Racism’s Spawn

I am white guilt. I am white privilege. I am white and aware that the color of my skin absolves me of sin. Police don’t see me. Shop keepers don’t suspect me. Employers approach me.

I am guilty of entitlement.

Just because I am aware doesn’t mean that I am innocent. I police my thoughts but I do have thoughts. I curate colored stereotypes, indoctrinated by a society that points fingers at individuals.

A society that birthed the individuals.




Trending Topics

Philanthropic trending topics are as common as a bird that flies backwards. Youtube’s feed is starved of global needs. The latest sneak-peak releases get more hits than kids eating feces. Babies sucking lemons more views that US drone strikes in Yemen.

Don’t get me started on the gamers. The pre-pubescent teens that live in a world of pixelated death, uploading live feeds that draw millions of bated breath as pulses pound for who will die next.

Yes! We live in a world where humanitarian disasters are sidelined by “will an iPhone or Galaxy die faster in boiling water.”

I’m not here to spoil the boil. I just want  depth in the trending topic list we create. Maybe then teens will tap screens and become aware of more than the Kardashian’s latest affairs, Donald Trump’s hair, what not to wear, how not to care.  We have the power to click what’s trending, yet we live in a realm of pretending that the 1st world race has no 3rd place.  Senseless consuming feeds what teens are exposed to. Our fingertips hold the power to skew whats viewed and bend the trends to lend themselves to humanity.

Just maybe if global plights populate social sites, teens will click. Ears will prick. Compassion will stick.

Awareness inspires change, so lets fill feeds with something worth digesting.



Inspired by Art

Pain sparks Art’s complexity. Pen inked by living’s gore.

Greedy ears ablaze with blood. I prowl the winds for more.

Rickety whispers stalked. An addict for morose.

Your fable breathing life to mine. Your cinders lighting prose.

Pain sparks art. A septic fuel, charcoal etching page.

Your facts becomes my fantasy. Your life consumes time’s stage.

Please let me know your thoughts. Critique inspires, whether the feedback is good or bad.

“An artist is a glutton for morose. They do not point the trigger. They are not innate bystanders. They are viscerally aroused by darkness, yet endeavor to cure that which arouses. A frantic pen intensifies morbidity as palpitations are released to the page. As the pen steadies and ink drips dry, so to does the artist’s gluttony. It’s now the audiences turn”

Mind to Unbind


The Pops don’t Stop

The popping doesn’t damper when the night has calmed the land

The horns of horror sound from within the mind of man

The pops are not a kernel, yellow ruptured white

The pops are not a distant car, chugging through the night

The pops don’t stop when peace is pledged, when the roar of war is silenced

The pops will never leave the mind, as mind now holds the violence

Yes Visa? No Visa?

Suit won’t smile at jokes. Face chiseled from stone. Man of the hour strings dream on death row.

Scanning papers, questioning past. Scrolling checked boxes, he casually asks…

“No guns? No record? No intention for terror? No drug mule intentions? No contraband?

No extremist beliefs? No traffic of minors? No dirt in your past? Or ill intent for my land?”

I shake my head no and murmur the same. While matching his gaze he bows to end game.

Pen dances with line. Hover curbs hope. Reaper is noosing dreams with inked rope.

Gypsy Enrolled

Textbook not my teacher. My classroom has no walls.

Lessons learned on wayward turns and strolls out the front door.

Yet a foreign feelings brewing. A yearning for instruction.

For teachings to be measured. A cap and gown induction.

A noble cause, has me pause the gypsy life I treasure.

I yearn to learn the craft I love to publish words of measure.

Words that bridge the social gap, art that mends our time

Bound in leather, I dream to tether my heart upon mankind


Creating Freedom

Linear sight.

Cornered. Boxed in white.

Right angles imprison. Craving obtuse. Jaded pursuits.

No angle feels right when sight is skewed by a prototype. Nature and Nurture coerce future.

Image outranking what’s envisaged.

Bare walls begin to beckon.

Bleach flushed with minds brush.

Imagination unleashed. Inspiration beseeched.

White box converted. Corner post deserted.

4 walls spring doors. Creativity enlisted, nobs twisted. Box resisted. Liberty insisted.

When blank is the backdrop, there’s more room to paint.