is one filled with holes, no matter how many people run to the poles, because were wrapped in the red verse blue, that our media and articles skew further from the truth, that we’re stuck in booths of disaster rhetoric, reverberating ideas of a split reminiscent of confederate. 

hear ye, hear ye, to the halls of congress, where we’re worried about TikTok, while the clocks to our lives tick, 2nd period the alarm screams “there is an active shooter in the building” tock, the school of thought, turning into a congress of haughty ideals while the holes in lockers make the halls reverberate, tick, our time bomb of damnation, creation of death, the depths of the steps to congressional, judicial repeal seem steep, while members question, conspire, claim that the hooks of vice and the barrels of assault were faked, that the sandy skinned aliens are to blame, and that immigration, the shame, claim that your future will take us back, take us back to the 3rd riech, where we burn knowledge covering the pipe of truth with duct tape, where we make issue of those who are invading this great country, tock, the clock stops as it passes october. 7th and November 9th, broken glasses, and genocidal spark, as innocent souls frolic in the parks, of the parts of a world that is not yet broken, as the holes catch up to ensure that their future is never spoken. 

I see children running, blood gushing, teachers shushing and telling students to lay low in a room of black, stacked together to protect from attack, i see officers reluctant, i see walls covered in our future, i see congresses halls filled, i see the streets of the capital filled, with seas of red while oceans of red are lost in each school hallway, always ready to move on and get over it, the blood was lost but we have nothing to show for it, we have the nation in our hands, hands on rifles, associating our guns with protection, while teachers use fire hydrants with blooded complexion, sections of bodies and candles while we march for our lives, tick, the clock strikes midnight, it's only okay if we lived right, protecting undeveloped lives, while overlooking the piles of student bodies where violence derives, while congress is worried about planned parenthood, the communities plan of parenthood is crushed as they have to rush to the schools to find that their children's bodies were turned into dust, but saving the unborn is a must, while we blindly follow giving up our trust. 

the lockers have holes in them, the doors of the gym have holes in them, while you rush to bandage your grazed ear, children fear for their lives every time an AR-15 is near, but you could never care, because all you care about is you, no clue about what it means to walk a mile in my shoes, tock, while you hold the biggest rally's, you only have concepts of a plan to help us withstand the terror domestic, it isn't immigrants inciting political violence, filling hallways with blood, and marching the streets saying that "you will not replace us" the hate you placed will leave us gone without a trace, because while you use mace to keep us silent, we'll continue to try to calm down the violence, at the hands of the gun, tick, as the bell schedule runs, we have to run for our lives before he empty's the drum, and after, we'll get together and hum and honor those who didn't have a gun or the time to realize that they were running out of theirs, you let the lobby pull your strings Mr. Nutcracker, while we have to string together back the stitching of our community after the common attack, while you lack to action, staying with your faction of a party of hypocrites, a democrite, a rebloodican, while students stand in parking lots staring at the reflection of election of the right to bear arms, even if they harm and causes the people's alarms to sound, tock, the time is soon running out, while you tweet out about nonsense, we cry for the pretense of hate, saying that this country is great, while its people have to be ready to accept their fate, at the barrel of a rifle, freedom being our redeeming trait.

no matter how many times you pray, our voice goes astray, tock, we run in flocks, the march of our lives, while you enact laws of ethnic ban, blame the trans, but our transgressions are when we lift our voice to call out, confession of a country doomed for recession is that our lesson might be cut short by the body of a weapon that leaves an impression on bodies, holes in the chest, brains with permanent distress, impressing the image of hate and flurries of red into the minds of hind always in the back of our mind, tock, we are running out of time, hear my plea, that before you flee and stay stuck in make believe, that the people that make you billions and millions are being killed in droves, by the coves of weapons, so while you worry about China owning our land, we ask that you atleast give us a hand, and ensure that the plans for our lives will still stand, and not be cut short and finished by grand schemes of hate, and that on this date you realize that what makes this country so great is that cultures vary from state to state, so what i put on your plate is the bodies of those who died at the expense of your ignorance, and a challenge for you, to take a clue and scope into what's really the issue, of why this country is covered in holes and tell me with a straight face that our lives arent worth more than the right to bear arms.

copyright © micah hill 2024

School shootings in America have become entrenched in our culture and guns have been made apart of our national identity, this fact is deeply troubling and facilitates a trend of increased mass shootings. Change must come, amendment must come, because inaction of politicians, mockery by politician’s like MTG, means the blood is on the hands of our government. Time and time again, Uvalde, Virginia Tech, Parkway, Columbine, now a Georgia school shooting, we hear “thoughts and prayers” but no congressional change. This is an injustice and a failure on all levels of government. We can leave the right to choose up to the states but wont give guns a second look. Take action, ask for gun buybacks, ask for constitutional change, be the change we seek. Help usher in a new generation of students who dont fear for their lives at the one place they should be protected.

