Many want to know what I have to say. When I say it no one wants to hear.
No one wants to see.
No one wants to know.
No one wants to believe.
No one gives a shit or is it that no one gives a shit about me.
Me, who am I really? No different than you, or he or she. Just another human being with borrowed virginity. Inexperienced in the fullness of this life, the depth of a breath, and yet I speak praise and positivity of a beautiful dream rooted in the membrane of my mind, seemingly protected from the reality of my future demise.
Living in the manmade spirit of fear, unyielding to this worldly sphere, dropped into a box with a bigoted top, buried underneath layers of crustaceans afraid to rise. Drowning in an abyss of lies, oftentimes complacent, floating to get by, and bye.
House Negro mentality. Brown paper bag tested. It’s all good boss until another one of us is lost. It’s not just them. We kill within. Opening the door to let them in.
To let them win.
To let them grin.
Animalistic desires in a barbarous purlieu. The quest is on. Tick tock. The beating heart. Our talents choked out, beaten, stabbed, and shot. Virgins to things unachieved. Hope never to be seen.
Tots and teens, bought souls by people with means doused in a wealth of hand me down convictions, traditions, cloaked in our daily extraditions, protected by a system birthed by their former ancestors’ political positions.
To be or not to be a Stepford, not wife, but host without a soul, without dreams, no heart, no mind merely programmed to be obedient, seen and not heard, commanded with ease to seize their woes. Deprogrammed or decommissioned – this life I’m given. My choice is limited.
Mishandled bodies, unsettled souls, I fear for the unborn because this world is cold. Dark are the places in my mind where security fails, where happiness and its foes go to perish and I’m left empty, alone and scared. No ‘thing’ is sacred. Constantly interrogated for the arts. The art of breathing.
Why are you breathing?
How are you still breathing?
Whose air are you breathing?
Did I tell you to breathe –today?
I take a sip of this strong black coffee, full bodied and robust, insulated by a ceramic mug without hue, labeled a thug, tossed out only to be refilled and saturated with egotistical sugar and maniacal cream mixing my complexities with their reveries of a smoother being. The war of attrition for taking me not as I am but how they want me to be. Not good enough, black coffee no sugar no cream.
I’m on rented time. I must experience the fullness of my mind, setting fear aside, believing that I can do all things, changing my life, walking in stride. I am capable despite what marks are placed on me. But I can’t wait any longer, not with borrowed virginity.
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