In Honor Of Harriet Tubman, Artist, Author Jacqueline Amos

In Honor Of Harriet Tubman

Born into slavery I shall not cry, the thrown of my brothers, the pain of my sisters, the suffering of my children, I shall walk within the blood prints of my saviors, there is know face of my ancestors who stood before the battle ground, for there is only one blue print, women of strength that carried the same torch of thy ancestors, life is death it is written in the script, I follow the blue print of my brother, what is life if you can’t give it as a warrior, My children continue to feel the whip, slavery never died, it reformed a new master, self who walks the grounds, of the curse that lives within, Cold nights my children continue to feel, as they walk the streets, the enemy who lives within the mask of the devil who continues to live, through the cold nights of the living dead, the monsters who subside and pray on the minds of the young, and those who are so far gone, with anecdotes that surrounds their every thought.
My Chilean cried, living under harsh conditions, children a bandit by family, living through a tunnel vise mind, failed by the elders who disconnected the en- bible code, which the taunted wound that effect their every thought, lord the war stands before my feet, my children cry, the wars are in the school house, I cry from the time they leave, what is a revolution, if the warriors are dead before they lead, my babies cry as my soul sings it is already dead.
So my brother who hold the peace of paper of instructions, the knowledge which he refuse to apply, the master no longer holds the pen, and education which is declined, so who is my sister and brother who sit before the desk? as my children close their eyes to the knowledge which they represent, through the souls of child who cry treason, no leaders to plead their cause, the system who breeds the cloaks of enemies that live within the sheeted surroundings; who really gives a dam. Leaders that ego’s bigger than the proclamation for which it stands.
My children of the lesser faith; cries upon the Calvary lord help me please. So who are we to cry, when we plant the seed of darkness of our own tribe, the congregation that sits upon the table, only think of the power which only a fool embrace, without thinking of the future are the past. The warriors are sealed in a box, great warriors as Hennery Brown, black Pennsylvanian who could read and write, who nailed his self in a wooden box, interviewing people to document the future and the past.

Man today who just don’t give a dam, the marksmen who kills his self, leaving nothing for his children, the execution of the family trade mark, warriors without a cause, the capitalistic confusion of an army, who crawls upon the dark, disk that is implanted to deep, to break the code of death. I walk among the mighty widows, I carry the cross of my peoples, lord know body knows the trouble I have seen, I cry in silence for I the mother Moses of the world, my life don’t belong to me, thy eyes are watching God. Thy shall no longer run, my Chile your time has come, what it takes to be a women is more than the skirt, get out their and save your family tree, for all those who call the name women, you lazy and wear the curse of the devil, lord said when you labor you must be paid, what have you done to earn your rewards.