Cleopatra was a Conqueror

My mother was a spider
Birthing six different
niggers onto a plantation,
Farmed and raised by 
A home owner of two.


Where she sat
Wondering when her next meal
She lived fabulously;


From Maine Originally
With pride.
With her stories told


She slept with many men 
But I've only seen
A conniving little twerp
Who begged for more and
More from his livestock
And whom believed that
All men were equal 
But she knew
That they weren't!


She knew what was tough and what wasn't.
She knew running 
Was the only answer
So she began an
Willing her own wind
And went left 
For the summer!


She died in the
Fall, but 
Went back in the Winter
To watch the leaves fall once again


"Oh mother will you leave?"
We all said.
Ride your high horse back to 
Maine and relieve the pain
And struggle which
Made you into the 
Woman you once were.


"Relieve yourself old hag!
You never knew?
That you saw who shot 
Biggie right in the face
And split him in two?"


But if she went back 
They'd read her soul
And welcome her AGAIN
back into her home 
Her cottage in which she stayed
Her bike in which she


Her life in which she conquered 
Like her Cervantes
Plotted right in frount of her.
Her story to unfold.
So she birthed yet another
And another to
For sins unsaid
No shine within it.


No flow in their eyes
Together they die.
"No hand in my marriage!"
Says I!
Says neigh!


Skip a line skip a few
She has never 
So I scream and I cry in my warrented 
Death bed
Family never dies 




Only odd in a head.
I'm here till
I'm dead
Is what my mother
Should've read.

This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country



My name is Bryson Ledsinger

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