Black Skin in the Bentley

My ears ache at the sound of a first world country who screams about freedom and equality; and who takes liberty as their daily ambition.

Your terms are ambiguous.

And your selection of words, obscure.

I scan the cities far and wide. I see civilians taking bloodbaths in tubs of massacre and deceit.

Children cry, and yes, you hear them.

We place our hands in sinks of despair, trying to wash away centuries of defeat.

So when you see me in my Bentley and the contrast from my skin against the white leather hurts your eyes; when the loud thump from this music hurts your ears; when my thick coarse hair hits this soft seat…

Do not expect my to apologize.

Published in Poetry

Originally published at on January 24, 2016.