The rage of a tired black woman

Rage. Fury. A constant burning anger. A rage stemmed from generations of those who have come before me An inheritance we have the right to own Something passed through each black child born One that clings to our skin and bones A communal experience we share alone Every time a black child comes home from school Fallen tears from racial slurs Another wave of anger flows When another black man is shot to death His last breath used to beg A fury only us can feel embeds One that leaves us tired, not for bed But one of more sorrow instead One that wishes for the system so old-fashioned to be replaced Or a black woman who ends up dead Laying in a hospital bed In a pool of red Whose pain ignored and untreated From a prejudice institution A fear bred from black motherhood A torn thread of decision Of a yearning to have children And the fear of death before they ever met This rage that we feel Is not met by empathy, but instead With the stereotype of aggressiveness And being gaslit into psychosis Being told we are 'too dramatic' Then told to stop playing in the playground of victimhood When it is they who placed us there We are tired of being forced into a lifetime of despair Where our existence is fated to a life so unfair