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Calloused hands and bent backs, we do what we must for th elife we dream of.
Crows feet and furrowed brows, we var the worlds pain... not a whimper... maybe a growl.
Mothers of the earth, comforters of men, harborers of dreams, how we sway... how we bend.
Brest fed the world with warm milk and honey, but our own men look down onus like strange fruit ... how funny.
" They are angry... bitter ... stone faced ... they just cant be submissive" they say. How easily they forget weve been betrayed... used... beat down... left behind. Cast aside by the very ones we submitted to.
Left to raise their seeds fatherless... Left to weather the angry seas of life with no navigation or covering... Is it really fair to expect that one not be affected?
I stand unnoticed and hear men speak on how they'll never date black women again, all whilst that very soul has a daughter hs has abandoned completely... not even acknowledging her existance.
Creating the very thing he detest so vehemently... creating the vitterness in that childs mother for leaving her alone to raise his daughter who bares his very face... and looking in that girls eyes she only sees that who now dosent date back women who are so angry.
Creating that same anger he hates so in his own flesh and blood... for she sees how her mother looks at her... leaving her alone in this world with no covering... Left to water the flowers of her own heart in the hopes that something besides anger and strife will grow...
