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I am no longer master of my time
Master of these greynesses of time
What flowers can I weave for Emmett Till

the child whose soul in mine
lies bleeding....

I die alone from pride
I leave to Emmett Till his death
from horror at myself
An excerpt written by Tchikaya U'Tamsi (Congo), which can be found in the African Philosophy Reader (Coetzee & Roux 2003: 725).

This piece reflects on the brutal death of Emmett Till, who passed away at the age of 14, at the hands of white brutality in a time where negritude and negation was still very rife in America.
Ma Cherie Jun 2016
Some might call it Karma
         And for some it could be Fate
          Or perhaps a Poison Apple
        that you didn't know you'd ate

             It could be I used Magic
           and I cast a few Dark Spells
          and perhaps a Poison Potion
          or a Demon Curse from Hell

          I might have asked a Genie
           in a bottle for his wishes
         or asked a nasty Witch to help
           with pretend Princess kisses

I could have summoned Moaning Ghouls
      who'll haunt you in your sleep
      or coaxed a Vampire from his lair
              to bite you really deep

           While all this could be true
              as Fairy Tales might seem
               but trust me when I say
            this nightmare's not a dream

              You're feeling really bad
              your life is such a mess
            I slaughtered you with ink
            that is laid upon your chest

             My words they still linger
         like the banshees in your head
           to haunt your every thought
         with the sweat that fills your bed

             Her names Poetic Justice
                her poison is my pen
          and you might be quite terrified
               while I am feeling Zen

           Of course you know that she
         is best when she's served cold
          to keep you all the company
            you need when you are old

        Now your life is crumbling down
         from wicked lies that past those lips

               It wasn't even a challenge
                      for these poetic
                        ....    fingertips

Cherie Nolan © All Rights Reserved 2016
Just for fun.
MysteryBear Jan 2016
We are African descendants.
Glorify your *****, ***** hair.
Don't shrink and cower in fear.
Own yourself
The sun kissed and blessed you.
Accept that your hair won't be straight and silky.
We are African Descendants.
My hair is relaxed and damaged. But when I get my braids out, I'm gonna do the big chop and go natural.

— The End —