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Best Slavery Poems | Poetry

Below are the all-time best Slavery poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of slavery poems written by PoetrySoup members

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Another Form of Slavery by Suzadail Jr., Vince
Hand Mowing Slavery by Laurie, Lindsay
Bring Back Slavery by TheKidster, Billy
Spells of My Slavery Broke by sensele, john
So Wait Slavery Was a Choice by Turner , Tacara
william v kanye west slavery shock by low, gate
Slavery or Exploitation by Garcia Howard Bramble, Patricia
is slavery booming by low, gate
Demons and slavery by Grant, Mike
Bids For Slavery by fields, verlecia

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The Best Slavery Poems

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Please pick me up!
Never mind I'm gonna fall, anyways
Please show me how to tie my shoes and sing a song! 
Don't worry mommy, I'll walk barefoot and teach myself one day
Please daddy show me how to ride my bike!
Never mind It takes up too much of your time
Mommy, please do not hit me again!
It's okay, I need to be taught a lesson
Cousin please do not touch!
Go ahead, they won't believe me anyway
Teacher, please defend me in school!
Never mind, my body is used to the abuse
Please don't tell me sleeping with you is the only way! 
Okay, I need to be loved even if it's for one night
Please teach me how to raise a baby!
It's okay, I can't blame others for my mistake
Please don't get violent when you drink tonight!'
If it makes you feel better hit me, 
I'll hide the bruise with makeup & tears
Please tell me that I'm beautiful!
Wait! Your right I'll never look like her!
Please someone call 911!
Never mind, it's only a broken bone
Officer, please don't take my husband?
Don't you know it was my fault, he loves me and won't hit me again
Please don't ask what happen to my face!
That's what I get for standing up and defending myself
Please God don't take my baby!
Go ahead and take her I don't deserve her
Please don't tell me your not in love with me!
I understand I'll never be worthy of your heart
Please don't walk away and break my heart!
It's okay, I never made progress or was good enough
Please someone help, I'm hurting inside!
Never mind my feelings don't count
Please God, can you hear me!
Please God, can you rescue me!
Please God, can you walk with me!
Please God, can you show me the way!
God- I was a baby, I was weak, and did not talk
God- you didn't protect me on my first fall
God- I was abandoned and neglected before I learned to crawl!
God- even you rejected all my prayers and call
I understand now I don't need nothing! 
I don't need no one at ALL
So PLEASE, PLEASE leave me alone, behind these walls 
.                              **
Please! If you read this teach me how to smile
WAIT! Smiles don't come with self blame & guilt


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011

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Northern Slaves

In the silent breathing of night,
treading through 
the darkness and the hush
(A heavy band of slave)
like black ants snaking
through the forlorn distance.
Grieving with tears
Of yesterdays burning anguish. 
They hum a languid song
On the fragrant breath of wind.
A haunt that invades my trembling eyes 
With a thousand boundless tears
That quivers through the night.

The dreaded echoes came down the black pathway
Like a thousand men 
Galloping through the sultry breeze
(Were the heartless whips that toiled)
With dumb hands,
Feeding paled pink flesh 
With endless stings of cruel misery.

The stars curled around their naked feet
As they trampled the grass 
Wet with lurid dew and the masked
Beds of fragrant hues
Prancing in the hallowed night.
I could feel the storming of their sorrows,
The rock of their heart
Drooping with defeat.
Despair a master to their fading hope
That sailed across their faces.
Oh those foul notes budding with despair
Branched within their eyes.

The lulling whispers of their shackles
United with their treading feet like hooves
Cloaked with heavy weariness
(It surrounded the dead of night)

I hung up my fears
For I was bright with their pain
Oh I died that day 
Oh I died that day
While drifting to the helpless East
To that damp cold earth filled
With drowsy mournful Asters
Then the smell of dead men came alive
Black dogs clustered to the earth
Their children beside them with gripping hands!


