Saturday, May 3, 2014

Strange Fruit

Into the arms of Mother Afrika
I dance
Dark flesh pressed against
My ghost white skin
But within I know
I am the strange fruit


Spanish Moss hangs thick from my grandmother's
Oak tree
I sift through the sand
In her back yard
And yes, my childhood was hard
But to others my life
Would seem like royalty


Seemingly
We as a capitalistic culture
Have forgotten the vultures
That begun this by
Raping native peoples
Raping native soils


Oil and chocolate
Blood coffee & colorless diamonds
Minds searching
For a scientific answer
The death of a system
That should have never been born