the silhouettes of pregnant women reflect in your eyes birthing radical poets shedding light through high-powered haikus, cause sometimes the truth is rough like: For every burned cross- we fry cajun caucasian. that's reason enough! right? trying to raise out that rut – your tears have become prisons for us watching them flow down your ebony skin. how the 2 blend.... is like oil and water – they don't mix, only expose your soul showing us these wretched conditions we're in. The fix? broke trying to help the broke. it must be an inside joke. apparently through, " burn, baby, burn," we didn't "learn, baby, learn." the unity dissipated with the smoke. did you know Mama was missing lunches so her seed could flourish and survive? Mama became our crutches now it's time that WE provide. but she `s so strong that she wipes away the pain resisting immoral chains not needing our consolement and hugs for the simple fact she has Nzinga`s blood. Her love has always been a mixture of hot meals within these concrete buildings, ass whoopings and discipline. thank God she refused to be content. thank God she didn't refuse to vent – giving us examples of true family commitment. still, sometimes the lines on her face is a configuration of all the abandoned children in this nation reminding us We must still seize the time. Dear Mama, can the Revolution still be born? or did the intercourse of Civil Rights and integration leave us stillborn? I know you feel us Mama, it's hard to be civil when your rights are none. it's amazing how you weathered the storm, paved Us a way even if it was by Underground railroads. through You we made it – Kenya, Haiti, Urban lady, to you this world is dedicated, because of you my soul is emancipated. I know that even in Our native tongue "Asante" * is not enough, so I pray my dedicated actions will soothe your struggle. Here Mama, take my hand let's strive together, but this time ... I'll carry you.
