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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