Little Black Boy

My soul is heavy with grief right now. I can hardly express with words how I feel right now. An eight-year-old boy has had his life altered forever because he was left alone in a house with small kids, supposedly to take care of them, when someone should have been taking care of him. Now, he’s charged with murder and the adult is charged with manslaughter. Go figure. A child is forced to bear the responsibility for an adult’s irresponsibility and neglect. A nine-year-old boy is assassinated. Shot in the face. His only crime: being a black little boy in a city that values violence over all things. We will shoot each other over the stupidest things, steal another person’s life as if though we have a right. And no one bats an eye anymore. We’ve gotten used to it. It’s expected. Some people even have the audacity to justify it.

I am grief-stricken because I would take these little boys and love them. If it were possible, I would take them all in and love them.

I’m tired of reading about the misdeeds committed against black little boys and girls. These are children. They deserve to have the opportunity to be children. Shame on it all that they are being dragged into the nonsensical world of so-called adults. And shame on it all that we aren’t outraged.

Little black boy
Pardon me, while I offer you a
cliché: I need you to know
I’ve cried a river of tears for you.
It seems like every time I watch the news
someone is butchering black little boys’ lives
leaving behind corpses and criminals
where there should be future black men.
And all I can offer is my tears and my words,
words that are filling up my too heavy soul.

If my words meant anything or
held any real value
I would trade in all my words,
cash in on their value to try and save you.
Maybe then my soul wouldn’t feel so heavy.

With the proceeds from my not-so-valuable
words, I’d build a place for me and you.
A place where I, like Mother Earth,
would give birth to a love for you, a love
that no amount of #wedontreallymattter
could destroy. But if somehow my love
was butchered too, I’d re-birth my love for you.

I love you. That’s all I have to offer you.
And these are not just valueless words.

I can’t keep reading about what’s happening
to you without wondering where we went wrong.
Who injected our collective soul with poison so strong
that we nonchalantly are destroying our own?
Do you not realize we’re destroying our own roots?
Put the ax down and lift up each other.
Where is the outrage that should follow
the cold-blooded assassination of a nine year old boy
who’s only crime was being a child?
Cowards live among us, destroying us from the roots on up,
swinging their dicks while holding a gun in their hands.
Their manhood engraved on the tiny head
of a bullet used to steal away the life of
someone who looks like you, who looks like me.
Who looks like the one who’s butchering little black boys.
And I’m tired.

When did it become a cool thing to do,
to destroy your own son or daughter’s childhood?
When did it become acceptable to
place eight year old boys at the head of a family?

Little boys live in the world of pretend and fantasy.
They don’t realize that their actions can literally
end a life. But you should’ve known.
You should’ve known better. I don’t know who to blame.
Is it a culture of babies having babies or
a culture of #blacklivesdontmatter to me
because they don’t matter to you?
I’m tired of trying to understand you.
I have tried to love you, but how can I love you
when I don’t understand you? Who can I blame
for the way you are? Where do you find the audacity
to take the purest of love that’s been offered to you
and take it for granted by pretending it doesn’t matter?
Something inside of you should have told you
not to leave. But you did. That love didn’t mean a thing to you.

Do you find the audacity to take this love for granted
in the bottom of a bottle of cheap ass liquor or mixed in with
the white lines spread across the table that should be
covered with dinner? Do you find it beneath the propaganda
and lies that tell you that all black women
are either welfare queens, trap queens, bitches or whores?
Do you find the audacity to cut off the roots of the ones
who love you by standing in front of a playhouse mirror
one that distorts images of those who love you unconditionally
and makes you see an enemy where you should see
the one who loves you? I’m tired.
Loving you has become so heavy, but black boy,
please know that I will never stop loving you.
I will never give up on you. I will give birth
to a love for you that I hope will make you realize
that you do matter. To me. And even when it
seems that I’m loving in vain, I will continue to love you.

At some point we have to take responsibility
for the lovelessness that’s destroying us.
I keep offering my words of truth
trying to get you to see the value in loving you.
I love you. I know it’s hard for you to see
when your vision is clouded by such misery.
I’m tired of crying for you. I want to love you.
I do love you. But that never seems to be enough.

Black boy, please know I will continue to love you
and to fight for you even when it seems loving you
is breaking me. I carry these words and these tears
in my heavy and burdened soul, hoping that one day
you’ll love me in return and we can get back to
how it used to be.

Peace & Love,

* Dedicated to nine-year-old Tyshawn Lee and the unnamed eight year old boy in Birmingham, AL who was recently charged with murder. And to all the other babies who have been sucked into this nasty cycle of violence perpetrated by so-called adults,the ones who are supposed to love and protect them.


About Rosalind Guy

I'm broken & my soul is weary/ my weary soul rebels, fights/ anything & anyone who tries to heal me/I beat my head against a wall of memories/ trying hard to break free from the chain of memories/ I can only be free by saying it so/ i weave a necklace from words and finally/ I find freedom/ free free free. As you can see, words are powerful to me. As Maya Angelou said, words are wallpaper of the soul. I have lots of nightmarish memories that threaten to break me, but I learned a long time ago about the power of words. They can be used to heal and destroy anything that threatens to destroy the person. Words coupled with love have the power to save and heal. I am author of three books: Skinny Dipping in the Pool of Womanhood, Tattered Butterfly Wings, and Blues of a Love Junkie. I am a high school English teacher. I am a former reporter. I am a mother. I am a woman. I am a fierce advocate for those who cannot speak for themselves, those who's voices go unheard. Check out my Amazon author page at the following link:
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One Response to Little Black Boy

  1. Thanks for the comments! Things will get better i promise you!

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