Sensitive

sensitive 

you don't fight with your hands or your mouth you must be sweet, you just let them men run over you accepting defeat, as if because you're weak and feeble it deletes, the fact that you're human too, but they don't have a clue that what they say undos the wounds of childhood blues, the feeling that them boys can say whatever, do whatever and I must accept, that because I’m sensitive I’m defect, but my response to attack is much more direct, it's pent up frustration, of saddened effect, because when you use your mouth to speak words to mock the weak, all I can do is seem to weep. 

they say in this world there will be verbally violent people, but a world where we push the feeble, penetrate the thin walls of a broken man, because it's legal to assault with tongue, so young man you can't be so sensitive, representative of what it means to be a man is tough, toughest on the block, toughest to lead the flock, toughest to mock anyone that doesn't fit your description of affliction that a man should do, as if because I don't strike with fists you'll infiltrate my mind like a coup, because no event or task will ever allow you to fit in my shoes. my childhood blues of passed down vice, that because my daddy's mean to me I can't play nice, that because i need to prove I’m a man you must pay the price. little boy you're too sensitive, sentencing your body to lifelong struggle, ruffle your soul because you not a real man, real men kick, the doors to your soul because the goal is to demolish the opposition, real men shoot, shoot down your esteem in hopes of filling the wounds of ego and pride, colliding with bodies, carnal sin takes a ride, real men punch, punch in your chest in hopes of reaching your heart, so that they can dissect the source of the part that makes you so sissy, that your mind goes misty and privy to the fact that your manhood is under attack. 

i'll never let you win even though you've pinned, your weakness on me hoping that it leaves my soul to fend, for a spot in a world where men must fight, you must be slight but mighty in the fact that your ego has reached new heights. 

young man you're too sensitive, not privy to your body, not one with your hands, every ounce and inch of your body brands you as gay, that sweet little strut doesn't go away, no matter how hard you try to hide behind clothes, no matter how many times you try to pimp the hoes, because your woes are indicative of a lackluster man, you can't even stand and raise your fist to execute your makers plan, to withstand the enemies attack by fighting back, with this temple, but it could never be so simple, because I’m a test result of a disemboweled creature, my features show signs of a boy who never listened to the preacher when he said that "no weapon formed against me shall prosper" what this did is fostered my mind to put on a front, of a man who could stand up against the evil and put on a stunt, but the blunt force trauma of the unconscious mind, causes what comes out to not be so kind. 

sissy, you too weak, them tears coming out them eyes won't even let you speak, and stand up to me and check my weak ego, sissy, you're too sweet, you couldn't tear me down if you tired, you might aswell hide, because if you don't abide by our male contract, i'll contact your face with fists of fury, purely because you're too sensitive to check me, and tell me like a man that these hands gonna stand, up for myself. sissy, you can't see, that the pain inside of you won't pass onto me, but everything done against me allows me to speak, and say that you aren't a real man, you're just a fan of the patriarchy stereotype of a real man, you can't even stand to look at yourself in the mirror because sin speaks, and your pride leaks out from your mind everytime your words reek. i may be sensitive, i may be weak, but the glory i seek is in being able to have the capacity to love, the vastness of my soul coming from above, so when you attack with your words, with your body, i let you collapse my walls because my soul stands strong and affirms my beliefs i've had all along that I am a real man today, because i didn't let your hate stay, i released your claim on my life and didn't let it pain, but your soul remains stained.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Cycle

cycle

change comes for those who wait, but the weight of the stress makes you wait too late, those grips of addiction make me hate, to see you broken down and torn because you've accepted your fate, that when you recognize the pattern you still can't break free, that ascension from vice proves to not be filled with glee, because when the mind try's to escape the souls intentions, our bodies and lucifer begin to resist, confining us between our 4 walls our souls remised, but our mind key doesn't unlock the pad to the fiery abyss. 

the intent of i love you covered in lust, making empty promises breaking connections trust, our foul intentions stink of must, the idea that if things aren't urgent we'll begin to fuss, because our patience is shorter than our will to transform and willingness to trust. the cycle of fear, you passed unto me because you were worried the attack were near, not knowing that you were the confederate, in our own camp, the betrayal of youth impurity leers, the sheer force of it all made you panic, the abuse I endured almost made me manic. each strike, like clockwork made the moment of fear a perfect circle, you'd cause years of pain, years of personal mental strife, because I live a life of fear, that my peers are ready to tear my fragile lock of trust, my thin layer of security, unintentionally letting the devil in, letting my enemy win, because of the cardinal sin, your pride too thick that you left me to fend, for myself in a world covered in the other 6, fixed to destroy every fiber of my being, attacking each chromosome, slowly killing my identity, leaving to question if you were really home, or if your cycle cut so deep that the hill to climb didn't feel as steep, running over my carton of hope, leaving me emotionally weak. 

