If You're Scared of the Night

[read with sarcasm and rhythm]

 

 

Right now, we fear the seductive and dangerous night,

rescued by the crisp, white moon that lounges in the sky like a porcelain coin.

We learn to fear what lays in the unknown evils of everything shades darker.

Therefore,

one could say we learn to fear me.

 

Fear my skin, fear my kin, fear the blood in these veins,

because American students are stupid, and extremely vain.

 

Their “Jeeps”, “Land Rovers”, “Mini Coopers” too,

walking down the halls of this College Preparatory,

it feels like I’m on display at the zoo.

“There goes the monkey girl,

the color of a coconut,

the only one here that makes us cultural enough.”

 

People always assume that I’ll be the one to stand up high,

shout out the blessings and the injustice that “my ancestors cried.”

I guess I’m supposed to fill the shoes that my classmates identified for me,

because of my color, I “speak” for the slaves, yah, just me?

 

The shame of my helplessness envelops my pride,

as I watch yet another,

fall down, and die.

How come, the good children of this fruitful, yet destroyed Earth,

succumb to melanous shackles on their birth.

Why does the old porcelain lady on the street,

grab her purse oh so tight in case “he’s a thief?”

When will that little black girl know that when she perms her hair,

It will not grow, believe me, I’ve done it, I swear.

 

As if I didn’t think I was one,

believe me now, oh boy, I sure probably became one.

For since the cave has evoked such rapid, current motions,

there’s not one to judge why there’s such a biased and divisive commotion.

 

RIP my pride, rest in peace my life,

I have sinned against many, including my own “kind”.

Ingest it, arrest it, I don’t care what you do,

it’s not me on the news, tattoo, booze and the passion,

with the cop on my back and the flashlight in my face,

whistling in my ear, subjecting my race.

 

I feel a constant emotion where I object to the belief,

that has always been spoken: “we are equal, racism has died,

you’re lucky to be so freely alive!”

Well guess what, chicken butt!

That’s the biggest lie!

For my toned brother’s and sister’s constantly die.

 

And I sit there in my class,

feeling luxurious and equal,

but I know that “white kids” won’t truly treat me well in this era’s “Civil Right’s movement sequel.”

Surrounded by their material goods, girls, and “Vineyard Vines”,

it starts to feel like this world is becoming a lie.

A consumer market, advertisement, magazine spread,

the only cool kids, “even the black one”, are the one’s with the bread.

 

“A black kid is popular, that must mean some progress,”

Oh yeah, that kid, he’s definitely our process.

Integration of one boy, I bet you sure feel cultured.

I bet you’re diversity can be checked now as “multi-cultured”.

 

I say all of this because I’m tired I’m tired I’m tired.

And, I’m pissed off.

 

Everyone sits in their chairs like they love black people,

similar to how one feels with a depressing, charity dog commercial.

This racism in the students of U.S. America,

perpetuates their inability to perceive this thing called “hysteria”,.

Every course and class about racism and mass incarceration,

forces students for just a nano-second, to state the truth about our nation.

 

In recap, for “y’all”, after all I’ve said,

This isn’t about me, but you’re influence in society after you’re all dead:

 

 

If you’re scared of the dark,

If you’re scared of the night,

If you’re scared of the black corners, without the light.

If you fear the boogie man,

If you fear the snake,

If you fear the man walking down the street with a rake.

If you shiver because of the cold,

If you shiver because of a tweet,

If you shiver because the commons didn’t serve fried chicken this week,

Then you admire the light,

And admire the day,

And admire the whiteness of the man sweeping hay.

 

Who's to say you don’t associate that fear of that shade with the tone of my brother, sister, mother, who comes walking your way.

So yes, all in all, I’m a little bit mad,

When one decides to cross the street, just seeing my dad.

 

Poetry Slam: 
This poem is about: 
My community

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