If you are Caucasian, they
don’t give you the right to color.
You are branded by incandescent
Light bulbs which bleach and leach the
Color out of your existence.
“Be remorseful, for this is your done deed.”
But I’m not remorseful, no, not me.
I’m not a defiler, derider, denier.
I am the daughter of the 60s, born in the 50s,
Sent into the future, now past, to be.
Yes, to be liberal, caring, sharing.
Don’t blame my color for the criminal’s
Crime. I fought for us, the social bottom.
Where my eyes have always been open,
My family fought to insure their message would survive.
I’m not to blame for other handheld knives
In throats blameless and innocent.
There is a knife in my throat, exposing me
As red blooded human in the act of surviving.
Tag: Blame
Drunkard
I watched you,
Your gin swilled with lime,
Just before you work,
Just before you open that door.
Just before you drive.
I used to talk to you.
Deep talks, listening ears,
Listening to your promises,
To your future dreams,
To your fight between good and evil.
Listen, boy!
I saw the bottles mount up
I saw them empty
Cigarette ashes coating
Your mother’s furniture.
I saw you ignore responsibility
As you spread your empties and partials
In places you had no right
To contaminate.
I used to believe you,
But now I know you are a drunk
In search of an opportunity
To wile away hours uselessly.
You blame the economy
For not being a hero…
You had your chance.
You dropped out of everything.
Sweat means only that your pearl
Skin glistens.
So you blame, so you dive into bottles
That drink from you.