By: Author Reneé Drummond-Brown
Betrayed.
Stolen from their hut.
Sold out by their own.
Chain linked. Captivity. Beaten by
boisterous waves across a battered angry sea.
Locked into AND out-of a keyless door of no
return. With the hope of absolutely NO possibilities.
Beaten down by a lady of liberty. Fenced into a mesh
of complex quandaries geared to torturous chaotic
norms. Herded as livestock. Pressed with a flat
iron. Branded on palms, shoulders, cheeks and tired
buttocks. Porn. Porn. Sick porn. A cattle’s brand.
Made in the U.S.A. Wearing Virginia’s Sunday
best. NOTHING but the dawg in em. Auction block
shopped. BUY-ONE GET-ONE FREE. Food
for thought. Broken, belittled beaten bruised
brainwashed BEFORE the bidding starts. Grab N
go auctions (fast food). “Sold to the highest bidder,”
dragged onto plantations. Sportin chains. 2-chainz.
Re-cycled again, broken, belittled beaten bruised and
brainwashed. mere kings’ turned into broke studs
for those field-hen wench Queens. I’ll save the rapes’
for another poem on another rainy-day. Broke-back
blue-black now looks like a road map on his back
displaying geographical information navigating political
boundaries and labels. Spiritually dead! Dead is as dead
does. This don’t resemble the same man STOLEN from
the hut. MASKED. But he’s “ours” and imma luv on
him anyhow (with my own mask on). I got my own
scars. Refrain, broken, belittled beaten bruised and
brainwashed. The trees don’t even stand tall. That
strange fruit made the branches rise then fall. The
trees even gave up on us. Someone had a dream.
No more kings and Queens to swang. The oxygen
separates from the blood to the brain. No more blue-black
kings to swang. Cotton comes to Harlem and to hoods.
Cloud 9; floatin fine. Pipe to penal. The new improved
Mandinka-warriors crips N bloods, wear GPS road
maps with holes down their blue-black backs. With
matching ankle (iron) jewelry. Swagin tags on their
crusted toes and everyone of em read: nobody-john doe.
Cause we don’t know em no more. Just like the X-man
said. Roost chickens. Motherland. This don’t resemble
the same man stolen from the hut. But they’ze
“ours” and imma luv on him anyhow.
I gots my own scars.
“I gots’ yo back” (me).
Dedicated to: WEST SIIIDE!!!