I walk a path paved in blood, martyrs whom no longer live to speak of their story.
Does the killer get publicly exonerated on the foundation of my past. Mistakes both made and not.
Do they tell of the times I was arrested as a minor and tried as an adult.
I walk paths paved in bloodshed and hope for better days.
Do the very streets I walk cONTAIN the flesh of my ancestors, Will my mother cry at the view of me.—JRH
Do my Locs incriminate me and make me seem less intelligent? Does my complexion speak to the worth of my life? Where in my story does my resilience prevail? Do they ever speak of my upbringing, share with the world my battles both mentally and emotionally?
No far to many times I feel the blood in the soil, which grew into the roots of the shade which is cast upon my own light. The very branches which held men and women by their necks quieting their own story.
Does the weight of my life carry such a burden that when it comes to an end that a sigh of relief rushes over those who never once spoke with me?
My smile overlooked and my face be plastered as a reminder of the lives which fought wars, birthed nations and fathered the luxuries they could not afford. My brokenness spiritually and physically or am I another thug.
Is a whistle the last song you will hear of me, can my heart not be shared for in it lies the truth of my life. Am I another walk in the park to be admitted and tried for acts not committed.–JRH
When I caught myself, I wondered how many of these open fields where firing ranges with live targets.
Really does the world hate me for things I can’t erase
while whiting out the hate I received
the pain I endured and the sorrows I’ve felt.
Are the seeds which were planted,
growing through sediment, blood, and blossomed
— into my very existence?