Copyright © Mustapha Mohammed | Year Posted 2013

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Pirate Bay

```Pirate Bay the Haiku``` 

pirates fierce and mean 
drowning fish, sea to sea 
parrots on their butt 

```Polly Wants A Cracker``` 

bloodthirst & brutal 
Quartermaster Gone Wild 
dirty wings on deck 

```Sea World Adventure``` 
ship crew goes on strike 
sailing the Caribbean 
wooden leg splashing 


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015

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Like a herd of cattle, placed on a ship.
Upon my back, I felt their whip!
Ripping into my flesh, excruciating pain.
Forced across the big water on a trip.

Living in darkness with little to eat.
The feel of chains around my feet.
Amidst tortured cries, the ship did shake.
Waves pounded the hull with relentless beat.

Only once a day, would we see the sky.
Huge sails, caused the ship to fly.
Further and further away from my home.
Feeling confused not understanding why!

A white devil, steered the wooden ship.
All his mates evil with scabbed putrid lips.
Yet we, depended on them for our lives.
Without them, into the ocean we'd slip.

The journey long, felt like an eternity!
I longed to be anywhere but on the sea.
My mind occupied with thoughts of my home.
yet, I could not escape this horrible enemy!

Sick and dying were forced to walk the plank.
Then into the cold water they quickly sank.
The sailors laughed, as the last man was tossed!
Their spirits boistered with the rum they drank.

Many days later we finally made land.
A place of stone and wood, I could see no sand.
Crack of the whip, we rose to our feet.
"Off of my ship!"was the devil's final command!

For Verlena's "Writing in a black Perspective" Contest

Story continued for my own pleasure, not part of the entry.

Slave Part Two

Brought in chains, to a raised wooden stage.
Bids tallied carefully, sales written on a page.
That was when I witnessed, a most perfect girl.
Bought by a fat man, she was placed in a cage!

I was up next, I stood still as he bid on me.
"One dollar, gimme two, two dollars, sold for three!"
Then I was taken and locked up in the cage with her.
Together we both dreamt, of one day being free.

Brought to the plantation, in late September.
I worked in cotton fields, until November.
Then I would be purposed, to cutting fire wood.
For cold and snow came, by early December.

In the evening, we were left to be with our kind.
While in the big house, our master dined.
Later at dusk, my angel girl would come.
Her beauty so amazing, she made me blind!

The taste of her body, my rememberance of home.
We gave each other pleasure, when we were alone.
Even though the master, wanted her for only him.
I felt like a free man, when I would hear her moan!

Her pregnant, I wondered if the child was mine?
If I was the father, I would be bound in twine.
Still inside I prayed, that the child belonged to me.
In the end, that would be certainly be fine.

Nine months later, almost to the day.
The love of my life was taken away.
In death our child born, middle of September.
The master's anger, I could not sway.

I was awoken, ripped out of my bed!
He took out a musket loaded with lead.
Finally free, in spirit we both travel.
There are certainly worse things, than being dead!

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015

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The Daddy

In the rundown little house where her family currently lives, the fourteen-year old glances obediently at her glaring daddy, nodding her head in quiet compliance to his usual horrible demands of her for the evening. Not to acquiesce would incur his utter wrath, and that is something she has learned well by now to avoid. Things are not like the old days, when she was twelve, feeling so lost, and he would lavish her with little gifts: bracelets with charms, cute purses, chocolate candies. . . With warm aqua eyes, he’d smile his approval as she whirled around the room, modeling a pretty dress for him. In those days when her world had fallen apart, he’d taken her in. His voice would softly soothe her then, chasing away her every fear. Back to reality. Daddy’s voice now is laced with menace. And his eyes are ice blue marbles staring through her. “Do what wifey says,” he instructs her at the door as she leaves with four other sisters and the one of legal age, her sister-wifey. Leaning in to her, his breath like chill wind on her nape, he whispers, “And you better be VERY good with your dates this time.” The young girl, in high heels, slit skirt, and heavy makeup, has