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Black Fields
| Dark Poetry #4 |
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Black Fields |
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Tomer Senior Member
since 2002-06-28
Posts 1168Michigan |
The pain of black. The pain of being darker than the white clouds that hover over their sweat filled backs. Who is it that wrote the script, spread the hate, and whipped the black off of each of their backs while cries could be heard from plantation to plantation? The life of being black, Rather, the life of being a slave, A slave for what you were born with, Not for what you are able to say with your tongue. A skin so fine, Golden peaches reap of divine signs from the shadowy skies. A skin so divine, Each suns rays beam stronger off the black lathery quilt of each of their pores. Who are these white fat cats? Glossing over money, Spinning each other silly, While the beauty of each black slowly whisks away with the soil field lands. Is there truth where hate lives? Are we suppose to accept the hate that seared the airs so violently, Angels winced at the yelps and burns of each slave while they lay shackled to the ground that God gave to all of us? Who is justly in hanging once, smiling wide, then hanging another, And not thinking twice? The tradition of being black. It’s the struggle, the uphill climb, and the fight for freedom. It ain’t your typical tradition, there isn’t any 4-member family sitting pretty in a perched house up on the hill. No sir, It’s breaking away from the oppression, While they break the shackles that strip their ankles and soul of any last pure emotion. But wait, we live in America, “The Land of The Free”, Right? Slavery happened hundreds of years ago, right? Slavery was so recent; I close my eyes, turn around, and still see the fields filled with people looking for a reason not to kill the white treason layed upon their eyes. Slavery stripped everyone, Raped the black woman, Shackled the black man, And delivered the word ni**er on a silver platter. How do we live in a country where there were people labeled house and field ni**ers? We are suppose to be a country of the free, not of the white, blossoming with glee. This is the tradition of the black people. The pain of black. |
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