My People are Dying

My people are dying. And not because we are savages in a world too pure, but because the melanin we are born with marks us from birth as the monsters in a world devoid of innocence.

My people are dying. And not because we go out looking to start wars against the white man, but because your hatred and prejudice runs deep, so a colored child with his hands up, shaking with fear is still deemed dangerous.

My people are fading. And not because black men and women alike see themselves as above their brothers and sisters so they choose to date outside their race, but because from childhood we are taught that black does not equal beautiful. That our curly hair is ghetto, that our noses are to big along with our lips, that the color of our skin is dirty.

My people are weeping. Not because they are drowning in self pity, but because of the realization that the hatred they receive on a daily basis? Is for life. There will be no days off, no time when someone is not looking down on them for something they could not control, their beautiful, rich, dark color.

My people are screaming. And its because when we say black lives matter, you counteract with All lives matter. When we protest peacefully you turn deaf ears our way. And when we riot with violence, when the anger from being opressed becomes too much to bare, so instead we bare arms and bloody fists. You say we deserve it. Paint us, not black, but red. The color of the blood from those innocents who did die, you say it was our fault all along.

My people are fighting. Fighting for justice you refuse to dish out, for freedom you refuse give. Because they are tired of teaching their children to act like second class citizens in a country where we are all supposed to be equal.

And I, like so many others was taught, yes darling you have a voice but dont use it to speak up to loudly because the wrong person might hear and respond with bullets. With rape, and assault, to push me down so i see myself as nothing more than what they want me to see. An animal, that is below them.

My people are not backing down. Because you take our silence and say it is weakness. You see our protests and our dead children, you watch and listen as we beg for equal rights, and pretend that we are the ones who have it better!

And as more blood stains these streets, black and white and blue alike,you refuse to recognize that it isn't just the black man who needs to be held accountable for his actions, but America's people as a whole!

My people are done. Done hiding what they feel, And the burning passion they feel inside,

We are ready to take a stand and make a difference.

Are you ready to let that happen?

This poem is about: 
My country

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