even though you've inflected great harm, I’m still captivated by your charm, now armed with the power to stand up and bring the fight back, every muscle in my body wanting to attack, but i'm reminded that if my body wins, my mind grins, and my soul sins, this vicious cycle of vice will soon come to an end.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Peace Has a Name

peace has a name

blue isn’t just a color, it has the capacity to allow us to feel love like no other, that motherly love that has no conditions, that reminder that we aren’t always self-sufficient, and sometimes we need a beam of hope to come and cover, us in the blue, meaning that sometimes we need the gloom, the feeling of doom, to help us understand our oceans mood. 

one thing will always be true, and that is that blue wraps us with tranquility, the ability to hug our souls and open our availability, we say we’re too busy, and overwhelmed, but the state of blue shows us that to love one another it takes two. we are often caught up in the thick, and never in the mundane, we brush it off as unimportant and lame, and shame on those who feel their pain and allow river flow to gush once again, stuck on the red versus blue, on which side is true, telling unalike minds to just shoo, but they don’t have a clue, that blue isn’t party lines or political grime, its the tranquil of basking ourselves in our mother’s arms, and leading us to feel free from all harm, the freedom of being safe from painful alarms, tapping into ourselves unaware of the charm. 

blueness isn’t a temporary condition, its lifes rendition that reminds us that we aren’t so different, that when we prance into the vastness of its waves, the lustfulness we crave passes away, the hate that consumes goes astray, and the peacefulness of the blue paves the way for my soul to be healed from the enclave of toxicness, the grips of sin, the need to win, because blue makes me forget my veil of a toxic male, meaning that when im surrounded by the waves it forces me to say, that “I love today” because for once my heart doesnt feel the pain, of the weight of the world ripping at my soul as it starts to shave, all of the layers of love I have left start to fade, but blue resets my souls yearning, to fillfull that role that that 6-year-old boy was constantly learning that, life comes in waves, and if you dont bask in the blueness of the unconditional love that life gives you, you’ll begin to hate the world, feeling as if God forgets you. 

my blueness allows me to forget the newness of hate, division, precision of colonial visions of a world to be dominated, it allows me to see myself as my fathers creation and my mother’s haven, as the world begins to cave, i can say i forgave, i let go of hates claim, and didnt allow pain and vice to prevail once again, because at the end of the day, my state of blue will always triumph, as i remind myself that giants fall, bad conditions stall, but through it all blue stands tall to tell us that love isnt jealous, creation isnt hellish, and that life should be zealous, that when we march outside the sky is blue, the ocean too, the bees fly peacefully without a clue, and my day is beautiful and always new. 

copyright © micah hill 2024

Word Flow

word flow

when this pen touches paper my words flow, that when I rise up and scream, my mind shows, that I’m just like my ancestors that my voice lifts up to say that it aint no light gesture, my voice has a purpose, that when my thoughts brew they don’t fester, that when you say my words lesser, I must confess that these words flow. 

when my mind concocts sentences, it’s like mental repentance, so when I rise to say, my words aren’t full of resentment, you listen and let my words be your apprentice. my life story unfolding on a page, to showcase my rage, the voice through the sage, to forgo all the hate, because I’m poets son and my lifes a rerun of the chosen one, that when I lift my chest to say that your mind goes frozen. these words flow, and this tone shows, that I’m not ever backing down, I won’t wear a frown, I won’t move a pound because I know who I am, I’m the brother of triumph and the cousin of justice.

when these hands begin to sway, you better hope and pray that I don’t throw shade, because this tongue is unfiltered, its the lifter of all things me, that when you can’t stand my voice your mind makes it impossible to see, my mental processes, my mind possesses the capacity to create projects of hope, obsesses over failure that when I don’t succeed, my mind sows seeds of doubt and tears and pout when, in fact, I’m a success story, I’m the epitome of a part-time truth seeker and a full-time Black man, so much that when I write these words your mind has to adapt, to the fact that, I’m picking up the scraps of our twisted reality. because when my mind races these words flow, so I can show, that this world blows, but when life hits me with its vicious strikes, and injures the world with famine and strife, I don’t fear because I’m the friend of peace, and the enemy of congressional thinking, that right can be 50/50. 

when my body swoons, I can’t help but prune, so when I walk down the street with my same ole tune, you’ll look at me and think I’m baffoon. because when this life balloons, my right to move, I can’t help but choose to pop it, it may be a shock, but when my mind goes, these words flow, and come to create, a mind show, it shows that these words go over your head onto the floor, and pours like a drink of truth and a mix of love.

when these words flow, these hands go, so when my poems show they create elements of mind, you’ll find that when these words flow, they don’t lay low, they stand up and project, and have a resounding effect, on this world, because all that life hurls, I still let these words flow, like so.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Kids Should Be Seen Not Heard

Kids Should Be Seen Not Heard (WR)

The feeling of defeat, of being unseen. The reality of being a child and staying in a kid’s place. “Kids should be seen not heard”, was a phrase that haunted me. Never really understanding why elders were deserving of reverence, because like me, they were still learning, still filled with flaws. What we fail to do is listen to our youth, we’re quick to write them off as inexperienced, and lacking in wisdom. Human nature is creating power structures that we are obligated to abide by, the same way we treat “uneducated” people who are without college degrees, juxtapositions the way we view children. The reality is that, in fact, we can afford to listen to everyone, because they add perspective. 

