Sam speaks of ghosts
But we still feel the pulse
White fear is crowned
Taxing its public
Removing action from its

Black boys to men
Incorrectly sentenced
To death
Judge, Jury, & Defendants
Carry the execution
Blindfolded Bitch
Can’t see the blood
On her hands
Justice says red is the only
Hue that matters
Yet it’s just us
Whose hue splatters
Whose hue gathers on
Pages of poetry like napkins

They clutch guns
We clutch our babies
Thinking our children are
Adequately armed
They stand on grounds
That expands our harm

Casts red shadows
All over this land
Of ghosts inhaling
Death in their lungs
Sucking on the barren
Tit of paranoia

Bellies aching
Courage belies
When ancient stereotypes
Forge the signature of threat
Written by the calloused hands of cowards

Till we protect the blossoming
Foolishness of our youth
Let time manifest
Itself to maturity
Shower this plant with vigilance
Ghosts will find grounds to haunt

Thug Music,

Too Young
Too Black
“Assassinate these riff raffs
Before they find books,
Douglas, Denmark, Martin, Malcolm,
Bayard, Fannie, Ella, Garvey,
Chop them at the stem
Before the roots get deeper
Finding their own ground to
Stand on in America
And they become monuments
And liabilities
To our ability to lie”

Sam speaks of ghosts
We still feel the pulse
For there’s is sin
Too evil for heaven
And too scared for hell.

About Satchel Page

© 2014 Satchel Page

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