Seems obvious to me that that the author of this piece, like all black people, have the memories and effects of monstrous mistreatment in our DNA. I think this is destined to become an anthem of our healing.

DEPRESSION: my muse

this may or may not enhance your reading pleasure.

Image

I dread sun rise.

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Spanish moss hung from trees like the raggedy dress on that old hag from up the line.

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The swamp on the other side of the plantation always haunted me. Thick, bottom heavy cypress standing like sentries warned me of the dark places where a little boy could get missing. Many went missing in that swamp.

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The midday heat laced the air with what seemed like black strap molasses that stuck to a little boy like an old quilt; dense, heavy and inescapable. Something like ol’ miss’s eyes, she had hate in her–from birth.

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Cotton could be seen from one end of the Earth to the other or what was Earth to a little boy. A little boy also knew white meant nothing good, be it soft bolls of cotton or ol’ miss.

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As…

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2 Responses to “”

  1. CREE-EIGHT Says:

    Thank YOU, sir.

  2. thank you very much Ms. CREE!!!

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