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Political Poetry

This is not a political poem, by the way

But I speak not for the blood that runs cold through my veins,

Or between the fingers of my killer

I don't live a life of politics

But if bleeding out on the corner of

Capitalism and white supremacy

Across the street from masters white house

Is considered politics?

I just might

BLACK ICARUS

Such darkness and resolve can only be found

In skin so close to this flame.

The sweat pooled on his gleaming brow and neck so

Vividly

He forgot the oceans and seas below.

So immediately free,

So elated to be so high up, and not from a tree.

The visions of his people

Bloodied, bruised, building

His flight wavered

As he steeled himself

And flew closer to the sun

But he realized

That for his people

Bloodied, bruised, building

To be free,

To reach the same heights as him,

He couldn't

So he took a breath of the sun-dense air

Gleaming golden on his brown skin

And dove

He dove

Dove

ZINE

Malcolm Davis

https://soundcloud.com/user-597906530/complete

Afroetry