Father please,
These lips are tired,
Of chiding words,
You told me,
Were vulgar as,
My thighs refusing,
To close
And swallow all blood,
And evidence of what,
These men,
Think of the demons
Growing on my chest
What these men think,
Of my hips
As they push them out
Of my jeans

Father please,
My tears, this belly,
Cannot carry
As they trail
Down engraved shame,
On my slowly decaying face
Matted with seeds
Scattered around
By these proud farmers
Maybe melanin,
Should not, like soil
Look

Father, my heart
It bleeds
And in these tears
It swims
To wash itself,
Off these infected
Gaping cuts
Singing each time,
It's plowing season!

Hey, ifana8 check this out!