If
If I had a dream,
I’d tell Martin
Ask him how it feels to rest beside God
If he knows Langston or James
Tell ‘em I said “hi”
Ask him what he thinks
If we’re doing a good job
If we’re doing it right
If he’s proud
Ask him what the silence means between a bullet and a body
Between the finger and the trigger
Between the person and the fear
Between the power and the abuse
Ask him to fill it up
Ask him to take it away
To take us away
Tell God to bring back His creations
All of us
Skins of clay
Hairs of wool
Bring us back
If we’re not of this world
Then take me home
Where bigotry meets ash
And i can eat skittles and be 15
If I had a dream
I’d tell Martin
Tell him to come back
And bring the others with you
Tell him to take to the Promised Land
I wanna see it
To leave us some space
We’re comin’ soon
If I had a dream
Wind Tunnels
These days
I’ve been speaking into wind tunnels
Letting my words blow into idle talk
Letting my screams echo into whispers
Letting my voice hush into vibration
Speaking into wind tunnels
Because I’ve asked God to take my tongue back
And let me live in silence
To take it back
it’s too big for my mouth
Thickened by feelings that should be left in my throat
Too loose, too forked, too stiff, too kind, too blind
I don’t want it
Open my mouth
lift my tongue
And they all run away
Open my mouth
Lift my tongue
And they all leave me astray
Open my mouth
Lift my tongue
And they all become estranged
Can’t you see
I should learn how to keep quiet
For It casts shadows
Mouths darkness as my first language
Can you translate?
So I run
Back to couches I’ve outgrown
familiar faces that I’ve known
To arms I’ve called home
Let my tears escape me
Before my words do
for my mother to wipe them
Catch them
Save them for her worst days
To remind her that her son needs her
(She speaks into wind tunnels too)
They smile and hold me
They love their baby boy
“You had the biggest smile, but the saddest eyes”
They claim they know me better than I know myself
But my words keep them on their toes
Like little boys in magician hats
Committing disappearing acts
My words scare them too
So who do I run to?
wind tunnels
Wide and Hollow
Can you keep my secrets?
Can you hold my burdens?
Can I speak and you not judge me?
Can you listen?
I stand there at the mouth of you
Let out my biggest weep
And no one hears me on the other end
Maybe God
When I asked Him to make sure his chest is open
So I can lay my head to rest
Words of self-discovery get depicted as sadness
So I’ll keep my words to myself
And keep my language as light as possible
No one has the time
For my “sad” negro rhymes
So I’ll walk down
To the nearest one
Past the brink of communication
And speak
into wind tunnels
I’ve grown to know
White Folk (Pt. I)
White folk
I hate white folk
I mean
It’s hard not to hate white folk
I don’t hate white folk
white folk
Oppressive people
Mothers who birth genocides of nations
Men who fondle privilege and guns
I mean I hate white folk
Dark blue brothas livin on a white man’s dollar
High yella brothas livin on a white man’s dollar
8- hour days
I said
8 -hours a day
I mean
8-hours in the day
Becoming the white man’s wet dream, stroke the ego of him
and his father and his father’s father and his father’s brother
Fold my tie
Over and under
Pull
Tug
Coon
Pull
Tug
Coon
Pull
Tug
Coon
Holding my sour haste
Between “hellos” , “good mornings”, “sir”
Sir
Sir
Became “boy”, “kid” for 8-hours a day
I said 8-hours a day
Being another “boy”
Being another nigga
another dindu nuffin
another white man’s sandbox
Grazing through our days with nooses around our necks
And your breath down our backs
As you pull a little tighter
Smile a little wider
Pull
Tug
Coon
A ventriloquist and his pickaninny dummy
Grazing through our days constantly waiting on the next lynching
Lynching as a ceremony
A festive ritual
A dance
A certain groove
A swing
As black brothas look up to the sky to see one of us figure eighting in the clouds
We cry
You laugh and gasp and make your father proud
While our fathers whisper prayers beneath your feet
10 toes down
So much hate
Where does it reside?
Between our gums, under our tongue, at the tips of our lips
Along the crescent trails in our palms
we settle for doormen
And we open doors for the genocides to come
Taj Burroughs (he/him/his) is a young Black, queer, plus-sized artist from the streets of Queens, New York. The poet, actor, creative is currently earning his BFA in acting at Mason Gross School of the Arts at Rutgers University. Taj believes in the power of the pen and the deep connection it has to healing, ancestry and spirituality. He’s learning new ways to love himself and lead a healthy life everyday. You can follow his journey on instagram @tajburroughs