I said, I don’t know my ancestors. I know them in the context of others’ eyes. I know them for their power, strength, and resilience.
By Vernon T. Scott2 years ago in Poets
I find myself twisted in the grasps of my lust and my anxiety This entanglement has brought me to yet another bed I tell myself there’s a possibility that more can come of this
Being Black right now: Is being in high states of anxiety during the Christmas season and hoping and praying we will all come together and sing fah-who-doe-ray but realistically knowing that shit won’t happen.
I want to think of this poem as an extension of Sorrowful Sunday. But, in actuality, it is not. The sorrow of that poem still holds my pain and my hurt.
My Blackness Let me tell you about my blackness It's strong It's powerful It's beautiful It continues to flourish into greatness
I am the parent that never procreated. I am the activist who makes change without being activated. I am the sibling to many though our parents are not the same.
It's the fierce pound of the trigger, as his lifeless body lies on the side of the road. Hey look, it's just another n****r.
The sun brings forth new lives into a young world. This world becomes diseased, leaving its inhabitants suffering. The sun sends out its heat
As my pen sat on the paper, I began to think about my first victim. I wondered about how it felt when my knife sliced her throat.
It's an eggshell. Strong. Durable. With enough pressure it cracks. The remnants of what was has become an empty foreshadowing
She said no, no, no. What was heard was yes. Blood slowly drained from the cavern as the last sign of innocence fades into darkness. She was trapped under the weight
This breeze flows north, but it is not the North Winds. It has power, and color. It whistles with wild, willowy songs –