Rest in Liberation

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

 

Hands folded

Head bowed

My faith is faltering

 

Fist clenched

Guns loaded

My heart is a war zone

And I can’t think straight from the sound of bullets flying

Bombs dropping

 

Another one?

 

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! 

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6 thoughts on “Rest in Liberation

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