I am not troubled to share a piece of me.
My piece is just a color that’s grounded in soil,
Plastered through times as black gold.
It runs through the street, on pavement.
I am piece, I am black life, I am unity.
My feet ran when the police sang
GET HIM!! GET HER!!
But their song is not my story.
It’s not going to define me.
But it’s not me, it’s we.
Strength that raised out heads high.
They want us to die.
But our thick skin, black skin, bruised skin.
Didn’t fit in, this skin.
Across the borders, we stand in long lines,
we picked the fields.
White cotton so soft, not our bed through.
A piece of me is shared through talk
and vision a dream we have.
Which we continue to speak.
Sometimes we tweak.
A piece of my black is deep soul searching
for that lost tribe, that carried the weight
of humiliation, frustration, and interrogation.
I want to share my black but
it’s stuck in a pit because it’s silenced daily
Who will pull me out?
