drawn & written by troy pierre II
​
to anyone who's asked why don't you have anything to say
​
screaming into the void doesn't employ any change it's just deranging to see your own faces hanging in the breeze,
from the flag of the free.
what you expect when every time a piece of collective melanin dies and I look into their eyes and see me on screen?
cameras aimed at my demise,
no point of screaming at the screen, no point screaming at God.
put that shit down and let them talk about what we did instead of seeing all the bleeding.
I mean,
what's the meaning of all this demeaning? I mean it.
it's not rhetorical, but the answer's on the other side of meaning, meaning .. we don't know. they never did.
they just know brown bodies evoke the opposite of their skin.
I shouldn't have to be an angel to evoke sympathy for death.
I shouldn't have to meet death at its door step for who I am.
the price of life shouldn't stride on what the victims should've done, yet
the reason they meet the maker is constantly reaffirmed in the papers.
​
we all bleed red in the end.
i'm tired of mine leaking through this pen to speak for those who wish they could again
from the mouth that's tired of bleeding.
​
There once was a pot
crafted by a master of pottery
When shaped he was fulfilled
The thrill of purpose filled his emptiness
little did he know the kiln was his next destination
too brittle to fulfill his purpose
too excited to see the end of the road
The fire was his birth unto life as it is
Confused as to why this pain was engrained
with a coating of beautiful hues
reds and blues, anything that would remind you
of the wonders of life
Dead inside he made a beautiful corpse
The master craftsman beheld him with wonder,
“My gifted creation, your purpose is Asunder.
Wondrous magnificent plunder of my summer. I wonder .. did you rob me or did I
volunteer my thunder amongst the rubble you grew beautiful amongst of.”
The shelf became his home
Dust continued to roam amongst the shattered bones of the others born
who bloomed only under the moon
Before he knew it he was consumed in a void of
swirling fumes that seemed to float amongst
the moon, gravity was still there
its pull even increased, but he was grounded
with the belief of his purpose
Conformed with his outer workings it filled
his emptiness with a sense of purpose
He knew what hurt is, but now he
knew it was worth it
He’d been through the worse of it
Filled with the breath of life
he passed her along to those who needed
her the most and held her close in between
They were built for each other for the
benefits of others
Devoted for the moments they’d relish in
Thirst was the curse that fractured
them
Emptiness was never felt again,
only longing for a friend
He’d be refilled and they’d begin again
He knew what he was made for.
​
a pot's purpose.
written by troy pierre II
There once was a pot
crafted by a master of pottery
When shaped he was fulfilled
The thrill of purpose filled his emptiness
little did he know the kiln was his next destination
too brittle to fulfill his purpose
too excited to see the end of the road
The fire was his birth unto life as it is
Confused as to why this pain was engrained
with a coating of beautiful hues
reds and blues, anything that would remind you
of the wonders of life
Dead inside he made a beautiful corpse
The master craftsman beheld him with wonder,
“My gifted creation, your purpose is Asunder.
Wondrous magnificent plunder of my summer. I wonder .. did you rob me or did I
volunteer my thunder amongst the rubble you grew beautiful amongst of.”
The shelf became his home
Dust continued to roam amongst the shattered bones of the others born
who bloomed only under the moon
Before he knew it he was consumed in a void of
swirling fumes that seemed to float amongst
the moon, gravity was still there
its pull even increased, but he was grounded
with the belief of his purpose
Conformed with his outer workings it filled
his emptiness with a sense of purpose
He knew what hurt is, but now he
knew it was worth it
He’d been through the worse of it
Filled with the breath of life
he passed her along to those who needed
her the most and held her close in between
They were built for each other for the
benefits of others
Devoted for the moments they’d relish in
Thirst was the curse that fractured
them
Emptiness was never felt again,
only longing for a friend
He’d be refilled and they’d begin again
He knew what he was made for.
​