Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Quentin Briscoe Feb 2015
Did you know I am black...
Have you listened to His story....
My mother's hands planted me strong..
I have roots of strange fruits
Swinging, But Winds can't move me..
Sweetly I darken as I ripen...

I believe in The Masters plan..
I speak master of no Man..
I pray that He Rewrites His-tory
Things Only the #Master would demand..
Don't be moved by howling hounds..
I Stand firm upon shakend ground..

Hands up, around my royal stem.
Feet dangle until a breathless end..
One pulls back as ropes tighten..
I think of what could've been..
Come get a taste of sin..
I feed the hunger of men..

Look at me strangely Like deformity
My skin bares no such impurity
I am the son of Light
Burnt in the bossom of RA
My power supersedes this hanging state..
I transcended every time I'm consumed..

You only have days to repent..
Hell has cold places for hatred
Now that heavens a breath away..
Don't hunt what you don't eat..
There is blood on the leaves
As you planted gardens of death..

One hangs on as Strange fruit..
Memories linger in the frozen air..
I believe we share some roots..
Tears water the branches we break..
Stories that can't end as His-tory
Dangling Fruits From the popular trees..

— The End —