Learn more about other poetry terms
Blaming the white men Is the idea, the insane ideas That many of you have in your eyes
I am slumbering Shifting in my cotton sheets Tangling further in them Till I cry out for fear of chains
My hands are bloody red, from the cotton that I have picked. Blisters eating out my flesh, from the wooden cutlass I held. Sun having no mercy on my dark colored skin. Sweat pouring down my face, to the point where it stings.