trail of tears paralyzing fears ripped from the mother's womb land destined to be taken to the tomb, colonizers, ****** hands take take take stolen land transgenerational trauma, passed down, sweet mama sour whiskey takes the edge off of reality poverty violence erasure history books won't tell victims won't be around to tell emily will never know suppression leads to the communities depression anguish languish we love dream catchers why can't we love the people who made them? no reparations no reservations
I am a broken man Broken beyond repair Fallen deep into despair Torched to ash like a straw man
I am a broken man Crushed into fine shiny powder Fragments of a ruined wonder Now feeling empty like the Morrigan
Tempted to take the Scythe for the Hammer I chained myself in desperation A fools decision for a reparation Death in turn I hunger
For life is a sweet ardor The bitter sweet taste of reconnaissance The salt and spice of resilience 'Tis what a broken man yearns with fervor
I found this on one of my unfinished manuscripts I wish I could finish it but it is too much to handle Here is one of the excerpts from one characters banter with another It is what he said while crying in front of his love the miseries of life, yet he still wanted to feel what it felt like in his earlier times. I'll leave it open for interpretation Let me know what you think
All history is Black history, wrapped in the shadows of time, obscured by secret purpose and motive. The Mother of mankind is as black as night itself, the rich earth as dark as the space between stars. History IS Black, and a month barely begins to scratch its near-inscrutable surface.