Walking Dead Poem by Black Consciousness Poetry BCP

Black people
We are walking talking left for dead in the grave yard named south African townships
We can't even see our names written on the tombstones.
We are Captured by Invisible chains and robbed off our rightful thrones.
A nation of tortured and conquered souls.

The real Black people died a long time ago
For they were not willing to give themselves to white power.
Against gun powder
They were willing to fight and die with a spear and a shield in the battlefield defending their humanity.
Those were the real black men and they died long time ago.
What you make of us now is mutations of blackness that won't let the corpse go.
For white power commands it to do the work of self-injustice
A black caucus that carries a soul in conflict with the nature of its universe.

What else is left in us?
Nothing less but black pain torturing Black bodies.
Nothing less but empty vessels filled with a degree or a phd from a European education which is insignificant towards the development of a black nation
It is Nothing but another allocation of an inferior position in the hierarchy of total black subjugation.
Nothing but white power on a mission to cease any idea that entertains thoughts that may lead to a resurrection of a black soul.
With no remorse it imprisons the mind that seeks to awake from the grave.

Black people, our people, black zombies
Walking, talking left for dead in the grave yard named south African townships
So confused, so out of touch with reality.
Still trapped between superstition and what is real
Those who mocks say we are super stupid.
Those who study us will notice how we are buried deep in blind faith.
Disposition to the grave yards named South African townships.
There was a time when the universe called for us to be free
Negotiators led us blind with FALSE thoughts of integration.
Lobbyists and pastors murdered our revolution
They chose religion over reason
So they got paid to keep our people in a psychological prison.
Reason why we fear to think
Reason why we drink, dance, sing, pray, kill each other and do filth to numb the pain.
And so we say no pain no gain, but all we seem to gain is black pain.

I suggest we blow a kudu horn.
In South Africa there's a white party going on.
We are not on the guest list.
The guest list is for the living.
We are dead like dry bones in the valley.
Our names are on the ghost list
So i insist
That we blow that kudu horn
To Sound the call to reveal what's going on
Sound it loud so it may be heard by those who dwell in the grave yards named south African townships.

A Message to the walking talking left for dead black man
The final stage of a Revolution will come out of the barrel of a gun
Not at the righteous words that comes out the mouth of the one who is oppressed
Revolution is not an emotion but an appointment set by the condition and the nature of the relationship between the oppressor and the oppressed
More than the oppressor, the oppressed must stress for this appointment to take place.
So that black people can awake in these grave yard named south African townships.


|Mufasa|