The dog upstairs won’t shut up, but I can’t hate him, he’s up there alone all day, making noise must be the only way he knows he’s not a ghost.

Paradise is a world where everything is a sanctuary and nothing is a gun.

it's not a death sentence anymoreit's not death anymoreit's moreit's a sentence a sentence

i've left in search of a new God. i do not trust the God you have given us. my grandmother's hallelujah is only outdone by the fear she nurses every time the blood-fat summer swallows another child who used to sing in the choir. take you God back. though his songs are beautiful, his miracles are inconsistent.

The dog upstairs won't shut up, but I can't hate him, he's up there alone all day, making noise must be the only way he knows he's not a ghost.

i am equal parts sick of your go back to Africa & i just don't see race. neither did the poplar tree.

think: once, a white girl was kidnapped & that's the Trojan War. later, up the block, Troy got shot & that was Tuesday. are we not worthy of a city of ash? of 1,000 ships launched because we are missed? i demand a war to bring the dead child back. i at least demand a song. a head.

the b in debt is a silent black trapped

desire was warm recentlyshot from inside a bodyinto a body, strangelittle birth, happy deathritual, sweet lordi've seen thy wrath& it taste like sugarlay thy merciful handaround my neck

history is what it is. it knows what it did.