To me, wisdom is knowledge of the human experience and understanding how others lives to play out. I’ve seen countless times, adults who think they have nothing to learn from youth. They’re quick to shut their ears off as soon as the mouth of a child opens, but what they fail to acknowledge is that generational differences make giving everyone a listen worthwhile. Children should listen to adults to gain perspective, but parents also need to start listening to their children. Relationships thrive off of reciprocated acknowledgment of each other, this is why many Black families are defunct. Because one-sided, cult-like reverence is engraved in the culture of Black parenting. As soon as a child pops up to share an exciting moment in their life “Kids should be seen not heard”. This could be as mundane as learning a new dance move, but the memory of their parent sitting there supporting them along the way is priceless. I believe that “Inside Out” depicts how memories control our lives. The idea of a “core memory” is a concept I find particularly intriguing because for every human, we all have moments in time that we’ll never forget. Our first book, that one night that you and your siblings bonded over boredom, and I believe the dismissal of a child blocks core memories. Often in the Black community the ones who are ignored and dismissed grow up not knowing they’re loved, or thinking that they aren’t unique enough to be deserving of captivating others’ attention. 

To me, this is why children should be heard not seen, because taking a moment to listen, to process, is detrimental to the development of a child. Take 30 minutes today, and when you ask them how was their day, don’t treat it like a TikTok video that you can pause and play, and tell your child today, that you see them, you hear them, and you love them forever and always

copyright © micah hill 2024

Target

target

when you see this figure in public, i figure you dont see much more than a nigger

that this walk and these curls, guaranteed to see the pearls of heaven, the fight all out just to end up in second

that when i enter this store, you see a hundred more, that when i strut on this floor, your mind plays tricks galore

your eyes stuck like a lock on, hair on that arm stuck up straight like it shocked on, placed on this target, think I’m a thiefin artist, because of that law when I lift my voice and sing you send in the sergeant

i fit a description of a extracurricular criminal, when i call out the mess you swear it aint subliminal, the truth of the past of torn houses we know because the people still living and when i call out the trash disappear is the sheeps mask, that when i walk down the street, my tone will never be discreet because, I’m exhibit A and yall cant wait until my bodies covered in sheet, but when you covered in the sheet, we know we gotta fleet, cause when you poke your eyes, we can see the devil in disguise, and when we look to the skies we see fire and smoke covered is the most high. see you cant drown this body down the river, you can’t poke the bear in the liver, because when we rise you begin to shiver, because you never thought me more than a nigger. 

this target glows right on my back, that when you see me walking, you’d think you under attack, that when you delegate your leaders you cant wait to go back, because what you lack in melanin equal is the cell we in, the loss of freedom, dichotomy of space, the conditions of our race, that when we fill the place, you wont leave a trace, of evidence 

say i dont fit in, say my communities covered in sin, but you cant wait to scribble the pen, that when we apply you dont ever want us in. 

see the America we live is one of destruction and men, who prey on weakness, who say that your failure aint no more than a sequence, supposed matrix, but the America we live they hate to see us with savings. that when i show up in the room, it seems inevitable doom, that when we see the moon we appear blue. 

when you expect us, you heavily disrespect us, that when you check us, youll find we can never settle for second, the holes in our armor covered by years of sections, of hate, and when you see us in power and support you claim we no more than section 8, that cant wait for the next race, because if we win we could take over the place. this target got holes in it that when you see a garvey, or a marley, a baraka, dhoruba you cant wait to plan evil when i walk you hope and prey i dont have traces of malcom, or martin, or hampton, and hughes, so you can use your weapons of mass destruction and abuse, my people still bruised, so you feel purposed, so you feel choosed, this life is unfair and we’re set up to lose.

see my target doesnt glow bright red, or have traces of blue from the right to shoot, but it has a clean white sheet because when you attack youll find youll never win, that when you kill our people, lock so-called evil, mock the feeble, inflict inconceivable, harm and swear you legal. but you cant lock away my voice, you dont have a choice, remember that justice always wins, look at mandela, emancipate, but we proclamiate that we’ll always be originally We.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Insecure

insecure 

that reflection in the mirror leers to remind me that i'm less than my peers, that my childhood fears of mediocrity all suddenly reappear. 

insecurity means inferiority, as if because this nose is round, i've let the world down, that this hair atop my head is less than crown, like this fat that surrounds my body is worn like a gown, that the peace i've found is because i'm now sound, in the fact that, i finally feel passable, that when I walk through the halls my face isn't laughable, like my appearance was creation, like it was craftable. 

