On Instagram, I put up a few poems that covered
the slayings of black men by police, colorism, eating disorders, etc.
topics that shouldn’t be ignored, but many usually shy away from.
I did receive some very deep insight and support, but the overall response
was very different: angry messages saying it wasn’t my place to speak on these things, getting blocked; some said writing about the aforementioned topics won’t change anything, so I shouldn’t even bother.
I feel that’s part of what’s wrong with the world – what usually needs to be
addressed, most would rather keep quiet about.
This untitled poem was inspired by the slaying of Antonio Martin
on Christmas eve:
It’s open season for niggas
praying that multiples of all four seasons
are in the cards for my niggas
still here to say that could’ve been me
as we observe my people getting
killed and put into mini vans
while those who are supposed to serve and protect
get their stories straight
the KKK finally removed the hooded robes
and the secret society is in plain view
and now they laugh in the face of protesters
and mothers who had to cry on the sidelines
while their kids take bloodbaths in the street
whoever said ignorance is bliss
was apart of the problem
because to be black is to be
in a constant state of rage
like lookin’ in the face of the devil
but your gun is never loaded
and your fists never seem to do the job
just put more stress on your arms
when every nigga already carry
a chunk of the world on his back
nobody bothers to step inside our minds
just assume each and every black man
is a gangsta or every black girl
is the personification of a bad attitude
because we are our bodies
the only race of people who according to
America don’t have a soul
we’re just the definition of black
in webster’s dictionary
that’s why it’s hard to celebrate how far
we’ve come when our footprints
remain in the dark
© Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written last year; I originally kept it to myself, hoping
that as time went on, this would no longer be relevant (wishful thinking).
That also sparked a conversation with a with a fellow poet
who was always pressured to stay away from about anything
uneasy or risqué, but recently freed himself of those ways.
As poets, we believe in the power
of words, correct? Can we not
open eyes and maybe enlighten
a few minds?
I think every feeling and every topic—even the ones that may make
some uncomfortable—needs a place of expression.
With that being said, should poetry dive into
harsh realities or predominantly be an escape from them?