Poetry / This is not a love story (pt. 1)
The narrative of our love.
From the blood
fresh steel
Encircling our pain.
Shape-shifter named seduction
Calling out our shackled names.
You separated from I
and
Worlds between He and
She,
A faceless creator
Divine interpreter who translated
The semen
The embryo in the Petri dish
Into
The Words
The energy of our broken love
The
History of our love
The bruising of the words on a white page
Of a mud like DARK ink
Darker than our complex tones
But so dark it couldn’t scar
PINK
Like, SO dark this ink
Could stain darker than the
BLOOD
Of a strange fruit
Hanging from a frayed limb on
A tree even the Egyptians couldn’t claim
Afrikans
The first chapter of our
First-sight
LESS love
Holding onto a fragmented title
Our love?
A pregnant moment
Aborted by the
Chokehold of the first
3 words on the page.
Are they human?
The forward of our narrative
Our loves beginning…
Brushed over as
Infatuation!
A hopeful, pre-birth
The fetus of our
LOVE.
In Africa?
Before those three words
Doomed our humanity.
Give us FREE!
Ended our story
Pre-epilogue. I’m talking about
Our love. Our love?
I’m not talking about slavery.
Even though
Your tarnished chain speaks of a new
Type of pain.
Encircled this time
by a shape-shifter
of a different steel-like name.
Money. Power.
They say absolute power
Corrupts absolutely
But what about the absolute power
Of patriarchy.
Hip-Hop corrupted by a new strain of
Philosophy.
A divine creator juxtaposed in reality?
But this isn’t an objective struggle.
I’m talking about our love.
The narrator of our story of love
Subject to a passive voice
Active in sarcasm and guilt-ridden
By the emotions of one sentence.
I love you,
BUT.
I can’t love you
I musn’t love
I couldn’t possibly love you?
The narrative of our love.
Filling the margins
With a hostility
That consumes the page
And a nervous laughter too
Tense to be contained
Our love, suppressed
Made evil by the banal nature of
Its creator
No, not passed down by the griottes
Traditions of orality oppressed
By the proximity of those
Damn letters.
Our love exists
beneath the polished stair-cases
Tucked behind the narrow bookcases
Ultimately the curtains
Drawn on the dreams
Of our lovers,
But
This is not a love story.
And the final chapter
Peacock –like struts
To be continued…
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This is excellent. The format works well with the subject matter and the way the pain of an enslaving relationship is described. I look forward to reading part two. My only suggestion is to use an “author’s note” to explain references some readers may not be familiar with like: griottes, afrikans (spelled with a k). This is only my humble opinion however.
Please do write on!
)O(
DragonBlue
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