When we are born we look like our parents do, when we die we look like the decisions in life we choose to live through, choices in health, wealth and relationships too, combine to define or defy what the gravity of reality will do. Negroes with ghetto mentalities in search of some truth, so tired of drinking poverty we sleep with the witches spirit or brew, trying to figure out an identity searching for truth, until frustration turns to hate when the negro standing alongside you is lacking answers too, so he’s viewed as useless, so there is no feeling of value lost when its time to shoot, a matrix reloaded since the boats were unloaded with slaves for sale with names that weren’t true. Every other culture starts businesses in the streets where the negro cooks up and beefs stew, they say we are crabs in a barrel yet our claws seem to hardly see food? Seafood and Lobster, steak dinners are few, eating scraps from SNAP benefits bodega owners wont feed their own youth, we complain about the prices during idol conversations about celebrities on our verandas and stoops, precious time once wasted is never recouped. If we negroes only knew that when we are born we look like God does, created in his image like Jesus was, skin of bronze, hair of wool, from the books of psalms love, reimagine a future where the negro is more than a Stan Lee superhero, a red or blue bandana or the sum of an account of digital zeros, but the negro is a spirit, a voice to be heard, a will to be excellent, a lover of self and defender of earth. A lover of life and diplomat to everyone else, and when the lion roars it’s the negro himself. When we are born we are born in the image of God, we live to make choices, though many are hard, wrong or right, we all write our own poems, The negro, the title, before it can ever close every book has to be opened.