the gloom that consumes, my mind when the thoughts not so divine come to say that i'm running out of time, that the truth I find, is in social media clicks, meant to create devils binds, oblivious called blind that when I see this reflection in the mirror i can't help but mind that my appearance is less than kind. often i wish i could rewind to a time that my outer being wasn't the topic of conversation, that my relations wasn't based on how my skin intertwines to create something so divine, because in my mind im no different than that 12 year old boy that wished he was blind, everytime he looked in the mirror because he couldn't find, the goodness in the way my nose drooped, my clef left and my hair stoped. 

i'm an insecure man which means I don't understand that, what appears to be bland is what makes me able to stand and say that I love myself forever and always, that when I prance the hallways, my mind stands on my hate, of myself for not being the mate that God creates, that i'm so insecure I can't seem to find the cure to my insanity, for all my humanity, there's no vanity in what I wear because no amount of clothes can cover up the holes that were created by the moles of hate, the mass of laugh and the glee of make believe, hating myself because I couldn't see, the worth in not being a perfect man. i'm an insecure man who can't understand that my worth shouldn't be measured by hurt, that I should stand to say that I love my self forever and always.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Men Dont Cry

men don't cry

men don't cry, so little boy wipe those tears out your eyes, because what you lack in masculinity you don't make up for in size, you act like a sissy in disguise. so young man, young man young man, wipe those tears out your eyes

see as a man you should know better, because you need to be strong dispite the weather, whether or not you feel strong, and stand tall and firmly say that "i'm a real man on today". but these tears in my eyes, cast a fear deep inside that, when they flow like stream water down a waterfall, i can't help but bawl.

but this a man's world so you can either stand up or be left out in it all, so when you feel yourself with a pout, your best bet is to shut that mouth, and don't let the snot fall from that snout, and you need to look out because, them men gone turn you inside out, because when you feel emotions you can't help but shout, that you can't take anymore, that the force of it all is too much to bore as it drills a hole in your heart as my soul is nailed to the floor. 

the feeling of defeat when i've tried all I could just for one flaw to delete, all the triumph I meet because i'm the son of fear, the proof that a breakthrough is near, that when disappointment leers, all that flows is tears.

i'm the byproduct of a world that men set up, that we win stuck up, that we stuff all the muck, in our life that we can't overlook, because it's a "man's world" but i can't help but curl, up into that prepubescent self that never understood why I was considered girl, because I let my emotion overcome my motions to appear like a man, when life's bullets pierce and my vest cannot withstand. 

tell your child today that, when they feel the flood don't let it stay, because when you overfill the dam, you take a chance at cracks, that when they build up the walls lack to, stand tall through lucifer's attack, and when life's turbulence appears in the firmament that you let the water flow because it allows you to show that, we're human after all, dispite life's blows, and they should know that it's okay to mope, it's okay to hope for a future where men are "weak", where the waterworks and our eyes dams can leak, that when we take a peak at sensitivity, it wont be steep, and where children can speak, up and say that they cried today.

Identity (PM)

identity (pm)

we ask ourselves, who is we? 

we wonder why our predisposition is to make everything about our complexion and our conditions, but why are we Americans? who does the saying, who tells the lies, some called the devil in their disguise, while we look to the skies and yet, 

still our people rise. 

established 1776, the freedom, the stripes, but our stripes remain true, our skin torn, tattered and bruised some call blue. 

as if our condition was anything close to peace, that this red on our skin still drip, but yet we still the least? 

when we’re emancipated, you could say proclamated, but those chains abound, still managed to keep the black folk down, “well boy you’re free now”, as if you don’t see this frown, as if we less because this skins brown.

see we be our identity, we know that kumbaya and thoughts and prayers don’t make you the activist you pretend to be, that when our boys enter that school their stars show, 50 stars all combined in glory to rise and say that “we know our identity, and it isn’t a pretend to be”. 

we know that if we waltz, or march that the revolution cannot be televised, because it requires a break free, some called wise, to break free from the all the lies, that you’d look me in my black eyes and tell me that “you did all you could, you tried”.

my identity is still true to me, not a state of blue, or a drop of red, but a pureness of white, and yet and still I know that I am not a pretend to be.

see, you can’t whitewash our history, that new building on campus cannot be held by the black bodies hiding in the dirt, as to say that you stood tall, murdered all and now you have the victory?

see, the identity of those bodies forgotten, but the mystery isn’t the names and faces its the years of lies to cover up that part of history, because when you oppress you write the rules, name the fools, and pity any and everything that stood in your way.

they mold the books as if life was a block of clay, and then show up as the heroes to save the day, this day is to remember the lives we took and pretended to pray that very sunday that the bodies in groves were better gone astray. but yet and still I know my identity, and that I’ll always be fair to me, and never settle for a pretend to be.

our american creed, to fit in, to breathe and bleed the same blood our forefathers forseen. but ask yourself, when that quill touched that page was the future they seen, mixed and black or was it mean, to be forever white mans america?

