Crushed velvet decorate pavement floors
Rich hues fill empty spaces
Tongues fumble into sobs
When words become inadequate
My brother is dead
He was not perfect but they call him monster
They name him Toby
And paint him in tar
They strip away his identity
My faith is faltering
My heart is a war zone
And I can’t think straight from the sound of bullets flying
Fabricated truth tied around her neck
Strange fruit echoes in our ears
And through the eyes of my ancestors
I watch her body sway
My sister is dead
Oh it was done intentionally
But by who I wonder…
I am finding it hard to breath as the fabric of freedom crushes me
Every time those stripes flap against the wind
They lash back
Lynching my idea of liberty and explaining why it was never meant for me
My people are dead.
United we stood
Divided we are falling
Because I’m not black enough
Or you’re not conscious enough
What cultural responsibilities do we each actually hold?
And what does it really mean to have an excess amount of melanin in our bodies?
Justice is a dish best served alive
Not charred to empty it of it’s nutrients
Not fried to rid it of truth
Not cold to freeze over the passions
But with the blood still pumping
Come! Let me taste of the red wine spilt
Let me drink the memory of my brother
of my sister
of my people.
Give me liberty.
Because you already gave me death.
Tune in every Thursday for a new poem!