Broken down and tired of how blacks are treated.
Heartache and pain slips from the corner.
Creases painted with black liner.
Drops roll down cheeks.
Drips from finger tips.
While lips tremble,
teeth cackle.
“Not my child!” she screamed,
“Not my baby, Lord!”
Tired of feeling oppressed,
because they cannot express themselves
in their home languages, skin colour or race.
Innocent people are being killed and
dying grandmothers and mothers weep
while children are crying.
They are disconcerted because
there are no laws defending them
They are murdered by the people on
whom they are meant to rely
I believe they matter
like that morning breath
to the waiting day
I’ve waited for those voices to be raised
it matters to me
and whether your skin
is black or blue
your breath matters to me still
and I will roam here forever
still longing for that breath
asking God
for one more chance to see you
all rise like there’s no tomorrow.