Champion Of The Black Star.

“Nobody’s as powerful as we make them out to be.”

-Alice Walker (The Third Life of Grange Copeland)


“I don’t want a Black History Month. Black history is American history.”

– Morgan Freeman

african_beauty_by_tacsitimea-d4ap2zf (2).jpg

Perhaps I really am arrogant

A speck of dust that chooses not to settle

On the sand dunes with grains

Filled with contentment,

But rather, hitch a ride

On the winds of change

Soar through turbulent skies

Finding my own truth

Not relying on that which I’ve been handed.


To fight for my people

Rather, the suppressors of a movement unhinged

A month is far from enough

Give me a platform

To praise the origins of the Black Star

And i’d rather use it

To address the blight in society

To expose the condescending confinement

Of a history that dwarfs

That which you choose to give.


I will not smile and be subtle in how I write

You weren’t subtle when you

Mistook our kindness for weakness

Bringing your “ideal” forms of change

Like you’re the definitive source of salvation

Cursing an entire race

To a legacy of cotton picking.


What do you call it again,

First World? Third World?

To who, you?

You trying to tell me

That as a continent

We are nothing until you believe 

We are something?

That all we could ever hope to be,

Is you?

Don’t make me laugh.


You shoot us in the knee cap

Run a thousand miles with OUR supplies

Then tell us to catch up?

You broke the rules, to make new rules

To break them,



Do not tell me to quell my rage

As you sip martinis in the comfort

Of foundations built on my forefathers

Blood, sweat and tears;

I am an incarnation of 400 years of rebellion

I am the echo that reverberates  

In place of those afraid to be perceived

As disturbers of peace.


Peace is not living under

A commercialized sense of happiness,

Peace is not lying to ourselves

And others that you see us as equals;

Peace is building awareness for your crimes

Peace is the admission, 

That you would not be where you are

Without us.


– Original-Dante ©2017


Art by:  tacsitimea




Place your hand over my heart

Feel it pulsate, in tandem with the art

Feel it fuel my vessel with fire

In my veins, it resides

In place of what you call blood

My unparalleled transcendence 

Into a mobile torch of sorts.

That beat is a gift

That beat is all I need

To remind me 

That my role

Is far from fulfilled.

– Original-Dante ©2017

Photograph by:  haur



Spectral Sprinkles.


With my eyes closed,

I sneeze

To levitating sprinkles

i.e glittering star dust,

Low-key machinations

I fail to see

By God, in a bid

To bless me.

– Original-Dante ©2017

Art by:  cosmicbound



Flying through ether

Guarantees a higher level of awareness,

The life I live entails

I’m blinded by clouds on a daily

Sometimes, the ever ambitious beaver

Tries to shoot me down

With ceaseless hate speeches,

Otherwise known as unparalleled kindles

To my kerosene filled pen,

They give a spark, I burn their words

From where they begin, to where they end.

I soar the skies,

Not to prove that I can

But to look for answers …

Take a break from making excuses,

Being a saboteur,

And notice

How there’s plenty of room

In the sky

For all of us.

– Original-Dante ©2017

Daily Prompt: Blur





It was when her symphonies

Of the heart

Turned to housed venom,

That I finally got to see

Who she really is.

– Original-Dante ©2017

Photograph by:  Mrichston

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