I do not stumble on boulders when I have walked across
mountains.
I do not slow my stride at rivers when I have sunk to the depths of oceans
It does not bother me to have sand in my shoes; I have walked the
sands of the Sahara.
I do not fear the night; there is nothing blacker than the darkness
of slavery.
I do not fear death; it was the only joy I looked forward to
receiving.
I have known love, but that was part-time. My woman was
shared.
I have wandered in pain, unable to stand straight; scars creating a landscape of mangled skin on my back.
I am not a parent because my children were born with barcodes and sold.
What of this God you speak of? He does not want my dark soul, so say you.
A happy slave is an oxymoron for the satisfaction of he who owns your
body.
Teaching our children to be afraid of overseers on the plantation is like teaching them to fear cops today.
Free? What is that, another caricature that resembles emancipation, distorted?
Our legacy, tattered strands of fabric blowing towards Africa, lost at sea, again.

I am a portrait of blackness!