Apr 25, 2015

My Feet Are Tired...


I hopped off the bus, this is my stop
Feeling crummy , gotta stomp on
Before the roaches get loose, Raid the place
Meanwhile, he’s  telling me things are
Coming around, things are looking up
Heads are hung in Mississippi, heads are
Blown off in the streets of New York City
I have no chose to march on this dirt road
And pray it doesn't rain. The mosquitoes
Are vicious, I’ve been bitten and drained
The cold hearted blues finally mugged me
Robbed me of the chicken mcnuggett joy
I woke up sobbing when I discovered my
color, that I could be black listed.
Whatever the man upstairs has planned
I’m good with it. However the intellect of a
broken soul is a fortress. Chronic, I’m on
guard, prepped for target practice, head wobbling
from the weight on my shoulders. There’s a
long stretch ahead of me. And he had the
nerve to call me “Queen.” There’s no pleasant
communication between  a loser and a quitter.  

jhp©2014-2015

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