You won’t write me down in books
or read my words with a rose
colored gloss over, or toss paint
as white as I on picket fences
because we’ve move on from hatred
in the poets lines and in publications
from Bronx New York to San Jose California
but still, like ash, I’ll fall.
Does my mild manner offend you?
Why are you insistent on my doom?
Because I act reserved like at a funeral
when all the pain is within its bloom?
Just like blood and like oil,
with the assistance of gravity,
just like hate pouring down.
Still I’ll fall.
Whoever would want to see you broken
Should bow their head and lower their eyes;
Whoever would have me brought to my knees
Should bow their head and lower theirs eyes.
Does anyone’s loftiness upset you?
do you feel as if you deserve the silk
because someone had more of it than you?
I have never had a scarf as soft as chiffon,
and never made bullets of my words,
and never cut anyone with my glance,
and then you choke me with your soulful cries
but still, like lead, I sink.
Does anyone’s equalness upset you?
Did my struggle come as a jolt
that lightens up your heart like feathers
at the beating of our wings?
Out of the hole of history’s grief
down from the ledge that’s crumbling with pain
I’m a human person, falling and frail,
Wailing and yelling into the pit of hell.
Praying to leave behind the terror of night
Into a trench line that’s horrendously deep
begging for the wisdom to rise,
I am the poor and hope of the brave.