I open my eyes to the sound of steel bars breathing.
Another night alive feels like a coin flip.
Blood still sticky on the sidewalk outside,
and the streetlights glow like they’re watching us die.
Every headline is a graveyard with a font,
every politician’s smile hides a mouth full of maggots.
They sell us dreams with price tags
and bullets wrapped in paper promises.
They don’t give a fuck about us —
never did, never will.
I’ve been slammed against walls
for the crime of walking home,
boot in my spine while a badge whispers,
“Stop resisting,”
as if my lungs collapsing is a choice.
I’ve seen my brothers’ teeth shattered
on curbs painted with spit and diesel.
I’ve seen my sisters turned into ghosts
before they even had a chance to bleed.
They don’t care about our rights.
They don’t care about our names.
They don’t care about our fucking pulse —
unless they’re checking it to see if we’re gone.
They flood our streets with poison on purpose.
White powder in corners where kids used to play.
Cheap glass pipes where jump ropes used to hang.
Load the guns, slip them in the cracks,
sit back, and count the bodies like trophies.
I’ve watched the same cop plant a bag in a kid’s pocket
and laugh about the paperwork.
I’ve watched a mother throw herself in front of a judge
begging for her son’s life,
only to hear the gavel slam like a coffin lid.
We’re taught to hustle or starve.
We’re taught that peace is a fairy tale.
We’re taught that our skin is a target
before we even learn to spell our own names.
You wanna talk about change?
I’ve seen “change” turn into chains too many times.
Seen activists end up in caskets,
seen preachers sell the gospel to the highest bidder,
seen men in suits pour gasoline on the hood
and call it “policy.”
The block is a war zone without a flag.
Every siren is another warning shot.
Every funeral is just a rerun.
Kids learn how to cock a nine before they tie their shoes.
We’re born into a game that doesn’t let us quit —
either play it dirty or get buried clean.
Don’t talk to me about justice —
justice is a ghost in this city.
Don’t talk to me about unity —
unity don’t feed the hunger,
unity don’t stop the landlord from changing the locks,
unity don’t pull the needle out of your brother’s arm.
I’ve carried bodies.
I’ve dug holes.
I’ve wiped blood off my shoes in strangers’ bathrooms.
And I’ve still got that rage coiled in my gut
like a blade waiting to be drawn.
So no — I’m not praying for peace.
I’m not waiting for handshakes or headlines.
I’m done asking for a seat at a table
built on our bones.
If the fire’s coming,
I’ll walk into it with my fists clenched.
If the bullets are flying,
I’ll make sure mine aren’t blanks.
And when they come looking for mercy,
I’ll tell them the same thing
they’ve been telling us
since the first chain hit the first wrist:
Fuck your mercy.
This is war.
KhodrIsmail
