I have no affinity for your fragile masculinity.
Black men and black women don’t date we just create and hate each other for the rest of our lives.
Not too many black wives because we are too strong willed.
Not too many black husbands because they leave before they can build, uneven foundations and they wonder why my generation is so angry. Nothing but welfare queens and kings of concrete jungles.
Peach rings, and broken dreams. Youth stolen from our grasp before fully developed, babies ripped from our wombs.
There is no such thing as innocence.
My brothers are murderers before age 5 and my sisters are whores by the time they are 12.
I wish that the government didn’t hate us so much.
Institutionalized genocides.
Hereditary hatred.
You told me to be twice as good to get half of what they got.
This isn’t where I want to leave my ghost.
In a land of unequal opportunity because of my melanin?
Nothing but child support checks but no child support? It doesn’t make any cents.
You tell me money doesn’t buy happiness and yet you try to buy my love? I can’t stand my father when he does it, I’d rather have him disappear like he always does.
And if I listen close enough to the streets I can hear that bottle rolling towards my feet and there he is laying at the bottom of it.
Bottom of the totem pole.
Black men and black women were not meant to date each other.
No affinity for hypermasculinity in women and fragility in men.
Peach rings and broken dreams. Moonshine and whiskey.
Deserted and deprived.
These are the children of the sun.
