We are the generation birthed into broken homes. Backless. Spineless structures. Faceless fathers. And miracle mothers.
Brown boys teaching brown boys how to be men. Brown boys teaching brown girls how to be loved. Loving her like his “main *****” like his “side chick” like his lies. Like his lust. Like his leisure. Like a good ****. And she lets him. She has never seen an example of love. So he loves her. Broken. And they reproduce. Broken. Another brown baby birthed into a broken home. With a faceless father and a miracle mother.
Women raising boys into boys. Not men but boys. Women raising girls into bitter Girls into ‘*******’ Girls into bisexual because there’s no man present.
We are the generation birthed into broken homes. Inheriting broken hopes. Boys inheriting the name of a man he’s never known. Inheriting personality traits from a man we’ll never know.
We’ll never know white picket fence, We’ll never know 20 year anniversary We’ll never know happy home We’ll never know American dream.
We are the forgotten ones. We are the generation birthed into broken homes. With hand-me-down hopes. And Mama’s Spit-shined smiles.
They classified us as the broken ones. I am from a broken home. But I am not a broken one. I pick up my pieces, wrote some poems and made peace with it.
What’s broken can be fixed. Brother. Be a man. Sister. Be a woman. Be royal. Be raw. Be real. Be you. Be king. Be queen. Be father. Be mother. Be love. Be trust. Be home. Be hope. Be there. Be there.
We are not broken. We are the generation birthed into broken homes. We are rebuilding. Either lend us a hand or leave us alone.