Enough Is Enough!

It becomes an unbearable task
Watching the news,
Instead of being informed,
You end up being depressed.
Disasters all around,
Nothing seems to be changing, from sunrise to sundown.
When will enough really be enough?
Cliché as it seems;
It’s a thought that rests on our minds,
Often times too scared to make it to our mouths,
Suffocating before it makes it way out our lips,
Asphyxiation is imminent.
The need to speak out plays heavily on our hearts,
Built up courage killed by the  fear of death,
Like an undeveloped foetus destined for abortion.
Still enough is enough;
You take your last breath in observance,
Of the strong preying on the weak.
Damsels at every turn awaiting knights in shining armour,
Who are too afraid to make an entry.
Left alone to face these criminals,
Gloomy faces,
Teary eyes.
Trapped in an agonising reality
Deafening cries
falling on deaf ears
Enough is Enough!

Freedom Street

You can find friends and enemies
alike scurrying along these pothole filled streets,
With tired feet from the many years of mileage,
Though twisted and bumpy they are.
We share one common goal,
That we aim to accomplish before we get old.
To hurdle these obstacles is the hardest part,
But once we do we will be better off.
We are faced with poverty, tribulations and fear,
Almost impossible odds that bring about despair.
Generation after generation burdened by this weight,
The voices of heroes have been ignored.
The path to freedom has been neglected,
As the Great Marcus Mosiah Garvey once said “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery.”
History and time have proven that these words are true,
Then how is it that doubt still lies within me and you.
When he also said “if we have no confidence in self,
We are twice defeated in the race of life, but with confidence we’ve already won.”
Let’s be bold like our ancestors,
For Freedom Street is like a rainbow,
Shining like the sun.
It is the promise,
Of salvation to come.
Home to all,
Yet more important to some.
It is a testament of what we can become.
It is a hope longed for,
Even before slavery had begun.
The voices of our forefathers beckon still,
And thou at times we must chill.
We will not waste our time on corners and lanes,
For how could we be idle and still be sane.
with Garvey’s words carved within our hearts and etched deep in our brains
“Up you mighty race,
You can accomplish what you will!”
On freedom Street is where we all must meet.

Copyright © Xavier Frazer 2016

All rights reserved. Including the rights to reproduce this poem, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this poem may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

Thought Of It

As I make an attempt to write this piece the tears flow,
However it comes out its because am letting it go.
I am not sure about you but I am tired
Yes I am tired,
really tired.
As I sit deeply gazing at the night sky with teary eyes,
There’s so many questions puzzling my mind.
Why do we kill?
Why do we murder?
What happened to getting old and dying from natural illnesses?
I am tired of seeing the pain stricken faces of mothers and sisters,
As they weep for their brothers and sons that are shot dead in the streets.
What is the cause for all this senseless killing?
It makes me wonder if its a blood hunting season.
These killers show no remorse for they smile while being behind the gun,
They just take another life for fun.
I wonder what will happen when your time comes?
Just know your music will play one day
And,
When it does its not rhythm nor blues,
So you won’t be dancing to tunes.
What a rude awakening;
one that u can’t refuse
When u finally realise, that the way u chose,
Is filled with doom & woes.
Imagine being buried on Valentines Day,
Gifted with a wreath instead of a rose.

Copyright © Xavier Frazer 2016

All rights reserved. Including the rights to reproduce this poem, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this poem may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

Continued Cycle (Tragedy Of A Father & Son)

Twisted,
discarded like trash to the pavement.
Bullets rips through the body
tearing the soul from its vessel,
another ghetto child is left fatherless.
To continue this vicious cycle, 
the hero he looked up to is no more.
No one to teach him right from wrong,
it doesn’t matter how much she tries,
S
some mother’s just aren’t strong.
The street welcomes this child,
in its bosom it holds him close.
In his mind he thinks this is where he belongs,
no sense of direction he chooses wrong.
What he doesn’t understand is that the path he walks,
as an excruciating end .
Can’t blame his mother
she has tried.
A mind is made up to take revenge on the ones who took is fathers life,
and the cycle continues like pinning clothes out to dry.
While she prays for guidance, 
Shots rang out in the distance.
Phone rings,
call received.
Tears roll down her cheeks
She groans,
as news of her lifeless child came from the phone.
A father’s gift to his child that is nothing but a curse,
for if he had stick around his son might not have ended up in a hearse.

Infinite Struggle

Hard times I am facing,
no place to lay my head.
In the streets I seek refuge,
white scolded covered lips.
No saliva in mouth,
it has taken a family trip.
Water is such a scarce commodity,
one taste would be a refreshing experience for my thirst.
like something never experienced before.
haven’t eaten in days so my body begins to devour itself,
so much that my appearance is like the skeletal remains of a carcass in a grave.
Tattered and torn clothe,
adorn my dirt filled figure.
The drenched scent of my body odour as it excrete my pours,
could make a skunk rolled over, flat lined in an instant.
Yes I am poor, but why am I poor?
This question reverberates through my skull,
as if construction work as just begun in my head,
I think I will call this one the reconstruction of my brain.
Still block by block,
my peers and I live a life of savagery trying to survive.
Its kill or be killed in this concrete jungle,
where the big lions roam with high powered weapons and side arms that are chrome.
No one to save the damsels in distress,
everyone is stuck in their own mess,
of debts, loans and clouds of financial stress,
forecasted by weather.
Like the towering hand of a giant strangling me to death,
and no matter how I try to find a way out.
it’s impossible for tears are drowned by my fears,
and in this infinite struggle there’s no escape.

Prisoner Of Poverty

Just knowing that I am poor,
is a fate crueler than death.
It’s even harder to think straight when i am prisoner of poverty,
while in the cold confines of my cell.
I am lost in thoughts,
imagine there’s mouths to be fed.
No possible job in site,
clothes and food to buy,
but I am broke as hell.
Bills, debts stacking up high,
and I am barely getting by.
Prisoner of poverty that I am,
trapped being these walls,
peeking from steel bars.
thoughts of escaping, constantly plagues my mind.
tirelessly trying to make a plan,
every corner I turn I am surrounded by poverty and his gang.
Poverty your prison can’t keep me down for long,
my plan is to execute the greatest escape.
It might not be today,
but I am definitely working at it for tomorrow.
your feeble minds can’t understand,
for Poverty’s prison I need to get away from.