We are the not dead.
And while our people keep on falling down, we rise up to honour the memory of those who died too soon.
We are the not dead.
Those still alive to perpetuate the fight.
Honey, we are the not dead. The ones that were left behind.
Those who sleep each night with one eye open. Those who make sure not to wear any baggy clothes so as not to make anyone feel threaten by a loose black hoodie and some cap.
And it's not a mere fight that we put on.
We fight to remember where we come from.
We fight for those who are too old or too sick to stand by our sides.
We fight for you, and all the future generations.
We fight for them, we fight for you, but mostly we fight for ourselves.
We fight for our rights. For peace. For happiness.
And we don't give up. Never.
Because we are the not dead.
---------------------------------
I thought for a long time about what it meant to be black in this society, seeing everything that was, and is still happening in the US and here in Europe. And I thought about all these "speeches" that Black parents give to their children. How they remind us that we need to work harder than anyone. And I wondered how I would explain this whole BLM movement to a child of my own. Of course, this applies to any POC, to anyone fighting against and for something.
YOU ARE READING
Out of My Mind
PoetryOut Of My Mind poems and one-shots in English and French. Out of My Mind, des poèmes et autres textes en Français et en Anglais tout droit sortis de mon imaginaire.
