A Meaning Lost

We were the beating of drums,

The beating of the sun against 

The backs of our people.

We were the red of river banks, 

The green of grass, the trees, the leaves.

We were the black which resides in our skin

Glowing proudly in our newborns.
 

And then we were taken,

Our red not in the mud of 

Our river banks, 

But swirling in the ocean

Between home and hell.

Our green taken from us

As we were declared animals.
 

We are not human.

We are the embodiment of 

Someone else's idea.

We are the cracks in the side walk 

To a city of sin. 

We are the black that resides in 

The whips, the black of the words 

Swung through the air 

Destroying our brothers and sisters

Commanding us 

Humiliating us.

We are the definition

Of started from the bottom.

But how can we make our way to the top

When it's no longer Mr Massa, 

But little Daquan pointing his gun

At who used to be his friend?

Little Shanquintella selling her own body

Because what worth does it have

When her uncle took it and told her

You are nothing

Just like your sister,

Your mother, 

And your brother.
 

We used to be

The reds,

The greens,

The blacks,

Of a culture who stood together

but now we are the embodiment of

someone else's idea.

by Kyara P. Gaymon