exited the door when her daddy barks commands to his helper in the living room, and then Daddy exits too, but through the garage, where a Mercedes Benz is parked. He drives alone, a short trip across town to his other house - the one with manicured lawn and garden and a large pool out back - the large beautiful house where a real wife and a real daughter await him. “How was your day?” his beautiful young wife gushes as he crosses the threshold in his expensive business suit. “Oh, just another day at the office,” he quips, leaning in to give her a soft kiss. Then his young daughter comes bounding down the stairs, broadly grinning. “Daddy, look at the new dress you bought me!” She twirls with adolescent glee. The man, with blue eyes dancing, looks his fourteen-year-old daughter up and down. “Sweetie, you know I don’t like you wearing lipstick yet.” “Oh, Daddy,” she teases, “I’ll be dating soon.” “Afraid not,” he lovingly chides her. “Those boys will just have to wait at least for two more years. For now, you are Daddy's little girl."

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016

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We Worked Long Enough

I laugh out loud
every time I hear a politician say,
that the best way to enrich a black person's life,
is to give them a job
Give them some work to do
Labor is the way out of poverty ---
are you kidding me!
They got the nerve,
telling a black person in America
they need to work
Put the shoulder to the grinding wheel,
get to know the sweaty brow feel
Getting employed will solve most of
black people's problems, politicians say
Hard work will bring an honest dollar our way
But I got a problem
with that four-letter word: work
I am bold enough to speak for my people
on this urgent matter
Telling us we need to work some more,
in order for things to get better for us
No! We worked long enough
Four hundred years is a long enough time, don't you think
We been working ever since
we got off those slave ships that didn't sink
We worked hard
     at keeping our eyes and voices low
We worked hard
     at pretending that we're slow
We worked even harder
     at grinning and gritting our teeth
But we worked the hardest
     at not getting lynched on a tree
Listen to me:
This is the children of slaves reality,
the living in America experience
of feeling the societal lash daily
Of being looked down on,
of being spurned and frowned upon
Politicians say they helped us all they could,
that entitlements didn't do no good
And only work can get us to where we need to be ...
sounds a lot like old-time slavery to me
No! We worked long enough
Four hundred years is a long enough time, I would think
We been working ever since
we got off those slave ships that didn't sink
We worked hard
     at not getting pecked to death by Jim Crow
We worked hard
     at trying to survive under the poverty line below
We worked even harder
     at not telling the oppressor everything we know
But we worked the hardest
     at letting our unchained KKKourage show
Yes! We worked long enough ...
now it's time for us to rest
Will you pay us back for that?

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017

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Save our children from slavery

Save our children from slavery........ Our beautiful children are forced to hard labor by some of the evil people on earth And they kill their soul. Those little hands are holding hard tools instead of holding school books Those little hands are touching dirty sand instead of their mother's hands They listen to their evil men called masters instead of their school teachers Struggling for their bread at infant stage instead for the struggling for their career Mothers are crying for their children and want to save them from their darkness of future Many years have been passed but not a single year has been cared for them Because of our careless leadership our children are still living in slavery Let us join together and save our little children from the hell of slavery. Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka All rights are reserved @ 2015

Copyright © Ravi Sathasivam | Year Posted 2015

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These salted memories tell stories
The oceans and seas gave birth to.

Over the tempestuous waters
Echoes from the bellies of slave ships
Ride the tides of history

Spreading ripples over the shores
Of time proclaiming forgiveness
For lost souls.

We sashay along bleached beaches 
Where white sands mask the shed blood;
And splashing waves drown out
The ghost echoes of rattling chains:

