Black Power Goes Sour

So goes the story of the dark-skinned kind;

Her body is free, but the chains are in her mind.

Her freedom paid for in blood and dirt,

And she dances.

Hips swaying suggestively,

She caresses her neck oh-so-sensually,

But this battle is not to be waged sexually.

Under her well-nourished African bosom,

Lies a heart, through which her royal heritage flows,

A wilderness from which order and chaos were born.

A battle for her self-worth,

A moral compass that doesn’t point north,

“Only God can judge us”, so she trudges forth,

Forth into the quicksand of 1, 2, 1,2 many calories

You throw it all up and start again,

Start again,

Find that God is within you,

And God is you,

And God loves you,

And God isn’t who they say God is,

And God never left you,

And find the love that left you,

When Black Power went sour.