I speak for my people
of the bold proud lips
and singing in church
and fists held high.
I speak of suffering,
for the kids who's fathers are too far into prison
to tuck them in at night.
For the minds that sit restless
because their capacity isn't realized.
Not by the shiny tight belts or the clean pressed suits,
and because of these painful silver handcuffs.
They look too much like shackles anyway.
I speak of potential,
that's lost in a world where athletics or music are the only way out
the only path North to Freedom.
A world where the word colored isn't just a type of TV screen
but a label that holds us back.
"No you aren't welcome here, boy."
I speak for music.
For the purple wailing soul,
heavy throbing bass,
and blue words that always scream with pain.
I speak for cotton.
For sharp southern sunlight,
for cornmeal, and sheads,
for rape, whips, tears
and bastard half-breed babies.
I speak for the ghetto.
For the white picket fences
with too much graffiti to conform.
The streets are cracked and patched,
and the windows are barred up
so sunlight makes prison stripes on the floor.
Where home isn't home until morning,
so don't come back after dark.
I speak for pride,
for the I have a dreamers
and the "We shall not be moved."
In the buses and the soda shops./
For the X's and the Jr.'s
I speak of love, family, and culture.
I speak for Black.
Gender:
Points: 1300
Reviews: 18