It has to be a spirit that makes you beat your children for no good damn reason.

A spirit that makes you tell them to keep their legs closed,

while you keep yours open.

A sick ass spirit that makes you tell your children that they ain’t going to be nothing.

A spirit that makes you call them,

nigga,

a coon,

a monkey

and a ho.

A spirit that makes you yell be a man at your son,

when you ain’t being one.

It’s probably the same spirit that makes you mad when a white person

says the exact same things you’ve been saying.

Instead of giving a child love,

they get hugged by these spirits.

In these possessed houses all they talk about is the white woman this,

the white man that and there aren’t any white people in the house.

You never hear them saying the name of Martin Luther King Jr., Marshawn Evans,

Langston Hughes, Spike Lee, Phyllis Wheatley,

Bell Hooks, Percy Ellis Sutton,

Dr. Cornel West or  Muhammad Ali.

All they watch is black and racist movies until that is all they know.

How are you going to teach a child how to love,

when you don’t know how to.

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My voice has returned
Now, when it is too late

I realized that I was not adored as a child.
My mother had long ago beaten
the confidence out of me.

She pounded Bodies
Yelled at Cries
Suffocated Dreams
Pummeled Aspirations
Lynched Creativity
and Silenced Rebellion.

She pounded Time
Until the echoes of silence
resonated only within an adolescent mind.

She pounded Minds.
While her negativity dominated me
without the smallest ounce of compassion
“Shut up stupid”, “You ain’t gon neva be nothin’”,
“I neva wanted you!”

She pounded Life.
And I was forced to bloom out of season,
years later than otherwise.
She always told me that she never loved my dad,
so how could she love me?
“I am not him!” would not be heard.
That phrase choked with my larynx.
I could only show her that
Fire can light ways and burn shit down….

And still She Pounded.

by

MG Hardie