I did not bring you back to life

I was not supposed to

My job is to teach

I make money

Leading so many lives

Changed so many times

Yet I loved all of me

Except the one that cried too much

Empathized with the news

Art, movies, You

So I locked her up

Inside a notebook

Gave her seven months to live

Watched her slowly die of cancer

At the vital age of thirty-three

Years later watched her rebirth

Hug her mother all night long

At thirty-nine

Turning into a poet


It never happens quite as we planned

Death keeps surprising me

Waking me up at three in the morning

A call from Greece

Making my knees bend

At the news

Of glioblastoma’s entrance.
I am not scared of it

I bring my children to funerals

and weddings.

Grim reaper has poked me

Since sixteen

He stares at me in the face

“It’s inevitable we all die”



It has its own way of digging

Ripping me 

Taking away hope

With a snap

Accidents of the unknown.

I suppose another dead poet

Speaking to us

From beyond the grave

Turns into our daily hashtag muse

Death in the modern era.

I want to know


It matters more on paper

Than real life.



  1. Mr. Militant Negro · November 11, 2016

    Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.

    Liked by 1 person

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