civilrightsslam
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In pre-k I was taught to count to ten in Creole before I ever knew the word English.
The native tongue of the forgotten in America, was instilled into my lips.
Now I trace those words out onto my skin,
For every face there is a story,
his hands, her hands, their hands never came palm to palm,
instead knuckle to knuckle, knuckle to face, knuckle to do anything but embrace.
They say a straight line is normal and pure
But i'm full of curves and turns, and there is no cure
No love, just joy each and every day
Poor young man
Just loving wasn’t wrong
And still they took your life
They said “You don’t belong”
