Sistas In Savage Society And Birth Deprivatory

root - Posted on 25 January 2001

A poem about single mothers

by Marlon Crump/Poverty Scholar POOR Magazine

Did y'all see?

Did y'all see?

You reekers

of public reliefers,

when she told you

she had to work lengthy hours,

while you smiled,

a vile and vicious smile.

You knew

she had to drift a couple of miles,

with ancient shoes on her feet,

a house with no heat

and giving her a workfare

she can never complete:

You did so,

sitting in office leather upholstery,

engulfed by lies of leisures,

weekend planning of nightclubs,

stacked with papers

of promissory poverties.

You still ask

her repeated questions to annoy her,

frustrate her,


and economically eradicate her.

The babies are crying to be fed,

then put into bed,

so she can't utter defeat:

Your houses/studio-apartments

fuel your energy and ego,

as her superior,

while you shame and defile her plight

in light of her fight as a multiple mom,

but inferior in your sight.

Your eyes are shut,

unseen that you too also lack

the great castle act,

while she sought solace

and refuge with her young,

in her habitat,

with her back holding the shack:

Did y'all see?

When caseworkers

of no guest workers,

when she so-desperatedly sought refuge

in your country that you so vow

as the land of the free,

but didn't lift a finger to aid her?

Nothing but her ownself

and little dignity she had left.

Your sadistic manly desires

falsely promised her salvation,

if she let you pin her back:

Even in safehavens

you call shelters,

she's promised a bottom bunk,

a decent bath and a nourishing fed,

you still bestow your power

upon her to share your bed.

"Unless I comply,

I may die,

as a result

of hot lead" you said.

At this point,

her face is blood-red:

What about a pregnant mom,

looking for someone to

at least be held

and told that her child

will cry and not die.

Shes see the father walk by,

she asks why?

He just sneered

as he walks by,

with a pathetic ass sigh.

Her son will not live this lie,

alive or dead:

Did ya'll see?

When a young mom couldn't even

complete the alphabet,

but now lives to regret,

being upset after tossing her child

from elevation

higher than Mount Everest,

seeing and fleeing

for luxuries

from a colored T.V. set?:

Her selfless pity,

o iddity bitty,

of siddity,

with wealth and romance,

of so much finance,

with a decorated carriage

of her own initiated miscarriage,

of a now drifted off life.

A life
who's own altitude bearing wings


by a mom's longitude

of lust for leisures,

a tale too tragic

for anyone to forget:

Did ya'll see?

When a mom plagued by demons

and ghost whispers,

brain sustained as insane,

with no nerves of steel,

no heart to heal

or spouse to feel.

She tries desperatedly

to love her off and spring,

but agents of infants

take them off as they sing,

promising them

what tomorrow will bring:

What must I, how can I, where can I, who can I,

or why can I,

make any of you





or even taste the earth,



or fire I walk through.

I couldn't, wouldn't or shouldn't have to.

Did you'all ever see?

Hurry up and arise,

before your bell starts to ring,

Bling, Bling, Bling, Bling:

"To every struggling mother in the universe,

The Lord thy Father,

is one baby's father

that will never forget

to hold the fruit from your womb,

even while the other doesn't.

Whether the child is down

below or up and above,

he will never escape

His Undying Love."

Marlon Crump 10/31/2006


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