ugandabeinsanfrancisco

What became of the, black sheep, that ba, ba, gave you three bags, master? One bag, so heavy, with, wool, belonged to you. The second bag, had the shears, was carried, by, the shearer. The third bag, you kept, at, the store in town. What became of the spider, who, with a needle, pierced in, each one's heart, until a web threaded in blood connected all of us, young, adult,  brown, white, yellow, black What became of the pain, that poured out in chants and unvoiced mourns and amazingly still, still fills solemn events.

I was delicate, lest I am, construed as unbecoming, I never talked of my skin, that subject, being owned, not by me, even if, I carried, the skin around. That Holly place, where I go in, and come out, haloed, or, hollowed, makes me, a subject of whim and whip. Then, Du Bois, oh, that figure, of, astounding, brilliance, taught me, a management, of self and anger. Instead, of, anger, self-disparagement, self-questioning, count to seven, or even seventy, then you will, see, how gifted you are. The animosity, struggles, closed doors, half-smiles, wicked, back-stabs, open up, a veil of ignorance, in which the left arm tied you in, and a right arm will untie you from. Against your skin, a monolith, of destruction, was built, if it were not for you, a white flag, would not be raised, you are anchoring, a cargo ship on which, the flag flutters. One thing, that