Hearts are hurting
Weeping eyes, barely open
from the heaviness of an existence that breeds revolving remembrance
Of having worked
Scratching one’s nails along the floors
Scrapping the shins just to lift
Your head up
To get some view of the others above
To one day stand
And behold. Be a man.
Not by another’s given order,
Nor another’s given hand.
Oh, the pain.
To have it stopped and torn down.
To torture you again.
Weighted smile turned to a frown.
Just because you were coloured.
Just because your skin is brown.
To fight the struggle.
To rise and to lift.
To give yourself all you worked for.
That the struggle became a gift.
But what will become of me.
My work. My legacy.
When the tearing shreds of injustice.
Pull the carcass of what’s left of me.
Brown © marcellemae