I wrote this about 13 years ago. Seems like it is still appropriate today.
Sacrificial Artist Revolution
Clouds cry- this mama’s tears Rivers in the brown of her face. She cries tears of saltwater rain. But she doesn’t cry mainstream tears. We are outsiders here- We are watchers of exploitation We are workers of fertile earth The bounty of which is not ours. Emerald and mahogany trees Spring from the depths of our graves. We have artistic rhythms Which force our thoughts along- Forsaking pride, sacrificing anguish With which we would be bitter. We have on plastered smiles Manufactured by the mainstream The white water main outside In which we choke and drown- Outsiders can’t swim it. The ebony mother cries Vermillion lips open in a wail- Her daughter’s been gone for years, Taken off into the night To become a slave to death. We turn on the television But amid scandals of crime Perpetrated by the dark browns Or perhaps the caramel browns Or perhaps the ebony blacks We see nothing of her daughter’s story. We are not the mainstream. We are outsiders here. We’ve got a closeness to death Almost a whole country gasping As it is kissed by oblivion. It is such a shame to die this way, We die by sparks of gunfire- Perhaps on streets, perhaps in schools Perhaps we won’t make the news- We’ll just be dead, dead, dead. We don’t make the mainstream. We are outsiders here. So cry, mothers! Cry, mothers! For nearly fifty bullets fired At an unarmed man- black man. Cry for his bitter taste of death In a diseased system of thought. And we cannot buy the remedy. We cannot heal the mainstream. We are outsiders here.