We no longer remember
Our beginnings here.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

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Everyday is Labor Day

Got kidnaped from my African village,
tossed on a big, long ship that sailed far away
Stripped of every decent human privilege,
forced to work on short sleep, long hours, no pay
Didn’t come to America on a pleasure cruise,
land of freedom wasn’t nothing but fake news
Forced to work on short sleep, long hours, no pay
Looks like to me, everyday is hard Labor Day

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017

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The Gristmill Song

This body, bound aboard a sullen ship,
was bartered for a wagon and a mule.
My flesh belongs to he who wields the whip,
for I am nothing but the master's tool.

I trudge in bondage to the gristmill song.
In solemn chain, I sing this hymn of toils.
With shackled shame, I lumber the day long
in tempo metered by the harvest spoils.

With vile contempt I pledge to fight one day
and woe to all that claim in "God We Trust".
For it will be in blood that you shall pay
for grinding down these weary bones to dust.

I thus contend to rouse my tattered soul;  
with vengeance I shall reap the miller’s toll.

Na'd - 7-8-18,  Brian Strand's contest

Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2018

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Behind These Prison Walls

I prowl the days within myself
To heal these battle scars
But days at times unwrapps itself
With binding sturdy bars.

That holds me back from freedom's grace
From the man I'd hoped to be
Often scans my troubled face
In search of empty glee.

All my days since life begun
The constant fight appalls
Often glows what strength has won
Behind these prison walls.

Copyright © Mustapha Mohammed | Year Posted 2013

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The Color Missing

The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes.  Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.

‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013

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A Casual Exchange

“Oh Edgar, look at those poor slaves, traipsing after His All Important, High and Mighty, Landlord.”
	“I wish I was a slave.”
	“Hush your mouth Edgar. Don’t be saying such things.”
	“But I do.”
“Look at them May Bel, walking along the road, in their tunics and hose. While we stand here in the mud, our backs covered with more holes, than rag.”
	“But Edgar at least we have our freedom.”
	“Our what? Freedom? I’ve lived on this road all my thirty two years, and never once have I walked it in the direction that they’re going. I’ve only ever walked to the market and back. Just like my father before me.
	Freedom, aah the freedom to come out here into this field, in the rain and snow. To dig this dirt that really needs a rest. And to find that there’s not enough potatoes or carrots to sell for the rent. Let alone our dinner. Slaves don’t have pay rent, or pay taxes.
	The freedom to hear our children’s bellies growl, after they have finished their boiled grass. Look at those slave’s bellies, under their tunics May Bel. Do they look like they go hungry?”
	“We are free to love.”
	“We’re all free to fall in love.”
	“Oh Edgar, that’s enough.”
	“Well, Love won’t put a roof over your head.”
	“Edgar, you do disappoint me so.”
	“Now that I think about it, there’s a hole above your mother’s bed. Did you know? She’ll be trying to sleep with us and the kids, next time it rains. That’ll probably be tonight.
	Edmund tells me these slaves get housed in dungeons. Now there’s a place that would have a good roof, if ever I heard.”
	“And what would your All Knowledgeable, Brother Edmund know about such things? Just listening to gossip, the two of you.”
	“Well at least the Landlord cares enough about those slaves to give them those tunics…”
	“Watch what you’re doing with that stick Edgar! You nearly put it through that potato there. Be more careful.”
	“Through that potato? This stick isn’t even sharp enough to pierce that potato’s skin. I bet the slaves get things like spades and forks to use.”
	“Full of the grumbles today, aren’t we. You must have got out of the wrong side of the bed.”
	“That bed…”
	“Oh no! Don’t be starting on that bed.”
I don't write much prose any more, but I thought you'd like this old one.

Copyright © scott thirtyseven | Year Posted 2014

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The beginning of the end

Ive been trying to fill this hole in my chest.
