It started with a story.
A story that would be passed down/washed upon society's shores
300 years after his existence.
William Lynch, a story teller,
stood before fellow slaveholders/
conjuring the black cocktail"
weave-pattin, loud talkin
This is what he created.
This is black?
This is me?
This isn't me?
You see my black is beautiful
He tries to tell me otherwise.
The revolution will not be televised.
My black is full of Maya Angelou's dialects.
Dripping of soul.
Dripping of black.
Miss Angelou scolded me to rise.
Rise and break free from Lynch's soul crushing,dark/bitter story.
"I am the dream an the hope of the slave."
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