RETRIBUTION FOR THE OLD©

                          ~Written by: Arose N Daghetto

 

Jamaican me not

Rastafar I ain’t

Carib be not in me

Not by friendship

love

passion 

or relation.

 

 

Nah mon

No ire in me

Me African American

The one you call lazy

 Motivational-less

Anti American

who’s allergic to work,

responsibility

and positivity.

 

 

The African American you see

by the dawn’s early light

to be some babylonian ho

that’s good enough to go into

but not good enough

to bare the seed of life from

based on your so-called

I in I conspiracy theories

 

Who the fuck are you

to demote me from humanity

 like a hemorroid on the assinine

I gave you love

You gave me pain

Threw dirt in my face

and prayed me to shame

at the hands of your almighty Jah…

 

What happened to Jah Not Dead?

Have you forgotten

the meaning of the song mr. priesthood?

They try to kill the black population…

I thought “they” were the caucasian

not the diasporic African nation.

 

I wasn’t born in the West Indies

or in Haiti

I’m not from Trinidad or Tobago

I’m not the Boriqua sista

from the isle of Puerto Rico

I’m not the girl from Impenema

Or some moça in the favelas of Brazil

But African blood runs in my veins

as in theirs and in yours

so why throw rocks at me,

your distant cousin?

 

Why is it that these people know more

about being poor but noble

and all I know

is how to be poor and stay poor…

according to you.

Is Jah dead to me but not dead to you,

tongue killer of the black population?

 

Guess Im not good enough

to sit on the same rock as you

and pass the dutchie

while we speak Marleynese

How dare you look down your nose

at me

Leaving me in the poverty

and the one love

I thought we shared together

I see how you continue

to move up in the world

with your same blooded bride

who you feel is more qualified

to be the woman

you SWORE to everyone you knew

I could never be…

 

You live the life of champions

with your lactating skeeze

unrighteously at your side

while I eat the breakfast of champions

off the breast milk of a cow

headed to slaughter

with no sugar on top…

While you fight to stay

in your posh New York neighborhood

rubbing elbows with the elite

with your little Jr. in tow

I continue the fight the den of lions

in the dust you left behind…

 

You said I’m a miserable person

but you made me miserable

How can a righteous man

drag a pure woman down

under the ground

only you can answer that,

since you claim to be 

the Twelfth Tribe of Benjamin…

 

You played lightening

by raising your hand

to strike me down

You tore down everything

that took me 22 years to build

You walked out on me

while I crawled behind you

on my hands and knees

begging in tears

before you filled my lungs

and my vision

with the smoke

of your screaming tires.

Then you come back 

some dozen years later

to finish where you left off,

verbally assaulting me

trying to bring me back in the day…

And I’m the one to look down upon,

the so-called lazy, irresponsible

African American woman

you’ve been told

to date but never marry?

 

I’m sorry, who the fuck are you again?

 

They don’t need to try and kill

the black population

the black population is already dying…

the African

in the American me is dying…

my womb,

the source of life

and the throne of womanhood

is dying…

My faith spills like blood

on the ground.

Love is the killer.

Jah heard the laughter of my enemy

and took from me

to give to him

the desires of his heart.

To me…

Jah is dead.

 

 

Poem (not picture) © Copyright 2012 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. All Rights Reserved.