Confliction

Waiting for Him to come A chariot moving so slowly or is there a chariot surmised Will I wear the gossamer dress or ever floating above the Gazing Sun To be educated by the opressor of whom feeds my family Only to find a perfect conformity In man's lesson A bossom filled with conflicting melenated pumps As the people of my tribe raped long ago Reflects on my native tongue, my color, my confliction Who am i? I ask the teacher My mother answering in her taught ways We are African American Not French Speaking, Portuguese Speaking, or Spanish speaking, but English speaking. Are we Englishman? No she answers So what are we? As tears stream down, the fellowship with my black brothers and sisters in church Caught me off guard. The sweetness I feel of praise Should not be confused with the religion applied on top of it See this freedom is already in me It was here before they put a label to it with a white man on it My freedom was here before I came out of my mother because the freedom existed before allvof us were born I was the freedom of a thought between two That physically manifested Created and birthed like everyone and everything else So how can this confliction Be so real?