I promised I pleaded but you still left like all the rest.
So here I sit once again all alone.
You wont even shoot a text to my phone.
So this is where I fail to stay strong.
This life of mine starts to go wrong.
So I fried up the brass.
I apply heat to get this bubble in the glass.
I heat the rock and watch it melt down.
I'm all smiles in the happiness that Ive found.
Before I knew it im drawing out of the silver spoon.
One, two, blastoff soon ill be higher then the moon.
You get that little burn in the back of your throat.
Hang on cowboy cause you just hit some bomb dope. 
Then comes the ringing in your ears.
Just sit back and all your worries and fears will simply disappear.
Don't worry about the lights fading in and out.
That's the dope coursing through your veins ya your high no doubt.
The color will leave your eyes.
Your body is engulfed in warmth and a million butterflies.
But now the demon has got you like a needle to thread.
Welcome to the struggle cause you got to keep the demon fed.
Now we've been up for nights and days.
Given up hope we surcome to her ways.
When she leaves you she leaves you feeling dead.
You cant silence the voices screaming inside your head.
Now you just look for the next high.
Cause without that demon you wanna die.
People will wonder where have you been.
Its no secret with those track marks up and down your skin.
Now you will know new lows.
Its a sad story but thats just how it goes.
Now your so alone and feel so close to death.
Just remember who did this her name is crystal meth.
Now if you could relive that day.
When your pal held out that needle tell what would you have to say.

Copyright © Johnny White | Year Posted 2014

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Rattle the Chain

was a most stubborn slave
He loved to rattle the chain
It was a sound of pure defiance
that echoed across the lush plantation terrain

Son of Antuk
had a pygmy burning bush spirit
He seethed silently
as the lashes dug deep into his back
The masters hoped the other slaves
would see this bloody spectacle and fear it,
thwarting any thoughts of a rebellious attack

He was beloved by the other slaves,
he had a will of burnished steel
He had a big heart, noble and brave,
his presence strengthened the weak and the ill

The European rulers had a troublesome dilemma:
If they killed Ta'likra, they would make him a martyr;
causing him to live still past his death, 
stirring up angry African chants of unrest
And if they let him live,
he would continue to challenge their authority
Thus making it harder to rule over
the other slaves with complete fear and impunity

They struck a balance as to what they would do,
they would whip him daily, give him meager rations
Eventually break his spirit down to ashes
But that didn't work against this
four-foot-two mountain of a man

He was Pygmy,
he was a dark bush man
He was pure African,
borne upon the hot desert sand
He didn't fear death,
he didn't fear pain
Thrice bitten by the deadly viper,
he loved to rattle the chain

The masters, unable to break his spirit,
were perplexed and at wits end
When a wizened one with gnarled raised hand,
offered up a most enlightened plan
This old, white medicine man
appealed to Ta'likra in a peach grove
He said, where would the souls of the ancestors go,
if the tree of life isn't allowed to flourish and grow
The tender buds of the future will wither away,
and the great roots of your ancestors will die here today
Let us gather up the ancient leaves, my warrior friend,
and build a fire of peace
Let us pay homage to the holy ancient ones
with gifts of love and largesse
For as the stars will not always remain in the sky to stay,
the chains of slavery will be removed from your people one day

Ta'likra, the Pygmy prince,
peered into the blue eyes of the old man,
and thought deep on his sage sayings
Then he arose in dignified grace
and silently walked away
He never once rattled his chain again,
he kept his untamed rage locked in the cage within

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2016

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Boats of Shame

Bring your guns
Bring your boats
Boats filled with ghosts
Boats weighted with chains
Chains that will one day break
Chains that will carry
Carry us to Zion
Carry our pain
Pain born of separation 
Pain that preceded
Preceded our birth
Preceded our rising
Rising here within a new nation
Rising for we know
Know that Ja is merciful
Know that Abraham smiles
Smiles upon the righteous
Smiles though our tears
Tears that lift
Tears of joy
Joy born 
Joy gained in freedom
Freedom that we took
Freedom we reclaimed
