Diary Entry Of My Older Brother

Hyper Realistic Pencil Drawing By Criss Nhamussua









Diary Entry of My Older Brother – Poem 

Aisha Arij

On February 28th, Sweet Sunday,

I woke up to the holy trinity of

My sisters, my brothers, and my mother


“Happy birthday to you”

Over a plate of eggs, sausage, and pancakes

With gospel music creeping around my house this morning,

Hanging a gut feeling over my stomach,

That today is going to be a good day.

On my 21st birthday

I kicked it with my niggas

Got some liquor in my system

And we preyed on all the sistas.

I as always taught to enjoy the little things in life

While they lasted.

So, I ingested foreshadowed poisons that night

Until my vision grew darker than my skin.

I only seen a flash of

White woman embarrassed

Turned red

My back beat like emmett

Till it turned thick shades of

Bloody blue.

They whipped my back to bend upright,


I wasn’t under the free American flag too?


My money don’t read “In God We Trust” too?


Those three colors only stand for

The red bloodshed of

Anybody who ain’t white or

Got that blue uniform


My 21st birthday,

My eyes slashed open to a reality that was insensitive

To black birthdays that made it past 18 cause,

That’s too much of an unfortunate miracle.

“Happy birthday to you”

On my 21st birthday

I choked on my own blood


Lord, please forgive me for my sins


I’ve been shot



Five times,

I try to reach for my identification


I gotta make it home officer,

I gotta make it home.

I got a son, and he just turned


Deadly sins.

Just let me grab my wallet. The bulge in my pocket.

“Please Officer, it’s my birthday”

I guess he had a metal present for me.

I never expected to make it past 21 but now

I am drowning in the sweat of the 21st century.

The irony holds my hands up.

Don’t shoot.

My right hand shakes under the weight of trying to

Hold up my freedom

And my left hand holds my heart

Ready to hand over the courage that I was never taught

Because I never had a dad.

The cop who already holds my life in his hands,

Cannot be satisfied with just mine.

He got monthly quota to keep up with,

That’s understandable right?

Something like my mama’s monthly dose of food stamps, riight?

Cause my life is only equivalent

To skittles and arizona anyways,


Ain’t that right officer?

Will you tell that to the courts of my corpse makes

It to trial?

How valuable my life was?

How sorry you are for making my son

Another fatherless black boy.

How he may just be another murder waiting to happen

Since he came out black,

Boy – statistically helpless.

On my 21st birthday,

I talked to God.

He looked me up and down with a noose as a smile,

“I’ll be damned,” he chuckled.

“How’d you find yourself wrapped up

In the white man’s heaven, boy?

Spilling your chocolate blood all over the bible

Cause you had faith in all that vanilla?

Ansa me! How’d you let a slave ship

Break yo ancestry of a sin

And wash you up to the gates that only open

To pure white skin

You know black is too powerful of a sin

For you to try to go anywhere other than

The funeral you’ve been dressed for your entire life.”

On my 21st,

I went to sleep for the last time

Dressed in black pigment..

I’ve been prepared for my homegoing

Before I knew I had to be.

Buried days after my 21st

And you wanna know what they sang at my funeral?

“Happy birthday dear black boy.”

Author: arijaisha

Kansas City, MO. 18, Poet, College Student.

5 thoughts

    1. Hi Criss!!! What a pleasure it is to see that you have commented. I searched for you everywhere online Facebook, Insta, and Twitter and I was unable to locate a profile for you; however I did update the photos caption to state exactly what you said a Hyper Realistic pencil drawing that is absolutely amazing. Please shoot me an email so that we can connect.

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