Black rage fuels the efforts to advance in a world that deems me as the afterthought.
Has the black woman isolated her love in protest…? where do I start to unpack this Black love.
I live in a place that is sacred but widely expose.
The soft kiss of her lips melts my anguish as I hold to this black steel in the hour of my chaos.
Black boys move with their hands held high but such anger embedded in their minds that their hearts will soon follow. Where is the black preacher except in their churches screaming how good God is…Does God really love black men?
What about me Lord?
This black rage is drowning out this black love.
I walk on the riverfront with this essence of chocolate staring into my soul unearthing the last ounce of love I have…
My daughters– these jewels that have blessed my eyes, my sons–these men of value drive the legacy.
Exiled in rage, when I first experienced the touch of that fire that re-introduces me to that Black Love.