The Black man's sickness
Is like the whisperings from the dark fires of hell
It slowly damages his soul
He'll never be his own
Great power lies in the Black man's liver
But it flows mired unlike a river
Such is the ailment of the Black man
Tap your mind and he taps his wine
Pluck a fruit and he takes a stone
Ability is the Black man
To build pyramids and farms
But he dumps his thinking
In his faeces in the morning
I grin not at grubby paradigms
To present my Blackhood as bozo
Black is what i am
If and when we would decide to read poetry or a piece of discerning article a day, our world is, then headed for a change. No magic potion whatsoever: if there were, politicians would have used it a long time ago. Our mind is all that we have; the only exception to tricks of all corners and angles. Enjoy the luxury and peace of poetry...
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