Layla Riley-Hill Poet Free verse

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

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