Broken

I’m made of stuff they cannot break.
Cut from a cloth weaved with a barbed
kevlar of God, dyed with a blood
clot when it pops, red as the sun.
Son of a man who had to run.
Born antagonistic to fun.
Sailed through the storm, swam through the flood.
Came tattered out the other end.
Not happy but had to pretend, tend
to the needs of those around, tends too
to think of all the by-
gone glory that he never found.
The shriek of screams he couldn’t make.
The jeers of all his oppressors
that plague the thoughts he couldn’t shake.
But there he stood high off the ground,
though dignified, not truly proud.
He stared with vengeance at the crowd
and told them it’s his turn to take
back all his dreams from lost to found.
That as a man, he’ll be allowed
to tell his story all around,
to tell it clearly and aloud.
His smiles were feigned but never fake.
He’s made of stuff they cannot break.

I’m made of gunk they cannot melt.
I’ve grooved to funk they haven’t felt.
Felt lines the insides of the coats
that keeps them warm and floats the boats
they claim they’ve not inherited.
Not luck, they shout, we’re merited.
Not shade of skin, skin in the game.
We took the risks, we earned the fame.
You’re not like us, they’d say to me.
Besmirch me with their infamy.
But the groove I felt can still prevail
A groove that shakes them head to tail.
I’ll be the clot that clogs the vein
that feeds the heart and brings the pain.
I’ll take a hammer to the glass
ceiling erected by the mass
of imbeciles and head-figures,
of managers and bootlickers.
And they’ll be gone, make no mistake.
And I’ll be dancing in the wake.
I’m made of stuff they cannot break.