Brooklyn, New York

Thu, 10/22/2015 - 21:48 -- eaysia

I come from New York.
There's a place here that goes by the name of Brooklyn.
But it should be named CROOKlyn because there's nothing but thieves who took them & shook them.

By them I mean my black brothers and men who are supposed to be strong, provide and defend the homes in which they were made in.
Instead they were taught that the streets would raise them.

This is false & yes it's sad but this is the main reason why I'm so damn mad. Angered. Disgusted.

Black men rise up like the soldiers you are.
You’re all amazing, as bright as the stars.
Stop focusing on guns, clothes, hoes & teach your "bros" how to treat themselves & stop getting put to rest in body bags and silver shelves.

Only you can do that but see I'm a female who has a lot to say and I won't let our black men get cut out, no way.
This is for my brothers, uncles, cousins, my son & future husband.

These streets don't care for you but we black sisters do.
We need to learn how to love and not mistreat you. Because as I am I refuse to let the white man defeat you.

This sword I have is called a pen it's deadly & lethal.

Education is key, the key to your golden chambers, if you dig deep you’ll find the roots of a nappy headed group who once were on top but we’re kicked 6 feet under with a silver shiny boot.

Black men are treasures and no one should be able to touch them.
Black is beautiful, let no one tell you otherwise.

They say not to trust a girl with big hair, full lips and wide hips.
I am a Goddess & yes I believe it.

And as for my thoughts you can never deceive em. Our visions & dreams we sure will succeed in & live up to Martin, Rosa, Nelson, Malcolm, Marcus & others.
I’m screaming #BlackLivesMatter, I support my black brothers and their black mothers.
I hope that no matter what we do or where we go we never forget where we came from.
Brooklyn, NY is home.
We’ve come too far to sit back & get laughed at or get sidetracked or get hung back on trees, the leaves & that fruit from the poisonous tree is no place for us to be.
Pause, pause….stop and take a breath.
We’re still enslaved just different chains oh yeah and brand names. Not physical but it’s mental enslavement.

This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country
Our world


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741