Monday, February 1, 2010

Externally Wounded

My posts are about to start being a little more theme organized. Today I wanted to post a strong piece. A reflective piece. I wrote this sometime in 2008, I worked at the Carlos Museum at Emory... got a chance to help with a lot exhibits, and reflect on a lot of history. A lot of open wounds that we as people continue to hold on to… so heal with me...

Externally Wounded

I was born
Bloody from oppression
Lack of freedom to the womb
Who are you that was born healthy?
Foreign to the country.
Their country.
Field at the hands of the enslaved
Take away kind
Take away color
The mentality of destruction.
Selfish Empowerment at the hands of humanity

I was created
with ropes around my neck
They already set aside my noose
Gestation purgatory
hell’s heaven
yet the afterlife seems like bliss
They must have known
I would fight for justice
so they prepared to combat my strength

limitless, bound by hope and freedom
They must have known
the power of true knowledge
yet within
Their education, their country
I was born.
Walking backward on fear
And looking away from weakness
Yes, they must have known our people would
Create the strong
Be the mighty
Despite our being
Born into misery on foreign kinds
Now becoming foreign homes
And culture lost in trips in boats
Lost in trips on boats tamed by whips
Whips that hit at the core of soul
Dehumanizing hope
And rationalizing power and greed
Willie lynch them
Generational divides
Between cultural misprints and misreads
Power structures
Left generations to die.

And me.
Born into the ills of the world
Molded, crafted, from first breath
The chosen one to lead
Those blinded
soul cultivated
Speech manipulated
By the blood of these people
Our people
My people
And my birth was celebrated
With another number
In the army for freedom
Already wounded by history
Already slain by history
Bloody still from oppression
ready to fight.
With only my soul.
Open, branded with freedom on forearm
Reading manuscripts of pass explorations on faith
against this unjust fairytale
Of America’s dreams
It’s creating my blueprint.
I am attempting to regain dignity
In our conception. Our presence.
Our essence of being.

There are no battle wounds on
The battle field for the new
Leaving behind Garvey
Malcolm and Fannie
For a pause
A breath, fresh air, cleansed
By all our blood deaths, and past births scorn
Fighting from wounds they have started
But we have yet to finish. Understood/
We need to finish
Open books
Pens awaiting touch
Paper, ink, awaiting history
To be used to document this new battle
The change in this country
Formulated off greed and hatred
Yet its came to be known for its
Ability to keep everlasting dreams
While culture and history
Was stolen, thus depleted.
So I rise.
I am born
to create infinites
To believe in the limitless
Based foundations on faith
Positive yet realistic premises
That all karma is not good:

Stolen silence
and they
Will have their share
And the light will shine
Reborn with my ancestors
Rebirth of my future
No more wounds.
No more bloodshed
No more misery.
Soul, purity, vision
New world order-divine
Truth, with faith in heart
Hope in veins, knowledge in mind
I write the future to claim
No more wounds.
Change is in vision.
Vision is clear.
Practice is in action.
Action is near.
Let go
Of these wounds

1 comment:

  1. I think I held my breath as I read this. Beautiful piece, sis. Touching and soul-gripping. You're an amazing poet.