Brothas and Sistas
Sista was looking for a Prince Charming, someone who could save her from herself. But she never looked into herself, never examined her mental health. Never bothered to unpack all that baggage and put it back on the shelf.
And what did Brotha see every time Sista looked at he. A person that would freely give her all for a sense of security. For a sense of unity.
Sista would have gladly sold her soul. She was out of control and not nearly whole. Because she had neglected to feed her spirit.
Sista was wearing a "Beware of Issues" sign around her neck and Brotha was afraid to get near it. Besides he never believed she was interested in really getting to know a brotha. He looked good, had a promising career, and could fuck her like no otha.
But in the quiet moments in-between their "love" sessions. Brothas own motives for sticking around he began to question. Why did Brotha take advantage of a woman trying desperately to be his queen? Why did Brotha sometimes flip out on her and be so mean? Brotha guessed it was because she had put herself out there first. She had let him know that her last few relationships had been the worst.
But this Brotha, he was different he could be the one. The sun evaporating all her fears. Someone to whom she could run.
And why couldn`t Brotha see past the drama into the deeper, beautiful reality of she? Brotha knows now that it was the immature, selfish egotistical part of he. That opportunistic shark scanning the fish in the sea for weak prey.
Not realizing that he might encounter a shark better at hunting than him one day. And Brotha would honestly say upon their first encounter. That he never felt better than when he was around her
And Sista would laugh and say, "Oh word?" As she pulled off in a speeding car leaving Brotha`s heart on the curb. Because this Sista had already been sunk to rock bottom by some heavy romantic drama.
Because Brotha`s keep forgetting the disappointed faces of their sistas and mommas. Trying to be ballers, playas, and not ho sava`s
Brothas end up overdosing on their own medicine and don`t even recognize the flava.
Continuing this vicious cycle, the new millennium type of black on black crime. I ask you brothas and sistas, ain`t it about time? About time we really learned how to love one another.
Brothas, ain`t it about time we started respecting our queen`s and treating them better than any other. Race, face, body shape it really don`t matter. Let`s help each other ascend heaven’s ladder
This is a responsibility I must assume as a strong black man. If I believe it, I can achieve it, if I know it, I can. Cuz I’ll be damned to let another sista drown when I could have offered a loving hand
Near sighted
Damn, why didn't I call her...
See we met at my partner's party, partly because she was the finest woman I'd ever seen. And that night was like a dream come to life.
See we began bonding in the back corner of that singles parlor a few minutes after I greeted her with, "Hello Queen."
Her sensual scent beamed light on the dark cave of my olfactory senses.
This nubian goddess had gorgeous coffee eyes staring at me through fashion glass lenses. I proceeded to get my PH.D in her cosmology as we discussed everything. From astrology and Ancient Egyptian history to govermental policy in third world countries.
This herbal essence sistah was no dummy and every word she spoke was like the sweetest poetry. So I began to explore the surface of her fingertips as the dj flipped from track to track. And she explained that she felt she knew me from way back. Back before we were black. Back when we were conscious amoebas floating in a sea that would become the nile. And I began to think that She and Me could become We.
But damn...why didn't I call her
Because in my other identity I mean my day job. I ran with the local thugs, runnin scams selling drugs and even pimpin on the side. See my black male pride wouldn't allow me to tell her the truth and so I lied
About the same type of shit that conscious brothas always be talkin about. You know savin the youth, revolution and reparations. But I was really makin preparations on how many ways to marinate this chocolate dish.
See, I suffer from a condition known as myopia a.k.a. tunnel vision...I can't seem to see past the tip of my stick. And as she dicktated to me how we swam through oceans of history just to meet, I was wondering how good it would feel to dip my ladle into her punch bowl. Instead I told her to call me. And I did get her number too. And she called me two times. Just to let me know that I was on her mind.
So damn...why didn't I call her back
Like I said I've got this condition. Please don't think I'm wrong but I can't see any one woman for too long. Cuz shit starts to get fuzzy
I mean, this Mahogany Miracle was lovely but to me she was just like an eclipse. If I looked too long I'd go blind in love. And I knew that if she let me bend her body parts into different yoga positions. She'd wake up from our intimate meditations sitting alone. Because she was the fifth woman I'd met that week. And I'd already slept with four .
So I didn't call her.
But everyday after that night I thought about how just one evening caught up in the rapture. Of her aura showed me I could open up a new chapter a chapter minus the struggle to hustle in the streets. A chapter minus the late night beeps from freaks waiting me to blow their minds. And that's around the time that I saw that sign. It was an advertisement for optical advisement and laser eye surgery to remove the myopia from my vision so now I can see life clearly.
So now I'm seeing everything like 20/20. But I wish I could be splitting everything like 50/50. With that Pan African princess see I miss her most whenever I see the sunrise. Because every time I think of those sexual chocolate eyes I grab my paper and pen and write poetry. Cuz in actuality. I just lost her number in the washing machine. So this goes out to my coffee eyed dream. If you're reading this...
Give a brotha a second chance
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