Broken Vows

Love doesn’t live there... 

In the gaze of their eyes, 

In the shouts of goodbyes, 

In the warmth of their bed, 

In the stress of their sighs, 

In the streets when they walk, 

In the car when they drive, 

In the stores where they shop, 

In the house where they hide. 

Love doesn’t live there...

In the black of her heart, 

In the blues of his soul, 

In the red of their eyes, 

In the gray of their old, 

In the bones in their closets, 

In the ghost of their past, 

In the dope of their gossip,  

In the shroud of their mask. 

Love doesn’t live there. 

I wonder, 

did it ever? 

© Sulē Cerdan 2015

The Walk Home

The phony smiles.
The slack shoulders.
The dismal eyes,
Bloodshot and weary.
The unhealed wounds.
The deep regrets.
The mechanized steps,
Vain and Godless.
i hate it.
The way they
flaunt fake.
The way they
pretend confidence.
The way they
advocate lies,
The way it flows
off their tongues
like oxygen.
Ignorance is
ubiquitous.
In the air and
in the streets.
In the homes
and in the schools.
It made me.
Now it makes
me sick.
But hope
is and always
has been my
medicine.
So i carry on.
Hoping.

© Sulē Cerdan 2015

Red Carpet

When the red carpet fills,
When the red carpet fills.
  The churches grow idle,
          The protests go still.
The playgrounds forsakened,
while brain cells are killed.
When the red carpet fills,
When the red carpet fills.
The stars become Gods,
Gods words become lies.
Real becomes fake,
and beauty becomes guise.
When the red carpet fills,
When the red carpet fills.
Legacies are forgotten,
History is rewritten.
Ancestors have rottened,
and enemies keep living.
When the red carpet fills,
When the red carpet fills.
Our lives become fruitless,
Our smiles become dull.
Our freedom turns futile,
imprisoned by walls.
When the red carpet fills,
When the red carpet fills.
It fills the whole world
with Lucifer’s will.

© Sulē Cerdan 2015

the new slaves

It used to be,
Afros and Dashikis.
Black Berets and Power Fists.

Now its,
Tattoos and Silicone.
Blond Wigs and Ego Trips.

You see,
a Real Nigga is
the new Black and Proud.
The new peaceful March on Washington,
The new Railroads Underground.
The new Lindy Hops till bodies drop,
The new Soul Trains to James Brown.

We’ve been got!
Swindled!
Hoodwinked!
Led astray!

Like our ancestors.

Like our ancestors
ancestors, who prayed
that their great great
grandchildren wouldn’t
have to live their life in chains.

Well...
It used to be.

Time

Time.

The thorn in my side.
The apple of my eyes.
The heaven in my laugh.
The cynic in my why.

Time.

A felons nightmare.
A soldiers dream.
A nine-to-fivers curse.
A bank robbers scheme.

Time.

An illusion turned real.
An intrusion on will.
A solution to jail a
revolutions bold shrill.

Time.

A dying man’s wish.
A broken man’s hell.
A holy man’s grace.
A lucky man’s spell.

Time.

Ticking...Flying...
Ticking...Flying...
Away.

© Sulē Cerdan 2015

Monday-Mourning

Monday-Mourning

i will not RISE like a monday mornin'. 

Cursing the alarm clock.
Despising the sunlight.
Loathing the blackbirds chirp. 

i will not RISE like a monday mornin'. 

Forgetting what a smile feels like.
Forgetting what thank you tastes like.  

Forgetting what happiness looks like. 

i will not RISE like a monday mornin'. 

Needing coffee to awake my spirit.
Needing a smoke to bring me a step closer to death. 

Needing propaganda to beguile my idle mind.

i will not RISE like a monday mornin'. 

Disguised in lies,
Cloaked in fear, 

Guised in pride, 

Soaked in tears.  

i will not RISE like a monday mornin'. 

Without hope. 

Without dreams. 

Without purpose. 

Without God. 

© Sulē Cerdan 2015

Dreadlocks

They swung
like dreadlocks.
Underneath
thousands of falling suns.
Hundreds of limp bodies
dripping from poplar trees
casually ballroom dancing
with the wind.

Frozen in time
and space;
in fear and relief.

Despair braided
deep in their spines
like death had the hands
of African mothers.

They left US their bones
to use as stepping-stones.

So We swung
like dreadlocks.
Underneath
thousands of rising suns.
Hundreds of brawlers
unflinchingly spilling blood
like water on the seeds
of family trees.

Frozen in time
and space;
in love and faith.

Hope braided
deep in their spines
like God had the hands
of African mothers.

We will happily leave behind
OUR bones to use as
stepping-stones.

© Sulē Cerdan 2015