A Painful Truth

For my ancestor’s sake, my expressions will be blunt.

Black history is an infinite history; it cannot be crammed into one month.

Our hands are tied. We've reached out for five hundred years.

We've endured the untimely deaths of our black brothers and sisters, behind white fear.

We faced Army tanks, we faced water hoses.

Viscous police dogs bit the face of black protesters, rearranging their noses.

They bit the breast off of black women in those 1965 marches.

Well after Blacks in America were red lined, discriminated, and stuffed into project apartments.

They say; what about a multiracial community of harmony and peace?

I say, what about the sons and daughters of Africa, who lay dead in American streets?

Or the masses of young black lives, cut short by white police?

A whole race robbed of religion, culture, and education and they laugh at how we speak.

Drugs and alcohol inserted into black communities, sucking the life out of them like a leech.

In time, environmental and material aspects spoil America’s young black minds.

Robbed of self-knowledge and self-intellect, black generations ascend into a cycle of 

Black on black crime. 

All apart of lucrative plan that your founding fathers designed. 

To keep black families behind the crescents of section 8 housing blinds. 

To prevent the father from moving in, because the government treats the mother just fine.  

I would ask my young black peers to wake up, but there's no saving the blind.