so when I ask you whats your identity, you look at me and tell me that you were meant to be, not separate but equal, not bruised or feeble, but to stand triumphant and say that “I’m not pretend to be, I’m apart of history, and I know what I’m meant to be, forever me in all its Black glory, my identity”

copyright © micah hill 2024

West

west (PM)

city on a hill, great american hope

we dream that one day our activists aren’t under a scope

that our peoples wouldn’t head ov’r yonder, neck wrapped round’ the rope

look towards the west, no need to mope

the bodies under insititutions, hid behind the idea of renewal

you tell me to work harder, while withdrawing that mule

you add fuel to the fire, while we try to ascend higher, when i say my struggles real you call me a liar. 

we’re shot down with words of Division, rhetoric of Everlasting white hope, fear of an Invasion, sweeping the nation, but when you bombard the land, no need to be patient

you control the world, you dont care who in the way

those people in they land better off gone astray.

you bet not try to unite or well send in the coup, leave the nation broken, our pedigree still true

lead your people to water and are “shocked” when its drunk

claiming pure intentions on both sides, unaware of the funk,

your party of elephants showing your true trunk, when we bring up torn history you’ll tell me that ship sunk.

look towards the west, no need to fret

our people below, act as if were inept

as if were subservient to your rule, you must think we fool

other worldly bodies, blood drawn into a pool.

we watch as children and adults alike, murder proliferated, killings have spiked, while you worry about gas, they look towards the west, they see we turn a blind eye and they begin to stress, constant duress but we care about the best, we treat countries like pawns as if this life was a game of chess, bodies piled, but we only care about the west.

we have nothing to learn, although we should study the past

lack of understanding and unwillingness to change, leaving empires in the trash, you say great again, not knowing that it doesn’t last, and glorifying the past leaves rulers aghast.

but were the west, and will always know best, let money speak and don’t care about the rest.

copyright © micah hill 2024

Resentment

resentment

this silence that fills the room feels different than solace 

the energy of the room feels less than soulless

my heart palpitates and fills the room with tension, ungodly spirit, different dimension, unsaid thoughts not worth the mention, what builds these walls is unspoken resentment, divergent from my intuition, is my desire to transcend my human condition, to cross that finish line and be able to say, that i filled the room with love that day.

the gloom that submerges this room is far from indifferent,

the sense of wrongdoing feels more than tense, 

when i look you in the eyes id yearned to say i love you, but its intention with pedestal, as if i'm above you, as if the vice grip of shortcoming wasn't a two way street, like you sinned and my lives white cloth still complete, but this energy is reminiscent of our synergy, that 4 year old boy dancing with glee as his maker to be watches his blood drip down from his tree, this tension in this room makes mental clarity flee, as that little boys chains of cycle were soon broke free. 

the mental struggle with the past creates a state of hell bound being, as the youthful innocence had soon gone fleeing, the limits of these walls make us hateful, but our unconditional love leads my souls to be grateful. 

now as i stand tall i say with my chest "i forgive you", and my soul is put to rest, as its battle with ego and morals had transcended detest, our clashing heads, the spectators, whom were the root of the stress, had beaten resentment, and stood triumphant as my childhood soon became more clear, that the plan for my life was to break free from fear, i stood over my fear that day, as my love for my father had never gone away, although past battles had led my heart astray, i rose my chest to say, "ill always love you anyway". 

copyright © micah hill 2024

Race

Race (pm)

as i watch in horror i have to try one last time to not make it about race

as a boy waltzing down the street candy in hand, or a man walking out the store is kneed down and sat atop, as to give us a glimpse into their supremacist dystopian, as to represent what it means when they say, great replacement.

i watch in disdain as my sisters are disregarded and considered insufficient, the words diversity, as if their blackness makes them less, equity, as if their presence would fill the room with culture, inclusion, as if we didn't come this far to fail.

i watch as my home is filled with red, white and blue every night, while i try my best one last time to not make this about race, red, my brothers blood dripping down his from his lifeless body, white his skin turns as he fades from reality, blue his face turns as the weight on his neck, resisting, becomes too much, this doesn't feel patriotic, it's not pride, as i chant "we not going back"

while i sit back slowly dying inside and once again try to not make this about race

i sit back and see as they march in the street with a sign screaming this our town, chanting that "they will not replace us" hate behind the wheel of a car, horror in the eyes of the people. but no need to fret or waste another breath because there's good people on both sides, while my sister holds her pot of peace, her way of protecting soul, i see the same story we've seen all along, as i sit back tears in my eyes

as i once again try to not make this about race

so when you ask me, why do yall always make everything about race? ill remind you genocide, congolese hands gone without a trace, i'll remind you of the crosses of hate, slurs screamed in our face, ill remind you bombs in the pulpit, not safe in our holy place,

