Cowards own slaves
A poem for black hearts.
This poem is for the neglected soul,
the boy who’s fathers words he could never live up to,
his lonely, his sad.
To the girl drowning again in a pool of her lovers neglect.
Only the unlucky few could know how that felt.
To have a blackened heart,
to make love to the feeling of sadness,
and hold your breath long enough to not have the depression tear you apart.
Do you hear the screams, do you hear the little girl scream?
Do you hear them claim the sexual assault her fault,
for being in a place that should have been safe.
Like she didn’t exist.
Or did we look the other way because you see it a lesser sin than we disgrace the priest.
I wrote this,
to the boy expected to be man enough,
to the girl expected to fall in line,
we imagined this skin to be free,
to only be shackled by chains of a different colour.
Cowards own slaves.
We, the victims in an ocean,
washed away the black in our hearts, to reveal more black.
The stars cannot see you,
the stars cannot see you bleed.
Have the tears in your eyes already dried up,
did you feel the black in your fragile heart a little less ripe.
Or did you carry your chains, giddy, with a smile on your face because people told you it was all part of life.
yet they never understood why.
Why the smiles to them looked like hidden knives,
and why hope, their hope didn’t hold their hands.
Why the rope seemed like a better chance,
to leave, to be free,
to not play chess with their thoughts then wonder what their friends would think of them.
Like their hurt reaped open a black hole,
like their hurt was the reason it rained on the sunniest days.
They wanted to reap out the sun, it’s mocking gaze.
Maybe ‘they’ wasn’t the best word to use on these people.
Maybe ‘these people’ just wanted to be real,
for once be heard.
And not feel like echoes in the dark each time they’d mouthed to you that they’d rather be dead.
To not be slaves.
To be the chilly mist in the morning on your face felt.
To be felt.
To not be slaves.
To not be slaves any more.