I don’t go to the gym much, I feel like carrying the history of my people on my back
gives me enough of a workout.
I sweat, a lot, thanks to the fear of letting them down.
I know that if I fail, we fail.
I know that if they succeed then I must too.
I know no matter what I do, someone will always see me as black.
The variations are if they add in my single parent mother
or my low class background.

I like being alone
as their days I don’t have to be the black boy.

That is FAKE POETRY.
Do not believe the PROPOGANDA.
We’re gonna make slams great again.
I’ve had a great meeting with the slam community.
They love me.
This is the most successful scene in the world.
I’ve got the most tremendous people working with me.
Oh you’re gonna love it.

So sad to hear the people talking badly about slams.
SLAMS SLAM SLAMS.
They are nasty poets.
Lock their books up.
Sad.

Editors Note:
This poem originally was really beautiful. There were some amazing metaphors and smilies in it, just some all round beautiful imagery. As the kids and Will.I.Am say, it would have been fire.

Ultimately on review, we realised it was saying nothing and decided to scrap the whole poem entirely.

Poets Note:
Fuck you Faulkner.

A found poem made up of lyrics/titles from my most played songs on Spotify from the year 2016

Tonight we are
sober.
We don’t have to talk, we don’t have dance.
I can’t even dance.
Tonight, we own the night.
Tonight we are victorious, champagne pouring over us.
Tomorrow doesn’t matter.
I’m past thinking about tomorrow.
Not today.

Today
we are the movement.
I’m past patiently waiting, I’m passionately smashin’ every expectation. Every action an act of creation!
Hello world
guess who’s back.
Stronger than ever.
I am not throwing away my shot.
I am running this bitch,
you are just a dog walker.
Long live the chief.

I remember car horns and swear words.
I want to say my voice was
drowned out by traffic
but I think you hostaged it
as you ran into the road.
This wasn’t the first time you made me think of you in the past tense.

For a moment
you turned into a Eulogy and a police report.
You turned into dropped grocery bags
and flowers left underneath your picture
but the car carried on,
you carried on
we carried on.
And now I carry on hearing ambulances whenever I think of you.
I keep wondering if someone will ask me to write about you.
If they’ll mention you in the past tense.
I keep hoping that won’t be soon.

My poems telling me it doesn’t want to be too long.
It’s too tired for that.
Says it doesn’t want to be burdened with the weight of the world.
Says today is not the day for death.
I offer it love and it shrugs.
Yawns.
Says it guesses but thought we had
more originality than that.

I ask my poem what it wants,
it asks me to step aside
and writes itself.

I prefer how I look in poems.
My line breaks look better
than my laughter lines. My
stanza’s have better structure than my bones.
In my poems,

it looks like I know what I’m doing.
My poems make it look like I know
what I’m talking about. As if my
conversations with the world aren’t one-sided.
It looks like I knew that we weren’t in love.
They dress up the pain in misplaced references.
Make it look like there was no bad guy.
I keep wearing these clothes of a poem
to avoid the naked truth.

How long will it take for my name to trend?
Do I have to actively be well connected
or will this be determined by the manner of my death?
Do I get any say in my legacy?
How long will it take for my bones
to decompose into an idea?
How long till my name becomes a
cautionary tale?
Will I be the only one trending that week?

If I don’t check twitter then the black kid won’t die.
His family won’t have to think about what coffin to buy for him.
He can lay in his bed instead of in the ground
or in the ground.
If I don’t click on that hashtag then the black kid won’t die.
The police wouldn’t have done it.
Their father wouldn’t have done it.
Their lover wouldn’t have done it.
They won’t have died wondering what they did wrong.
If I don’t click on that article then the black kid won’t die.
There won’t be white people remember that racism still exists.
There won’t be white people denying that racism doesn’t exist.
There will be no one saying they were unlucky.
If I don’t write a poem then the black kid won’t die.
And the black kid won’t die
And the black kid won’t die
And the black kid won’t die
And the black kid won’t die
And I won’t have to be the black kid.
And the black kid won’t die.

This one is for the next black kid.
I’m sorry that your bones became a hashtag.
I’m sorry that our tears are just watering the plot you lay in.
I’m sorry your the plot of this poem.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m so…

Male Privilege walks into a bar
and gets annoyed that the blonde girl who was infront of him
gets served first.
He tells her he decided to not let that get the better of him
and that he didn’t and won’t call her a slut.
Male Privilege gets annoyed when she doesn’t kiss him.
Male Privilege tells his friends about the ugly blonde
who was rude enough to push infront of him at the bar.
In place of her name, which he didn’t get,
he calls her a whore. They agree
before they each try pick up lines that fail on her all night.
She leaves, bag clutched shield like against her.
Her friends a barricade.
Male Privilege leaves too.
Calls her a snob as they wait for an Uber.
Male Privilege catches the night bus home.