and you'll look me in my black eyes and tell me racism wasn't the case

copyright © micah hill 2024

The Beauty Of Forgivness

the beauty of forgiveness 

anger, and hate, things that consume us

they cloud our life with immense hatred

drown us with thoughts of negativity 

surround us with trauma, and repackage themselves through words and actions

words that cannot be taken back because we cannot forget

actions that cannot be undone because we do not forgive

we allow words and actions to dictate and control us

they continue cycles of vice

exacerbate mental illness

exuberantly filing our lives with shortcoming

we say forgive but never forget

in doing this, we're still surrounding ourselves in inhumane mental punishment 

subjecting others to entrapment and waves of guilt

letting life's waves wash our soul to shore, and let negativity sink

allowing anger to float, and pain to fill our tank

the beauty of forgiveness is a release of moral shortcomings, and an embrace of peace of mind

forgiveness is the bridge between our virtues and leaps over the human condition 

forgiveness bandages the punctured wounds of soul, and replenishes helpless wicked state of mind

forgiveness unlocks our cell, overflown with guilt, hatred and emotion, it reincarnates youthful bliss, and encompasses compassion 

forgiveness teaches us that, there is hope in the mundane and vice filled earth, that there is a slither of light at the end of the tunnel of human suffering, and that forgiveness is a prerequisite for love, and peace

the beauty of forgiveness.

copyright © micah hill 2024

The Cost of Lust

the cost of lust (rhyme)

immoral insanity

loss of feeling for humanity 

lustful intentions, loveful superficial coating

euphoric feeling, unstoppable, ego maniac bloating

the true price of lust is loss of soul

loss of feeling, in favor for a final goal

manipulation, false predications 

ending of sentences with “i love you”

this love conditional, unofficial, artificial, assertion all in the name of lust

the true price of lust is loss of meaning

our words detaching from the truth

canisters of lies, unfounded claims, many without proof

our predisposition to desire for novelty 

our want for domination, gripped by sovereignty 

dishonest, undermining what love means

the cost of lust is loss of love

thinking to yourself, which one or was it the latter

want for sexual gratification, human treated like matter

lust is ruining connections for temporary euphoria 

lust is jeopardizing relationships for greener grass

lifelong love, memories gone in a flash

years of dedication all thrown in the trash 

one moment of climax now that love was in the “past”

our culture climate is one that glorifies lust

meshing of man made matches, created to “smash” 

desire for what’s different, the ultimate human clash

the cost of lust is loss of self

loss of soul, loss of meaning, loss of humanity, disconnection from all sanity

while we showcase ourselves in obscenity, and uncovered profanity 

the human condition and disposition needs healing

before the debt to lust becomes bankruptcy

copyright © micah hill 2024

Tree (PM)

tree (revised)

my trunk shows history of torn lives

my branches weighed down by misunderstanding 

they bare odd fruit, novel to anything I’ve seen 

the fruit screams sways with the wind, and pleads 

these branches, wrapped in rope to bare strange fruit 

the likes unseen by me, this fruit seems bruised and expired

covered in its own fluid 

battered and damaged as if it had witnessed war

strong winds sway my leaves, and branches

the odd fruit i bare floating and swaying with the wind too

i see crowds of children and adults alike

frolicking and full of joy, they surround the odd fruit 

i hear chants and screams from the crowd

wishing that could rid the weight of this odd fruit

the children who seem blue and carefree

the adults seen in triumph 

as if they were joyous to see this strange fruit 

as if the rotten byproduct was a victory 

as if the smell and sight was transparent and undetectable 

my branches cannot bare the weight of this fruit any longer

the vices of the people weighing me down

the condition of humans is one of pride

for they do not have interest in sparing this fruit 

they’d rather it rot than partake in it

my tree branches too short to box with God

my thoughts not loud enough to project dissatisfaction 

my old tree trunk covered in strange fruit 

the toxins of rotten product 

the byproduct of vice, the killer of joy

what killed me the most is the families that could’ve benefited from this strange fruit, those who hunger, those who thirst

tree

copyright © micah hill 2024

Conditions

conditions (spoken word)

our male human contract 

it reads that “this life is conditional”

it means that we can treat women as meat 

it believes that what we do is unoriginal

cycles of toxins, gripped by shortcoming

it means that our kids are being taught to be a man

but what does being one mean?

is it pimping the hoes, to show that you half of one?

is it beating the disrespect out of bodies that use their mouth as ammunition?

is it showcasing anger because that’s what we does?

is it strutting down the street because its a mans world?

