I
wasn’t born as of yet, but I was to endure poverty. In such a short time, while
we wonder: Why are our people angry? We come from Africa but our
heritage is slavery. We come from power but the assumption is weakness. Our
women were queens but we call them bitches; indeed, everything glorious has
been degraded. We denigrate our brothers, alive in heroin, or with this trend
by pills. We die our legacies we wrench our morals or the few are desperate to
uplift something running. There was grief that day. There was deep depression
those waves. Many of us were not yet shorn. But poverty was debating, angels were
negotiating, but it seems those dearer souls have been left behind. I have a
Dream, where it takes extreme oppression, in order to manifest another King
Jr.; this hibiscus madness, those poison berries, or such poison ivy. If but to
assassinate injustice, while we were reluctant to seethe, in a time where
blackness meant—We do not abuse others! It became radiant, even poignant, where
behaviors became so vicious. Our minds gunning, our fury insidious, where
peaceful protest was a winning strategy.
We
could dwell there in that very space—but does it stagnate?
Such
redeemed participants those blue eyes as loyal to King Jr.
I
was close in younger years watching this Dream and becoming familiarized
with integration. This was our family this was our market this was our
salvation.
I
was curious to know for such violent behavior in a setting that was superbly
civilized.
In truth, we died those
years this genetic reverberation those hells and dungeons and water-hoses. There
are distinct differences where we are held hostage while Toni Morrison might
call it something I fail to articulate. I do not aim to perpetuate—but how do
we uninvest facts—how do we hypnotize something inclusive? Tar-faced or clown-faced
or feathers or pigs or mudpacks; this evening so dreary those supremist(s) so
dedicated where one is awkward about his origin. This beginning slot this
picture in Ethiopia while we slander our greatest scientists. Such a man,
indeed, with flaws, while, too, indeed, with a mistress. This probes us, but a
question is loyal: Does it rob King Jr. of high destiny? The answer is,
No!
I
see many here advocating and feeling and dispensing a level of tension. We feel
a bit uncertain, but others swim here, where realities are becoming membranes;
into arts and music and dreams and wailings—if but to reduce the impact for our
children. We have this sickness, while we need superiorities, where equality is
fair for selective groups. It begs the question, concerning Booker T.
Washington, while we honor something that appears more American (Inclusivity).
