Dangerous Diaspora.

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We are the torn sounds of a West African daughter,

Born in a West partly built on a West African daughter.

Our spirits sold to be slaughtered.

Sisters and lovers,

Brothers and mothers,

Fathers and children not yet borne into a hate

That they themselves will learn to perpetuate.


They say home is where the heart is,

So tell me what happens when you have your heart transplanted

Into a distant land unknown

Speaking tongues,

Never your own.

An echoing heart in a rattling cage.


An African diaspora,

Brought into a new world order,

Children born with a distant longing towards a(h)

Place only seen on TV screens,

And we already know how reliable they’ve been.

Taking photos,

Shopping for flies to filter the lies they placed in our eyes.


So the scene changes,

Yet the narrative stays the same when this displaced vein

Looks to our cousins overseas.


We enter your atmosphere but all of a sudden

We can’t –

You can’t –

I can’t breathe in a world which tells me de facto justice ain’t fair.

Just get with the times cause nobody really cares.


Emancipated from our physical chains.

Hoping everything would just

Physically change,

But they just changed these chains

Into bullet holes.

Smoking gaps riddled my flesh which that bullet stole.

Blinded by that gunmetal half-light.

The whiplash from my body


Powder sparks as I try to take flight.


See they took those chains

And bound our names

Into just another black body

circulating round

just another black chain-mail list.


Trayvon Martin.

Eric Garner.

Michael Brown.

John Crawford.

Ezell Ford.

Tamir Rice.


They all paid the price.


But don’t forget

Yvette Smith.

Tanisha Anderson.

Miriam Carey.

Shelly Frey.

Darnesha Harris.

Sandra Bland.


Each breath breathe them back into your memory.

There is a power in naming.



You run away from the importance of our lives,

Focusing on the runways of celebrity brides,

Chasing the ones you’ve placed on a pedestal.

But tell me…

When will the brakes on that pedal stall?

When will that period come, full stop…

When we start chasing the uniforms?


Sirens in our stratosphere

Lull us to sleep.

We see human brutality on our televisions.

When a man is killed before he’s

Even given a chance to tell a vision

About the future he aspires to.


Is this Justice?

No. It just is.

A systematic suppression of the significance of black lives.

Which only seem to matter when taken by one of our own.


Black life. Black death. Black problem.


Though we’re made from the same matter,

It don’t matter,

Cause this black and white statement

Could never fit

Into your grey



So stop.

Sit down


Put your guns down,

Cause this ain’t hunting season.

Quickly disassemble all the racist reasons

You chose,

When you decided to lock and to load

The violent cartridge that is






Before our journey ends,

Overstand that we will overcome.

We who are the healing sounds of a West African daughter.

Born in a West partly built on a West African daughter.


Whose West African auxin moves from within,

With a history soaked into our skin.

A backpack of knowledge woven into our melanin.


We are.

You are.

I am.

This deadly,

This dangerous,

– Don’t mess with us –



– Princess Peace

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