🔵 By Myron Dailey. Photo by lauragrafie.
Apples ain’t fallin’ far from the tree.
The magnetism of nepotism, the soil sprouts seeds planted by poor hands.
The oceans of illusion receding revealing more sand.
More cans of ammo…
More poor sons and daughters storming beaches in camo.
Burgundy stains… Red blooded American names, harken back to memorial.
Etch their names in stone then blue bloods elect slaves to erect it.
How many men have killed for feeling disrespected?
How much of that trauma comes from being neglected?
Caste systems can’t mend the arms of broken freedom-fighters.
Falling forward, before I fall another lie again; A titans curse thinking bout’ lifting the sky again.
Unveiling the true nature of my environment.
Behold the poverty threshold…
Maybe it’s fatalism; maybe with a pistol I can kick it with friends and feel safer with’m.
Culture of poverty, a high IQ is hittin’ the lottery; free from prison… is where my ancestors fought to be.
But now I find myself in bondage; how’s that payin’ homage?
I get books sent to me, that’s food for thought mentally. How many people deal with food insecurity?
Social mobility stagnated… minimum wage is mandated; but can’t save a single mother and youth.
You call her welfare queen… I’m calling collect to check on your welfare queen, ‘cause I love you regardless.
Started at a warehouse now you work in an office…
Meritocracy, is what I hope ends up unlocking these doors on the slave masters property.
I hope my daughter takes a lot from me, makes salat for me; I hope an angel is petitioning Allah for me.
Feeling like a lot but I got la familia; we all grew up rough, rugged and raw… familiar.
Future historian… My foresight, superior like I whip a Delorian.
I’m like Merlin to you medieval castle dwellers; you just stepped out the cave to build it again.
Shadows on the wall… too superstitious to realize it’s men.
Progressive taxation would pay dividends… assist with the relative poverty of our citizens.
Perhaps you should assess the social groups that you sittin’ in.
The garbage in the can that you spittin’ in, is somebody’s meal.
Your house and backyard was somebody’s field.
40 acres and a mule that was never issued, now in 2023 no one seems to have an issue.
Native American tents crushed beneath the slave machine; but we’ve got billions for European wars.
Black bodies slain by colonial swords. But bayonets never killed as much as a pen in a war.