……hold me back so you can get ahead, soon we’ll both be dead and off the grid, never achieving just like they said, in the end we’ll be the only ones that bled. Always talking about the land of the lost that never was, we never had Vibranium I have to explain to them, it’s not real girl, get in the real world, and stop looking for a thrill, we already had Earl the Pearl, we need to get up that hill for real. But watch your own people, they’ll stop your sequel, don’t want you as their equal, internal hate is thicker then a tree trunk, even though we bunk and sunk together, our own will split you in half; suffering succotash, then throw your body parts in the trash, wouldn’t be surprised if they start doing the huckle-buck to Johnny Cash.
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Author:
EvenwheniLie (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: January 16th, 2023 05:18
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
Online)
Comments1
(another poignant write, dear Poet
forgive me for posting some quotes
from James Baldwin below
just, to give a sense of how long
such statistic realities have been curating/decimating
the lives of our young brothers
used as scaffolding, stepping stones
to paint that mirage castle
they name, 'the American dream'...)
'Other people cannot see what I see whenever I look into your father's face, for behind your father's face as it is today are all those other faces which were his.'
'I know what the world has done to my brother and how narrowly he has survived it'
taken from a later by James Baldwin to his nephew
( https://progressive.org/magazine/letter-nephew/
)
Time is at a standstill for black on black crime in America, as well as abroad I suspect. Earlier strings have already been pulled, that began our death walk, the strings being pulled today are strings subsequently being pulled by our own descent.
we're born into this mess
we try and fight, to tilt the balance
at least for our generation
our fury burning untameably bright
then, when grey hairs visit
we find that spark for vindication
begins to relent, becoming life weary
we're left to watch-on, as younger muscles
pick-up the struggle, a few miles
back, from our own starting line
and we ponder, while those crimson rivers
levels, rise
year on year
shoes on telephone lines, the only 'culture'
not yet stolen from us
and we watch, we contemplate, we lament
not knowing what anyone can do, to change
the next, next generations fated inheritance
of endless strife
'we too, know why the caged birds sings
like Maya Angelou and Paul Lawrence Dunbar'
our shackles and cages, removed
yet that legacy of struggle, present
in our every breath
our youth, running
to gangland brotherhood, as salvation
escaping fatherless homes
and mothers, singing of TLC waterfalls..
how morbidly, funny
Malcolm X, asked his generation
how all the money accumulated by black Americans
starting out, in those same ghettos
never effected sustained change, in those same ghettos
imagine if he was around today
to witness how there's a black 'class', in America
with sweet sixteen, society dances
and families with generations of Harvard graduates
yet, click on a news channel and its a warzone
they're depicting, in those same ghettos
a few streets down from
the white house, itself...
(descent indeed, dear Poet
we be descendant's
of a seemingly endless, descent)
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