A Meaning Lost
We were the beating of drums,
The beating of the sun against
The backs of our people.
We were the red of river banks,
The green of grass, the trees, the leaves.
We were the black which resides in our skin
Glowing proudly in our newborns.
And then we were taken,
Our red not in the mud of
Our river banks,
But swirling in the ocean
Between home and hell.
Our green taken from us
As we were declared animals.
We are not human.
We are the embodiment of
Someone else's idea.
We are the cracks in the side walk
To a city of sin.
We are the black that resides in
The whips, the black of the words
Swung through the air
Destroying our brothers and sisters
We are the definition
Of started from the bottom.
But how can we make our way to the top
When it's no longer Mr Massa,
But little Daquan pointing his gun
At who used to be his friend?
Little Shanquintella selling her own body
Because what worth does it have
When her uncle took it and told her
You are nothing
Just like your sister,
And your brother.
We used to be
Of a culture who stood together
but now we are the embodiment of
someone else's idea.
by Kyara P. Gaymon