Reclaimed by us a strong people
Reclaimed by transcendent men
Men of purpose
Men who are Ja's chosen people
People who know our purpose
People who cry
Cry for our babies
Cry for Mother
Mother Africa 
Mother of all children
Children who ripped from her
Children who grew pale
Pale as papyrus
Pale for they lack compassion 
Compassion died
Compassion exchanged for greed
Greed that intoxicated
Greed for flesh
Flesh of coco
Flesh subjegated to their wanting
Wanting more power
Wanting things to stay the same
Same for us men
Same promise to set free

For Marugu MO's "Race Relations Contest".

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2016

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What am I if not a slave

What am I if not a slave?
I cook, clean and mourn;
I wash, sweep and weep
from dawn to fall of night.

I do nothing but cooking;
I cook all day,
three times a day,
from dawn to fall of night.

What are you if not a master?
You eat, teach and cheat;
you write, drink and sleep
from dawn to fall of night.

For three long decades,
I’ve cleaned your dishes:
empty, dirty dishes
from dawn to fall of night. 

What’s marriage if not serfdom?
You are my master;
I am merely a slave.
You do your part; I mine.

From dawn to fall of night
and back to break of day.

Copyright © Newton Ranaweera | Year Posted 2016

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A nobody 
Scared by the sound of his own voice
Following the girl home from school
In his mind this is normal
Stalking girls
He grabs her jacket
Pulling her backwards unto the ground
Placing a cloth around her nose and mouth
Gagging her until she sleeps for a while
He drags her through the woods
Branches hitting her every which way he turns
Dragging her along until he reaches the cabin
Picking her up over his shoulders opening the door to the cellar
Locking the door behind him he walks down the stairs slowly
He places her on a chair and ties her wrist to the handles
Tying her feet to the legs of the chair
Tightening the rope around her neck to the back of the chair
He undresses her waiting for her to wake up
Several hours pass 
She wakes up
Sweating and screaming
Crying and yelling at him
He places duct tape around her mouth
Placing a knife against her stomach
She groans and yelps
He takes the knife away and looks at her
Grabbing her face and telling her shes beautiful
He turns around and stands with his back towards her
As he starts to say
But its the beautiful people that need fixing
He takes the tape off her face and holds her chin tightly
He carves a smile on her face
Cutting her mouth from ear to ear
Telling her
Smile dear it makes you adorable
He grins and sits the knife down
Laughing as she bleeds
She tries to move her mouth
It just drops open
He looks at her smiling
Now that makes you truly beautiful
He leaves her there for a while
Later returning
Placing a needle with a string attached to it
Sticking it into the skin around her mouth that is hanging open
He stitches her back together
Cant make up his mind
He slaps her and leaves her there for another few days
She sits with her eyes peeled wide open
A tear falling as she tries wiggling her hand free from the rope
As she frees her hand she runs her fingers over her stitches
Only to find out her whole mouth has been stitched together
She cant speak
She can only mumble
She frees the rest of  her limbs
Trying to stand up and walk but she's to weak and falls
He runs down the stairs
Yelling at her to get up
She doesn't move
He kicks her in the stomach
She doesn't budge
He picks her up and uses her as a puppet 
For his own needs
He then buries her beside his other victims
Only to find out shes still alive
Her hand slips through the dirty old mud


Copyright © Orlin Collier | Year Posted 2013

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Listen to poem:

One of the true ways 
to remain in captivity is to keep silent to avoid your captor’s 
hostility and confusion

A penny for my 
thoughts has provided me with the ammunition 
To fight for what I believe in, though anything I say can and will be held against me
I choose to make freedom of speech 
my solution

I was once told 
my opinion isn’t worth One Red Cent
is why I choose to Put Two In


Less we all start standing together 
we will continue to stand on fake pedestals 
waiting to loosely dangle from transparent barb wired nooses 
perpetuated to slowly drain our 
blackened melaninated 

The electrical current 
drained from our nodes as black chains keep us from binding 
grounding us separately to current-seas 
keeping us 
