Brown Girl, Brown Boy!
Inner city
Broken homes and broken cities filled with violence and other victims. The compilation of revolution looks to the destruction of America the beautiful. Broken hearts and loud cries the nationality of the designed brown. Inner city youth circumferences referenced by the same mistakes of their parents. Born to teenage boys and girls damaged by the wakes of the world, failed marriages and forced deprivation on so many levels, the socialism of so many devils, underdeveloped. The inner city innocence plagued with statistical endings the killings are headlined as the suppression to the declination of a brown boys potential. Broken homes and broken dream’s landfilled homes and desired streets, the economic fallout of a tailored being. Born a god or goddess just to run into incompatibile desires, the starvation of the urban city. Urban violence and urban changes, the 3rd dimension of urban hatred. Broken harmonies and broken roads the life of a struggle in a brown woman’s household. No one to lean on but the government taken what is given with the definitive definition of assistance. Deplorable situations yet they remain in them. Kids with no father and drug dealers, felons, and criminals, as father figures. Talk about the struggle with addictions. He struggled with addictions, broken promises and broken family values ventured as a means to escape the same society that he lives in everyday. Four corner hustlers, and sexual favors, petty nickel and dimers and solicitation. Can’t isolate them, the brown boys dream found on the court dreaming of finding a Lebron James team. The statistical data always seem realistic when we recognize the difference of societal inconsistencies. Broken systems and broken truths half told lies and broken youth. The urbanization of the broken myth, the brokenness we keep witnessing time and time again. The fight against corruption poverty and destruction the decriminalization of the brown boys struggle.
About the Creator
Charelle Landers
Published author, (A Serious of Unfortunate Events, pen name Jessica Wright) and mother to six wonderful children. I find that writing is a healing passion of purpose and the ultimate pursuit to happiness.
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Death and Life
Walking amid her desires when she never knew she had any, following the rules of her mother's love when she never knew she had any. Her first try became the first cry, she tried to say it was heartbreak but that was her insecurities first lie. He laid her down on the cold hardwood floor, she was supposed to be at track practice getting ready to run for gold. He invited her with his tongue, salvation imposed on her body, his manhood imported on a journey that she didn't know anything about yet. He fumbled to find the entrance to tie her soul, he finally entered and all she knew was that it hurt. He thrust his body until he finished, per her recollection it lasted only a minute. No protection he said you're the first girl I ever messed with, she knew that was her first time that's why she can't forget this. On a cold day in March, they finished she got dressed and that's where the abuse began to start. He stole her identification and told her his age was older than his indemnification, sixteen with big dreams she didn't know she was laying with satan. The good girl in her had melted away, he mentioned he loved her but punched her in her belly, as he drove her back to her mother's home he made her sit in the back seat, and come to find out the boy was 14. She daydreamed about the hour they had spent, she thought he was her everything. Months go by he still played the game, and ignored her every time she wanted to spend time again. She motivated herself with school basketball and following her mother's rules, but only 4 months later she found another bruise, a positive pregnancy test. As it sat there in her hand she couldn't find the little boy she called her man, he had disappeared, no educational motivation, no plan for his future in and out of juvenile no plan for her in his future. Yet she's now tied to his future. She calls him crying and his mother began denying saying how could she be pregnant by her son she had to be lying. She trusted the only friend she knew at the time so she had to be dying. Sorrow and grief reigned she hid the truth from her mother for as long as she can, until one day her loud mouth friend told her secrets, exposed her, and not to mention when her mother took her to the clinic she contracted gonorrhea, the lies about her being special made her feel even weaker. Still, in high school, he knew this, he would call to see if she made it to class 15 years later she know that was a red flag of the abuse. She thought it was love but he would abandon her, ensure that she cries, not to mention destroy her pride. He was never there in support in fact when the baby came she found herself a single parent absorbed by the cycle of generational pain. She gave birth at 17 to a beautiful daughter the prettiest baby I had ever seen, she spent days and weeks trying to bridge a family, only for him to abuse her every time financially. He would take her for a ride, introduce her to girls he was sleeping with on the side, and please don't mention love because he never even tried, 13 years later Christopher died. She tried to have emotions but she just couldn't he saw his daughter twice and spent all his life in the penitentiary. The day their daughter witnessed abuse he had her against the wall, mad because she messed with other dudes when he suppressed every emotion, and had babies on her with girls to make fun of her emotionally. Yet she walked around petrified hiding the pain of abuse inside, her friends pushed for him to be the perfect father, every time they see them they call her saying he was going to take care of his daughter, yet he never showed her love, his daughter is 15 years old and still struggles to build relationships because she blames abuse on her mother. She realized she was the victim of a circumstance that she never knew the psychological turmoil of abuse can take an angry toll on you, so she fosters her truth and is not afraid to wear it, she was a victim of teenage violence because of the lack of love from crack epidemic parents. Her first love became the father figure she always imagined.
By Charelle Landers4 months ago in Poets
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson6 days ago in Fiction
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