The Paradox of death

Catastrophe reigns supreme

like an endless snowstorm oppressing those in need

For young black and brown boys and girls,

This storm is a numbing pain drowned in by the sounds of gunshots ringing ‘

like symphonies that play louder than the new hot tracks in our EarPods 

The sweet sound of gun violence and drugs,

and all the paraphernalia surrounding poverty and oppression

are numbing factors filling our vibes as we pass time.

Why is it that we’re are so comfortable with these crimes against our humanity?


How can we walk past it?

As if these ideas won’t evoke fear in any human being. 

Yes, everybody fears death.

But how can we be so numb to the thought of killing our own?

We write a post, about how cowardly a killer is, 

how we lost another black life.

How we have to do better.

Then we wear a t-shirt and move on with our lives

How is this reality such a norm for black lives

But when it comes to a radical shooter,

why does fear writhe in us like a sudden shock of pain ,

or an earthquake of disdain and fear trickling down our bodies as quick,

as the sliver of sweat,

we feel when that topic is revealed to us?

How, is it that we who live in war zones

are more afraid of someone gunning down our schools

than the man next to us pulling it the tool? 

Why? Because we are used to our own

and they give us a comfort zone that no other people can dethrone

So when the thought of an outsider threatens our homes and our schools

we quiver in fear.

Because It is unknown,

it is new, as creators of habit,

we fall into a taboo of thought contemplating

how something like this is possible. The fear of a shooter is real, 

And the hundreds of years of oppression rise out of our bodies

And we fall into the pain 

How? How is this our reality?

Us, who walk with the angel of death in our neighborhoods every day.

Can not be afraid of our own, but are terrified of those we don’t know? 

The paradox of death is so enigmatic.

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