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Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Deep, dark, rich, rolling, hot chocolate.
Bubbling over with pride, pain and confusion as to why? The pantheon of tombstones for a people vitally owed the heartbeat of civilizations. Culture, music and blood. Bred in every existent vein. Diamond, mitochondrial chains.
Yet, still… we hang?
Ain’t that again strange
for the ladies day and the
gentlemen late at night.

Why not a Hall of Fame?
Some magnanimous mountain peak to pay
homage to the Black, brave and rested.
Asphyxiated, cardiac infarctions
DDA in lieu of arrested.
Silenced and slain too soon.
Why are we so heavily
invested in crypto collectives overseas?
When poverty spreads like a leporous disease, we’ve fallen
off, onto main thorough fares.
Not just side streets and alleys.

Homeless is the new franchise.
Over 1.6 million now being
underserved, kicked to the curb.
Despair flows like tears
from glazed-over eyes. Exploited for our
souls, exposed to the blistering
cold of Black codes.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.

Aoki Pink is an African American writer from South Central Los Angeles who was formerly incarcerated in California. Aoki Pink is her pen name.