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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


Generation after generation

People go on fighting,

pretending to fix the issues that skim the surface

sweeping those that lie beneath the storm under the rug. 

I’ve listened to the old-time radio in an all-white classroom 

thinking how poorly the minority is treated,

I’ve watched the old-time television in an all-white classroom

thinking how poorly the minority is treated,

I’ve read, and read, and read in an all-white classroom 

thinking on how poor it must be to be treated like a minority. 

My privilege speaks, 

it shouts itself from the rooftops of the White House. 

My privilege haunts, 

it terrorizes the streets of Baltimore to Minneapolis, 

Down the Mississippi to Los Angeles. 

My privilege is safe. 

My privilege is unwavering. 

My privilege keeps gags in the white man’s mouth

blindfolds on their hearts

and money stuffed in their ears,

watching their people die every day but claiming to not have a wager in the fight. 

I wonder if their sponsors would take their money away. 

The solemn realizations of my mind’s wanderences has me losing hope. 

I’m losing hope as I watch from the pedestal I was born on. 

The bigotry of our nation stares the world in its star-struck eyes and says, “fuck you.” 

As if we are no longer the child nation born to seize opportunity for all.

My privilege is aware of its own privilege 

We have been made aware for centuries, 

for generations, 

of our own privilege. 

The gags never leave our seemingly always dry throats, 

claiming that my struggle and his struggle are always alike. 

The stamp of socialism marked on The People,

Democracy was betrothed to Capitalism and The People may not object. 

“This is not my fight.” 

We continue to hold the institutions of power that strangle the last breath of a growing child.

Sit in your privilege as you insist, 

but know when the money you gag on becomes too great to handle, 

when you feel as though you “Can’t Breathe,” 

You have the ability to come up for air anytime you please. 

Generation after generation, 

people fight the same fight, 



We the People, 

Oh, God! 

Help me, God!

Where is the humanity? 

When does the savior of this nation come down to teach us of our wrongdoings?

When does our sacrifice come for all of our sins? 

The same fight, 

the same war for twice a century long and I cannot bear to watch any longer. 

The monstrosities of a system,

Help me, God!


Such a broad term for a population that chooses to separate itself, 


Such a broad term for a people who are ruled by one. 


A country that has yet to find the clear definition of a person that would allow us to be one,

Oh, God!

insure domestic Tranquility,

another child dead in the streets,

Do you hear their screams? 

How could you? 

The night never speaks when a misportrayed black child dies at the point a bullet screeches through his organs, spraying blood over a community’s sidewalk, children’s blood.

Does he die at the bosom of a mother who loves him? 


Skittles spilling over the sidewalk, playing hopscotch in the blood exiting the child’s earthly being. 

Oh, God! 

Where is the humanity? 

Hang them at the cross,

God, please!

Hang them at the cross

for a sacrifice is tenfold compared to 

yet another cold murder.


Whispers fill my ears, 

a thousand children giggling 

with no fear, 

Do you hear them? 

They skip, and run on the playgrounds of New York, 

Of Santa Fe, 

Of Thailand, 

Of Bombeii. 

No inkling of the color that comes before them,

Playing, giggling 

until a white man walks before them. 

Do you hear the children crying? 

Do you hear their fear in the dead of the night?

Not knowing if this could be their night, 

Do you hear the children crying? 

Do you feel the hate you bleed? 

Let the fear ooze out of your pores, 

waking up in your own cold sweat, 

drenched covers, 


never knowing, 

Where’s your child? 

Could they die tonight? 

Hear the children crying over the globe, filling the oceans with tears of their own, 

hear the screams of a sonless mother,

make these children your own. 

Feel the blood of the unarmed fifteen year old who was shot while visiting the local store his granddaddy used to own, 

Feel the execution of an eighteen year old boy who spoke out to protect the rights you believe in, 

Feel the fear in your bones as the bullet flies towards your child sitting in the apartment you own. 

Can you hear the children cry? 

Tell me, 

Do you hear them now?


Submitted: October 27, 2020

© Copyright 2020 Lance T. Lambert. All rights reserved.

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