Soul Shout: A Poetic Release of The New Black Slave | R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON

Soul Shout: A Poetic Release of The New Black Slave

poetry by R. Shawntez Jackson

My soul is screaming And I’m acting as if I can’t feel me in distress I’ve gotta tattletale on me A Fountain of healing runs through me But it’s secret.

And secrets kill.

I’ve gotta tattletale on me now –In order to survive

so someone else can survive the shame.

My little Black Gay church boy life still in formation

got to close to the sun and got burned I was “this close” to being the black gay man I wanted to be When I got the news flash “You can’t escape being a statistic no matter how fast you run.” Three obscure letters and a + sign Damn!

My joy & dreams halted like a movie directed by a pedophile air got thin feelings left and my mind went dark So I started rehearsing death See, gay boys are dramatic about everything, even death

I did this grand thing – just stuck, not answering my phone, lying on the floor, not eating, not wanting to breathe... It didn’t work!

My grandmamma is a praying woman. I tried to sex it away, Hunting a nutt hard enough to heave the depression out Until a sweet little so and so with good ass pulled a bait and switch “That wasn’t weed in that pipe!” And I started floating I wouldn’t stay grounded for nothing It made the presence of the pain seem a continent away I was jus drifting, “I got lifted oh, I get lifted Yeah!” toward an early all access pearly gate pass As a crackhead?

But I wanted my heart to explode like a nuke ‘cause I was too tired of living with who no one would love now, me as I was.

But I told you My mamma & grandmamma can pray. Awwe shit, two or three gathered together… for ten years I floated light as a feather and stiff as a board until the light of the Universe showed me another possibility, a diamond like brilliance deeper than the aching could burrow But some things take longer to shake loose in transition, Reinvention doesn’t happen overnight, and confidence doesn’t always represent a self-secure soul so I battle until I get there to keep my feet on the ground choosing to wage war on myself

some battles I win

some battles I lose

but I don’t stop fighting and now I’ve learned to take the aftershocks away from the earthquake I’m tattle telling on my own self – kicking my own ass to castrate the shame, To stand naked in the coliseum

To be the African David, a symbol of God’s perfection And anoint someone’s soul with an oil of self-forgiveness To release the notions of okay and alright and BE GREATFUL for what exists

when the soul isn’t shouting from the pain of not being heard and the neglect of not speaking the end of the thing into existence. ASHÉ