I was taught to write poetry
not by man, nor educationally.
We never had the money;
spent most of what we had,
to feed each belly in our homestead.

Life was hard, but became not an excuse,
though our circumstances differed,
but our stories all related,
when written down; this pain became our muse

Our eyes drew energy from our surroundings,
and we used our struggle as inspiration.
Our words told a story the same as paintings,
defining who we were, despite our miseducation.

I was told to write poetry,
so our descendants may know our history,
so that our heritage may not be forsaken.
Immortalizing words already spoken.

Our voice when we're no longer around.
We wrote because we loved creativity,
and this helped us even in times of captivity.
It was our cry when we couldn't make a sound.


I was tempted to write poetry,
to express what it meant to be free.

Faces on the wall,
they hung our faces on the wall.
They love us, but they left us,
they were kind, but end up vicious.
They'd invite us for a picture,
then they treated us like dirt;
their love is worth a thousand words;
and soon we're just a memory,
a picture in a frame...
Though they miss you time to time,
they always see us on the wall.
but you won't ever get a call:
they cried the day when we were born,
and cry the day we're dead,
then they suddenly get happy thoughts
when staring at our pictures.
But they already forgot about you,
ignored us like an eight-ball.
They don't miss what's left behind,
they hung our faces on the wall.