My skin has cost me a simplistic emotion.
One in which I know myself.
One in which this,
time transforms my essences,
to that of a being,
formed by stress.
I know not of nurtured happiness.
Not of silence,
not of the absence of violence.
I know nothing but,
the fight,
happening here.
Shots rang,
as flesh is torn,
from those who haven't moved in days.
Burnt flesh,
from ancestors,
knowing these are the only days.
This is how we were raised.
One speaks absent a leash,
and thinks of themselves,
as free.
If blood ceases to splash,
upon my assimilated black back,
am I not free?
Who's to say I still exist as slave,
if i am free?
©lamarcus12
L