I am an ex-colored black man
A one mind track man
With open hard working hands
My color never been my friend
But made me realize
My mission once again

A mother that broke her back in the fields
In order for me and my baby brother
Not to get killed
Thrown scraps as meals
If starvation does not kills us
Master will
Four of us to a bed
While many of us are mentally mislead

I call out
At night for my father
But he never responds
So why bother
I am a man and this I don’t understand
My mother is a slave and slaves
I and my brother will be
Why don’t father come and rescue me

He is not here to dry my mother tears
To work beside her in the sun
To teach me, his only son
I have no hope in this mountain of pain
So I bring my mother faith to shame

Father, Father, rescue me
You must be out there
In the land of the holy and the free
Surrounded by people like you and I
Where you are not beaten when you lie
So I ask you one question

My soft spoken gentle mother  
Lay her head deep within the covers
As I sit by her feet and
She hugs my baby brother
I ask my mother……
Who is my father? Where is he?
Why are we here?

Why is he free?
She responds with pain in her heart
And fear in her voice
I left my mother no other choice
My son, my first born
Oh how your mother was scorned
Our master, looked at me one day
And I knew all my dignity
Was about to stray
He called for me
In the middle of night
His voice cold and made me full of fright
I ran to my master
After a hard day in the field
I knew, that if I did not come
I was going to be killed
He closed the door behind me
And said no words
Just grabbed my arms
And tore my all ready tattered dress
Oh, how I was a mess
He whispered in my ear
You scream, you die
So with everything in me
I had to try
I laid on the floor, naked, in fear
Praying for the end to finally be near
He poked, forced, jammed, and hurt
Oh, what terrible things
He did under my skirt
I felt nothing, when he was through
The next thing I knew
I gave birth to you.
“Oh! Momma, no.”
There is more that you must know
My father is the man that enslaved me
Our Master
How can this be?
He walks around free
While me his son is in this cage
I am in so much utter rage
Now I know
Now I understand
How I am an ex-colored man...

Piece by: Macala
            © Raw Real Talk. All rights reserved.
Copyrite & Terms

What is standing in between me and the
American Dream?
I am noticing that everything
Is not as it seems
Be that as it may
While reading my wall street journal today and
sipping my half soy Starbucks latté
My current situation
Is putting a damper on my dreams

I heard from a fellow
That you can buy it in stores
But the owner does not
Just open his doors
To anybody
You must be a certain type
To enter and browse
All the while he will observe
And never leave you alone
While humming
Our nation’s capitol theme song

So I start to ask questions
Because a lady never guesses
I wonder if this store sells dresses
Vintage Paris or modern day artistic  
If you ask for those things
He will go ballistic
Stick to the topic at hand
So listen and understand

You are looking for a golden box
Closed with tiny golden locks
The contents inside are most important
They are imported from the creator himself
If you want undeniable wealth and prestige
This is the only way to get it
To separate you
From those who didn’t?

I leaped out into the world
On my journey of truth
Dreaming of money and youth
I am home, I am no longer alone

The sound of hills and penny loafers
Pounding the pavement
Is like music to my ears
Black briefcases and leather bags
Reading glasses and expensive cell phones
With plain ordinary ring tones
Little cafes and twenty dollar on trays
I am in the American dream heaven
This must be lucky number seven

Upon entering the store
I noticed that no one offered me a tour
It was self service I guess
The establishment was a mess
Nothing organized or no sales
Just a big grand wishing well
Filled of golden boxes
I had to over pass
Pills of poor people
With poverty toxins

But I am here

It’s just sheer genius I guess
So I reached into the well
Pulled out my box and
Felt magically blessed
I went to the counter
And said, “I will take this.”
How much?
He responded, “It Is already paid for.”
Things are always just given to me
I wonder why?
So I could not no longer wait
To reach the American dreams gate
I opened the box and unlocked the locks

To be bombarded by homeless people
Crying out that I should be their equals
Hanging unto my clothes and
Begging at my feet
I was appalled
This is absurd
I don’t want to hear one more word
I am going to proceed
Without giving into
You’re whimpering and whining needs     
You expect me to give you my box
To reattach these locks
I will do no such thing
I deserve the American dream

I will overly tax, lie, cheat and steal
If necessary I will kill
You people can do what I have done
     And you to
Can call yourselves the lucky ones

But miss we have tried
But the owner of this store
Told us no need to apply
We could not reach that well
As you have
The American dream is not
Just up for grabs
So you look at me in shame

But it is I
Who know the very nature of your name
You are the one who put us here
We are not the middle class
We are the poor
We know that we are no longer
Welcomed anymore
You stand there
With your box and lies
I lay here with my word and pride
You are the very shame
You are the American dream
That is your name.

Piece by: Macala