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Broken Record

My brother’s like a broken record.  He tells me about how we used to bike around the neighborhood pretending we were race car drivers, and how we’d gained multiple knee scrapes from turning the curb too fast. He’ll tell me this story twice, thrice, or even four times in a row, and laugh about the good ol’ days. I laugh with him, because though he doesn’t remember that he’s already told me this story for the fourth time in a row, he does remember the fun we had. My brother’s like a broken record, but I don’t mind one bit.

White History Month

I’m sick of white people

Who look at us and scoff,

And smirk with contempt

Holding their heads aloft


As if those with black skin

And those of a different race

Are not worthy of existing

Or of being in “their” space.


I’m sick of their mockery

Of our struggles and pain

As they jeer “It’s not real,

You just want to complain.”


I’m sick of them saying,

“You don’t need black history month.

You just want to be victims,

What about a white history month?”


My sister cried

Because she was stressed

By jealous, ignorant white people

Whose souls were an evil mess.


They paid her back with rudeness

When she gave them kindness.

She offered them kind words

And they responded with silence.


And even after all

The racist things they do,

They will still say, “We’re not racist,

We have black friends, like you.”


Even after all

The racist things they say,

They will still say, “We are Christians,

In Jesus name we pray!”


I’m sick of this racist nonsense.

It is sick and it is evil.

Forget your white history month,

You are full of the devil!

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