Blood in the Dirt

Blood in the dirt — the soil still screams,
This ain’t about Kirk, it’s about broken dreams.
America wants us to choke on centuries of pain,
Wipe the slate clean like our blood don’t stain.

A melting pot? No, a burning flame,
Where we’re tossed inside but never treated the same.
They say “no race,” they say “no face,”
But how do you heal what you’re trying to erase?

Black. Brown. Burgundy. How you turn on me?
Our skin is a story they refuse to see.
We paint it in murals, in chants, in cries,
But they close their ears and avert their eyes.

A picture is worth a thousand words, they say —
So why do our portraits get hidden away?
Why do our bodies have to bleed in the street
Before they believe that the pain runs deep?

We’re tired.
Tired of marching with blistered feet.
Tired of begging for a justice we’ll never meet.
Tired of screaming into deafened ears,
Carrying the weight of four hundred years.

Still…
We rise from the ashes, steady and strong,
A thousand voices thundering the same song.
Blood in the dirt, but roots still grow —
And the world will remember what they tried not to know