OPUS Mag

Far from timid • Caveat Lector

Black Gold - a poem

Black Gold - a poem

Liberation comes in the morning for all the exhaustion from all the suffering in the cotton fields

How many bales did you yield from blood sweat and tears?

Watching your children taken away placed on auction blocks like livestock

Only then to force you to breed

In which God should I believe, the one that brought me here or the one I'm still waiting on to deliver me from evil?

The ground cries out with the blood of my loved ones who were hung by the poplar tree and sometimes I wish it were me

Me, my melanin has become your currency. They have turned our hue into profit, our suffering into riches our men into niggers our women into bitches.

And we have sat at the feet of the devil and drank from his well and ate scraps from his plate, to who decides our fate.

We have yet to liberate ourselves the system has not changed, they have legalized bondage the black man is still in chains.

But tell me when was it ever illegal to be a slave?

They have closed the doors to the houses we've built and blocked the roads to which we've paved.

What would the White House be without black laborers, how would their children have been raised?

Black women who suffered raising porcelain babes nourishing from her breasts, forced into sex, raped and abused, mistreated and misused, cooks for food swallowed whole but never chewed...

But to you, in your eyes she's just currency.

Black gold pieces and pieces taken from the rich soil of Kush and scattered.

We went from royalty to robes that are tattered.

No wonder no matter how hard they try we still find ways to fly but until we all have wings we will never truly be free.

Because even when we do succeed we're still only seen as fuel for the machines regime.

My melanin is profitable even when the cops gun me down or the judge sentences me to life for trying to survive.

I'm alive but I wasn't given instructions to truly live.

I no longer desire the small victories, because I can shoot a shot, or create rhythmic harmonies.

Cause no matter how many shots Curry drops it still won't stop police from harming me.

Our blood went from the leaves to crying out through the concrete.

From the plantations to the prisons, from overseers to officer's.

From Jim Crow to the New Jim Crow.

From Coon to Kanye...

Black Gold.

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