The 4th of July 

​Driving home along route 41 the lonely abode my car afforded was no sanctuary for long lost love, no it was as profound a statement as the fire works raining down from above, in memory of the day our country won yet my people were lost, and are still lost, in the killing fields bearing the heat and the brunt of a new world that wanted nothing more than their sweat, tears and blood, which boils at the thought of them thinking they could understand how it feels to be treated like us, and the bodies of our black slave ancestors who are now dust, when they can’t even bear the torch of love, that carried us this far with souls that have been marred, thinking they know how it feels to be unfairly judged when their privilege is the only thing their cup is filling up, thinking because they feel deeply their soul is as black as the trunk of a maple tree, not knowing that trunk is black because it has become diseased from the preconditions of a world where being black ain’t free, where being white is sovereignty, where being brown is preferably the next best thing if you’re as black as me, singing kumbayah my Lord and we are all one big horde, say “race no longer matters cause the race has been won once more, not knowing that that song was originally sung; a black spiritual by the Gullah’s daughters and sons, a loving people who toiled years in the sun long before they knew of hue, being a deal breaker if you were Sea Island instead of French creole, why don’t you sip this tea and don’t gag on the memory of history being brought to light, and of the power behind these bright brown eyes, while they harp on every shade of blue and green eyed hue I harp on the memory of me and you crossing racial boundaries and streets lined with the uniforms worn by the boys in blue and some days were sheets of white worn; invisible, but it matters not when hoods and hoodies are worn to cover black and white faces mocking or blocking out the light that has long replaced the pursuit of happiness in the good old US of A

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