top of page
9E444F1D-987A-44AA-9C75-E126B4E2C20F.JPG

      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

purpose manifested.

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

drawn by troy pierre II

bottom of page