the condition of masculinity is unoriginal, artificial

our condition is a two way contract

many fail to stop and read between the lines

when we skip over life we miss the goal

we fail each other, we fail our men, our kids, our women 

being taught that love is unconditional 

but actions that show the opposite 

acts of lust, not stopping to find obscurity in the mundane

failing to see the beauty in the unknown 

our systems, set to keep us on top

while creating an account i was prompted with a screen to read the terms and conditions

but instead of skipping it i stopped to read

learning how they’ll use my data

seeing all the nuances of the platform

i thought to myself, why can’t we do the same

teach our boys to stop and read the conditions

teach them to slow life down and appreciate the struggle

teach them to navigate the human condition, not with anger

teach them that anger is a furnace filled with vice and misunderstanding

show them that healing comes through unconditional, not superficial, unoriginal masculinity 

show them that love doesn’t have to be this way

tell them that they’re seen, that they’re loved

tell them that the condition of life can be amended

tell them that they have the power to change

conditions

copyright © micah hill 2024 

In the Shadow of My Father

in the shadow of my father revised

masculinity is complex

its nature is one that we want to amend 

is it strength and gains driven by sex?

is it primal instinct to destroy we cannot understand?

is it proximity to masculinity, distance to femininity?

in one night, I learned I wanted to break free from the cycle

narrow backseat of a police car, almost to give me a glimpse of my future

questions I did not truly understand 

a smell I’d never forget

the vivid memory of the stillness of the moment

hands around the neck, hands that were served to protect

hands that would burn, light, and ignite the fire of division 

the controller was my solace 

the controller was where I found peace

its intentions never meant to harm

unconditional love, handcuffed by the charm

the end of childhood lied in the door of a police cruiser 

the blueness of life would be overcast by the dark shadows of abuse

my youthful and innocent existence didn’t understand 

the cruiser would be the bridge into newness

a peek into my future 

a picture of the vices of my maker

“what happens in this house stays”

a condemn of challenge 

afraid of consequence

refusal to admit ones flaws, the deadliest vice

gripped by the shadow of masculinity 

gripped by the strong hands of the controller

opposite to normality that was plugged into the PlayStation 

hit and scorned by the one who I found solace in

the blueness of my being was overcast by the vice of the controller

my new environment was novel and strange 

blowup mattress with a hole that was too wide

my youthfulness was punctured and deflated by dawn

by the grips of the shadow of my father

what had chained and captured me, I had become 

the controller, the abuser

always the victor, never the loser

intentions never to harm or abuse her

ones to admire, adding fuel to the fire

“what happens between us stays”

afraid of outside influence

refusal to admit my vices

gripped by the cycle of what I despised

controlled by the web of lies

the engravment of the shortcomings of man

forever pressed into the psyche

despite my desire to ascend higher and forgo my makers vices

I will be forever in the shadow of my father 

copyright © micah hill 2024

Motions and Notions

motions and notions (prose)

we go through the motions of life

brainlessly self guiding ourselves through its waves

going through the motions, with impure motive

artificial, our thoughts two tongued

superficial, say one thing, internally preying upon failure

our motives impure, our desire takes precedence 

motions and notions, check how you navigate life, check what you believe

quick to jump, and point fingers

putting vices under a microscope 

the human condition full of judgement 

quick to judge, even quicker to hate

our notions premeditated, our instincts delegated and shown through clicks and likes

artificial, fake connections, disembodied brain and disassociated from reality

superficial, guise of perfection, notions of malice

motions and notions, check your motions and notions

fast to persecute, delegated to the most high, erecting vice, glorifying shortcomings 

our souls disembodied and replaced by artificial wisdom, man curated hate

our disposition one to divide, our leaders and system's polarized 

people vs people, endless loop of coliseums and gladiators 

while we sit and watch the loss of reality

the human experience washes over us like high tides in the water

many let the vastness of the sea surround them, many watch as their fellow being drowns.

superficial, quick to play the good guy, foul intent on the inside 

motions and notions, check your motions and notions

waves of impurity, hand selected immunity 

crowns of thorn in every community

hand selecting the enemy 

battle of vice, claiming moral high ground

while we watch from vip seats at the vice we gave power

artificial, human made conflict, online debacle 

superficial, quick with words, vocabulary of bullets

while soul is dying on the inside

motions and notions

copyright © micah hill 2024

Capitol Hill (PM)

capitol hill

human existence, made for competition

wrestling with those who differ,

an attempt to dominate

the human condition is one of conflict

those ready to clash heads

we the people, the spectators in a coliseum, a stadium

egging on as we watch the battle

we watch as the warriors take each other on in a theatrical spectacle

we watch as the warriors do everything in their might to eliminate the other side

never do we question the character of these warriors

for they are god-like

never do we doubt their legitimacy

we see the warrior as our protector

our livelihood in the palm of their hands

our wellbeing mounting on the edge of their spear

for this is a republic

under god

never do our leaders go against the people

never do the judges roe and roe until wade has faded

never do they leave the people patiently waiting

anticipating war, conflict

we who are the other side are victors

impeach the people to death

the voices slowly muffled in the background of warriors who will go to any lengths to destroy

the warriors are nobly obedient to the elite

they go against what seems plausible to the people   

see throughout history one thing has remained a constant, conflict at the expense of those who are on the bottom

copyright © micah hill 2024