White snow

But then, what other color is it?

No, white fluffy lamb's wool




White cotton

They say it is the color of beauty

Which means our brown fingers

Picking it

Must taint it

Pick a bale of cotton

Pick a bale a day

Gonna pick a bale of cotton

If I can only hold on till night

Fields of white

Fields of dark people

Weaving among the rows of white

I hate this cotton

I wish it would burn

The whole field of it

Master would sell us then, though

And though he's rotton, who might

We get next?

Could always be worse

I suppose...I hope

That Heaven

Will have no cotton

And the fields

Will be full

Of my people in rest

This poem is about: 
My country


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

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