I am guilty. Guilty of living this life.
No lunch counters turned me away.
No blatant slurs to my face did they say
No "Whites Only" signs kept me at bay
No slave labor without the pay
This life, by comparison, bears no strife.
I am haunted. Haunted by our history.
The chains and whips across our skin
Being punished without sin
Sacrificed in wars, we could not win
Waiting for life without bondage to begin
Our history's justice was blind indeed
I am penitent. For my privileged existence
From being shipped overseas
Bound and shackled amid many bodies
Worked in fields; hands blistered & feet bloody
Close encounters lead to bodies swinging from trees
My penitence lie in escaping a slave's sentence
About the Creator
Syncere
Syncere (noun) An author/poet & barely tolerable human being. Masterful trickster of family & friends, as they actually support her. In another life, could've been a failed comedienne. In the grand scheme of the multiverse, she already is.
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