Race

It’s not a question of who I am,
or looks that form my face.
You set the rules of what will be,
and who will win the race.

The rules are not fair,
as we reach for the top,
governed by those in control.
They make us do and break us too.
Until our bodies are brittle, and old.

Black man, white man, sugar man, sweet,
don’t matter what the song will say.
I can do what you can do better.
But the rules hold me back every day.
How long will it last into centuries untold
Bodies grow frail and weak.
But the mind remains strong.
And stand on its own.
The one thing that will surely keep.

Black man, white man, sugar man sweet,
don’t matter what the song will say.
I can do what you can do,
but it’s all to do my way.

Poet: Clifford H. Jones
Copyright © 2010 Clifford H. Jonesread: 2432