blindly taking a part in the regression of our own race 
while watching the progression of another 
from virtual black bars

We are 
a new age of vanguard 
yet still the last of a quickly dying breed of signal switches 
tuned in to emit static on frequent-seas 
vibrating universal tones of data as 
broken receivers

A network of broken satellites 
disconnected and separated by false beliefs 
the mystery of our history and the constant backbitten cackling static 
of the dream killers and 


We are misled misleaders 
who have grown to fall for everything 
yet only stand for ourselves


We are the 
least expensive as items on the worldwide market
 with the most expensive dreams 
easily bought
 yet we and everything we’ve once owned almost 
impossible to be reclaimed because of the lack of value we have for our fellow man 
so we decrease the longevity of our lives on 
worldwide shelves


Are we 
the only included, exclusion, 
captivated by an enemy intrusion, 
that uses their captors, social, economic and political pollution 
as a means to overcome the fear of our 
negativity ignorance and 
doing the enemies work for them 
by loudly promoting putting each other down and killing each other 
as a solution to captivity and applauding our 
House slave efforts 
as well doing?

Only the 
mislead would keep perusing
this ill-gotten plague of self-genocide that leads to the doors
of the broken scales of justice and 
unavailing her prostitution 

With the 
faces of paper presidents who weigh more than those with
leaving the words of truth 
to be pounded into worthless coins 
and gathered together to make political bills that lead to our 
persecution, imprisonment, and 

Where is the proof of this 

The fact that
we even have to say Black Lives Matter 
is the chocolate pudding this 
proofs in

I was once told 
my opinion isn’t worth one red cent 
is why I choose to put 
two in


Copyright © AC Benford | Year Posted 2016

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The Blues

You have Africa on your mind
The distant land you left behind
With nothing to prove.

Humiliated, without a choice
There’s melancholy in your voice
What is your next move?

Vent your feelings through land and sea
To the rhythm that sets you free
Who could disapprove!

Raise your song – with a blend of hues
Bring on the notes of swinging blues
To shuffle and groove. 


Author: Paul Callus ~ 8th March 2014
Contest : Take Two
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Placing: 2nd

Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2014

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Genocidal Survivors

They call me Brave Heart
Not because of my courage but because it is my last name
And not because I "like" Mel Gibson that much but because it is 
how I was raised.
Half black and native girl raised on the Reservation
With the beautiful people of The Oglala Lakota Nation.
Two times their tone
as a dark girl among Natives I was taught to hold my own.
You see it is the two worlds that brought me light
And it is my last name that gives me the strength to fight. 
They call me Brave Heart
Like the beat of a drum 
And the hold of a knot, my destiny cannot be undone.
High centered in between
A mixture of African decent and Indigenous being.
I see the greater picture
And I write the words to my own scripture.
I feel the power of my ancestors blood through my veins
And I scream out their existence in my last name. LILILILILILI
I was shackled and beaten as my African mothers
And I share in the pain of the slave trade with my sisters and brothers
Our truths will prevail through HIStory,
And we will restore our Ancestors glory.
They call me Brave Heart
But my skin and biracial split aren't what separate me from the rest
I just know that born into this life I am blessed
I am grateful for those who fought for me and our bloodline to pull through
And I am here today to fight for them too.
You cannot defeat those who are not afraid to die,
And you cannot fool those who see through lies.
Although we were hit with everything from slavery to genocide
they could still never kill Our Native and Black pride.
We know exactly who we are
Because the blood in us proves our ancestors pushed us far.
It is not over for us
We have refilled our cup,
So no matter how much you knock us down we will 
Stand back up.
They call us Brave Hearts.

Akiza - a war cry used to celebrate the spirit of our ancestors and their fight- LILILILILI 

Copyright © Izzy B Hearty Brave Heart | Year Posted 2016

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Lucky Numbers 2, 10, 24, 65, 93

You don’t know this but
