Was it Ever America to Me?

I remember these words, three,

the spark of everyman’s dream.

A simple pioneer on the plain

sought out a home where he himself is free

(was it ever America to me?).

_________________________

The welcoming arms of Liberty

fast from the schemes of kings.

A place for many to attain

land away from conniving tyranny

(it never was America to me).

_________________________

Opportunity is real and life is free,

but better if it could be

possible to bring what it once claimed

and provide equality into the air we breathe

(there was nothing equal for my people
in their math not freedom in this “Land of the Free”).

___________________________

There confusion residing within the

down trodden, underprivileged community

argues against the established aims.

That’s when it was asked of me:

“Say, who do you think you are?”

___________________________

I am the First who didn’t know

land was something one could own.

I am the Last Bottle threatening to arrive

and encourage the last of the First to for

as he remains stuck in his reserved sanctuary,

watching the rain wash away his war paint.

____________________________

I was kidnapped, I was sold

and others exploited my soul

(who am I kidding? They’re still doing it).

____________________________

I am anger, I am pain.

These notions have infested my brain

for the better part of three centuries

and still, they ignore me.

____________________________

Yet, I remember these words, three.

It rings true in their speech and their coverage,

in their dismissive labels slapped on every time

I refuse to die quietly.

____________________________

Oh yes, these words, three.

But how can it be America

if I was never allowed to “Let Freedom Ring”?

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