But no Lucky in sight. Luck runs out, anyway … instead, give me Justice. Justice for the love pure love that I freely offered, and in return was brutally snatched from my arms. The offenders? Empty vessels who look like me, those I used to call sister and friend. I seek Justice for the lying lips and scheming eyes of men who sat before me disguised as lovers. These thieves played the role of protector and confidant, awaiting years for my many barriers and guards to be let down. Years of studying me and getting clues on how to crack my codes, watching me. Watching how to avoid my thorns strategically set in place for my protection, only to conquer me as one of their many conquests, then trample over my leaves. Is that anyway to treat such a special flower? To water me, nourish me, only to abruptly uproot me out the concrete I fought so desperately to grow from? The concrete where I was overlooked, abandoned, stepped on, talked about, and yet still managed to flourish? The concrete where my roots were uncomfortable and extremely difficult to find, and my own tears nourished the seed? God himself commanded me to grow, and the mere fact that you found me there in such a lifeless environment should have been proof enough of my potential. Yet you left me there, uprooted and lifeless. I almost think you enjoyed it, watching me waste away.
You spoke life into me, I bloomed for you. Stretched wide and bared my soul, opened the door to my heart and gave you a detailed tour and the key. And what did you do? Took the key and vanished! That statement alone makes me laugh now, but back then … back then it left me breathless. I was panicked. I was confused. You uprooted my faith and eagerness to love, my innocence, and you planted seeds of doubt and dependency. Now I’m forever dammed, uprooted, waiting on Lucky. Never again will I open, bloom for man. My source will forever be the Son alone. He never stopped shining on me. He was the one whose word commanded me to grow in this concreate. It was for His glory, and to be a sign that points my community, my home back to the source of true light.
Poetic Justice is me looking out my Section 8 two-story, two-bedroom, two-bathroom, home window, knowing that just a few paces down there is pavement marked with the blood of someone’s brother, child, boyfriend, or friend. Oakland California. The city name alone evokes so much power, so much love, and at the same time, so much hate. Home of the Black Panthers, immense creativity, protest, and political activism. At the same time, the city has become a war zone, glorifying the love of women, money, cars, fashion, slick talk. Masters of the fast life, the hustle. I guess the way the city turns just depends on the major influence at the time, meaning what voice is being pushed to the community. Add crooked politicians and police to that mixture, and you basically give a certain segment of the city the license to kill and/or be killed. It’s an interesting town, especially when you cross lines and see the differences between East, West, and North.
Rough, sharp, political, militant—all in one geographical location. Interesting, to say the least. A concrete jungle, and yet an oasis of artistic culture, fruit-filled birthplace of political activism, all the while, gentrification’s mouth salivates as it strategically plots to take over the city block by block. They could care less about the people, the history of the communities they are affecting. They scoff black lives matter to who? Don’t you see we’ve enhanced things? They use our stories against us. They misinterpret our narratives. We fight, we argue, we protest and they … they profit.