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Knott Style Poetry
Vines of Ivy hold back a secret garden of opportunity
Our sincerest apologies but you can’t be our token black
We hold the keys to dreams that died long ago in ancestral Eve
But your poverty pimped poetry prose didn’t move us like wallets filled with silver spoons
You swallowed your tongue in shame(or guilt, or cultural norm you don’t even know anymore) Spilt your sternum open for us to inspect the purity of meritocracy
Left behind to detectify the purity of blue blood
Mother Oshun gave you a plastic spoon once you were expelled from her womb
She reminds her of the village, the war, crimson waves that buried her under survivor’s guilt
You have your mother’s eyes of disappointment
An odor of a dream deferred
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