Sistas In Savage Society: A poem about single mothers

POOR correspondent - Posted on 18 June 2010

Marlon Crump/Poverty Scholar POOR Magazine
Friday, November 3, 2006;

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 10/31/06



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