It is not a quiet and submissive sheet of white,
the canvas behind which you hide your silence,
the quiet whispers as to where advantage
is derived from, truth being it was stolen
hundreds of years ago, as men and women of a different place
were brought to new beaches with souls and hearts scarred
And these things do not fade so quickly, so readily, the scarred
parts of you at one moment raw have closed up, hardened, white
hills over tan skin that cannot be replaced, only with the place
that they had belonged so easily to; instead were forced into silence
of soul, of mouth, of mind, their culture, your culture, stolen,
And to what great benefit, what ultimate advantage?
To the destruction and dehumanization of spirit; that advantage
that left millions, not only the workers but the drivers too, scarred
in the mind, in the soul. If they could only have seen what was stolen
from their own spirit by their own pale hands of future, by their white
soft hands that knew no hard labor, maybe they would not have sat in silence;
1776, the freedom of a new world and where is their place.
Where does the stolen man belong and where is the man who has taken him’s place;
when both spirits, by default of birth, become damaged, where is the advantage
For the human race? Does it thrive, the hatred, in the deep quiet of silence
or is it simply that the light of recognition over time has left its body permanently scarred
With the harsh burn of truth? When you see past the White
Privilege of life, most is still taken, broken, shattered: stolen.
As for now, what is it culturally that which is not stolen?
There is little opportunity or option to find any peace or any place
that does not derive a culture from it’s basis, bastardize or commercialize it into white
and pray that the money will continue to flow in, knowing the advantage
of milking the lachrymose cow, pulling every bit of nourishing creative milk from the scarred
teat, and knowing, or at least hoping, that she will maintain her stoic silence.
As for me, I will maintain my own brand of silence
Quietly cheering from the sidelines as they march back to reclaim stolen
rights, and fight for their basic humanity, as they battle hatred with their scarred
souls, I will put mine down on paper, and I will hopefully know my place,
praying that one day they will gain what they are supposed to have: the advantage
Of being considered completely human on a subconscious level, even by the white.