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A 1000 sharp pains;
A whip to the back,
for being in the way;
and being born black.
What kind of punishment,
is this, he now fears?
It manifests every day.
Why do humans
behave in this way?
He is a man,
the same as you
but the color of skin,
is the only difference.
He loves his music,
just as you do,
so why do you beat him,
For what you asked him to do?

Today's soul,
is here to stay.
Even your EGO,
won't drive it away.

Tatoo a snake
across my arm.
Tell me now,
how I am,
worse not best.
Cast me from
this place, mine,
for I'm godless
with my soul,
ensnared with thine,
in this odd World's,
barbaric and Byzantine.

Photo shared by Heather Cox Richardson from Letters from an American

Black was the depth
of his aged soul.
No rightness to see,
in his life as a whole.
Why is the anger,
inside of he?
Can you not live life
and let things be?

Are there words
you see, when you pray?
Words of salvation,
awaiting our judgement day?
Those words, rich with fruition,
promising the Lord's love,
with total absolution.

Do you know me?
I once was your son.
You told me to leave,
darken not your door.
Where you once lived
is "Off Limits" to you.
Did you not see,
you are not wanted here.
Just leave this place.
Leave it alone.
Don't bother to write.
All these harsh words,
were never said to me,
as my family's love,
is still strong to say,
"Do the best you can
to overcome your poverty.

The loneliest road,
the one you are on,
with words of sorrow,
could soon be a song.
Don't take my word,
look far beyond,
for Country Music,
will soon be sing along.

My song is short.
Your hair is long,
as eyes of brown,
look back at me.
Were we friends,
from long ago,
or kindred souls,
who I love so?

I walk the night,
my head hanging down.
I'm not saddened,
just watching my step,
avoiding the puddles,
small watering holes,
where darkness is rich
much like the air,
laden with hope,
for the here and now,
as I, alone,
trod this path
towards a destination,
I do not know,
spare me the talk.
Spare me, my Soul
and I will in turn,
let myself go.

A litany of time,
there surely must be,
when words must rhyme,
if written for thee.

Write of the words
which come to light,
during morning hours
or when late at night.

Words all jumbled
within my aged head,
which want to escape
and be written or said.

Words like, "I love you"
said in many ways,
to carry us through
our vanishing days.

Tell the people
you love them, you'll see,
this love for others
is a renewable commodity.