we’re all ISBN’s. At birth,
we’re tattooed across our asses
with barcodes, ID tags, social security numbers.
The only doctors allowed
to perform this surgical move
were trained in suits and sunglasses,
were handcuffed to computer suitcases,

held galas in mansions in the hills
of Virginia, roamed secretly through tunnels
beneath Abe Lincoln’s feet, they infiltrated
every hospital, mandated staff to hand over
the key cards. Don’t be alarmed.

Chocolate brownies can still
hold good dreams, peanuts, and marijuana.
This information should not stop you,
you wondered before about those
seven digits printed across the tops of your pay stubs,
didn’t you? And the 48906 signature on every document
from your university.

Yes, you see now. All along,
that tattoo on your soul numbers destiny:
one of the numbers stands for the birthday
of your child, one for the day your parents will find
cancer sinking its teeth in their osteoperostic bones,
and one lists the street address of the building
you will die in. The hospital’s phone number
is merely a set of numbers. Ask them

what they’ve done to you, and they’ll shrug
their white-collar shoulders.

To view this poem on my blog, visit

Copyright © Kelsey May | Year Posted 2015

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I come from the twilight
Of dusk to dawn
Yet I can't stand
All around me downtown
All in up and around
Signs saying of  "Whites Only"
Mustn't go into that café or restaurant
Funny, thing tho!
My soft money green, my hard money silver just like yours
With all this and all that
I am so glad so glad that
God ain't no respect of persons.. . .


My blood bleeds red, we all have bone marrow tissue 
Blood flowing through our veins
If I were hungry and stolen some bread would you prosecute me
Yeah I stole because I was hungry
You won't give me a job yet if I had yours I be  making  $1.64 cents an hour
No need to feel sorry for me
I didn't make myself I am brown, blue, black, charcoal gray
You still react no more signs labeled "Whites Only"
Now they're posted permanently in your minds
Different land masses hills, valleys, blue grasses


The white supremacist, KKK, skinheads only the bad Muslims not the good
Anyone who believes in race/color separations
We're all brothers (God Is no color GOD)
We're all brothers not about the skin its about the soul;
We're all brothers not about what's outside but what's within
We're all brothers 
God a No Color God
He's spiritual not natural
We're all brothers all colors NO colored God
God is a no Color God
God not a colored God He breathe His spirit into modern clay now we're in 
dependent voices with free wills
Choices all knees will bow "White only-Colored Here"
The good the bad ravished happy sad black brown blue purple  orange hues Red white you choose cause


written by James Edward Lee Sr.

Copyright © James Edward Lee Sr. | Year Posted 2017

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Those Were the Days

Gone are the days
when every man and woman was royalty
Spirited away
when the slave catchers came
Fled are the nights
when every child dreamed of 
being called a prophetess or priest
Washed away
when the long ships crashed upon the reef
The corrupt council and judges
hid in the rainforest that day
When they sold us out to be slaves
It seems those days ain’t changed since;
Judas faces put on cloth by silkscreen print,
splashed on canvas by painter’s ink
And I wonder ... 
what would my ancestors think?
Asking myself why ... 
this scattered people possess no common aim or purpose
Bemoan, I cry ... 
seeing the children wander idly
And I ponder ... 
what do they dream to be?

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017

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Dark to Light

Poetry of my inner museum penned by keys, 
to express the prelude to my anxiety and agony.
A panic to release my frightened barbed mind,
no longer to live this awful innermost state.
Uttering my release of grim gruesome emotions,
 and my inner light and dark of my moon,
My secret knowledge deeply hidden and annoying,
opening the tunnel clearing all that is opaque.
Now optimistic I strive to remain victorious,
my oval eye to scan for my minds inner pride.
My right to build my own minds monolith,
no longer patronise and wound me in my plight.
In control, again to be whole not scattered,
in my life that was less fortunate and vindictive.
Avoid dark, a path threatening to destroy my soul,
move to the bright light away from the vicious, and
towards a new beginning, finally living and happy.

Copyright © Mark Paul van der Merwe | Year Posted 2016