Rivron Martinelli Lucile

I am...

My skin is dark

I am not taken seriously.

I am considered inferior

I am considered as nothing.

To them, I don’t exist,

I am only judged

By the colour of my skin

For I am black

And to white people

I am different.

I am treated like an animal

Whipped, and underfed.

I wear rags

I am not educated

I am a slave

And nothing else.

Why bother to dream

When I already know

I will never escape?

There is no life waiting for me

Out there.

It would be even worse,

For I would have to steal,

I could be arrested,

And my life would end there.

So I am just grateful

That they have let me live,

This is my life,

I know nothing else.

I am used to being mistreated,

Not that I consider it fair,

But I obey, never contest.

If I have been punished,

Very well, I will listen.

If I need to stay up all night,

Very well, I will listen;

This is my life

I know nothing else.

How could I live differently,

When all people like me

Are slaves?


I have seen black people die

Being whipped to death

For nothing else

 Than stealing bread.

But what most fills my heart with hate

Is seeing white people do 

Exactly the same thing

And simply being shouted at.

But I am used to it,

White people care about me

Only to make me work

While they sit and relax.

They don’t do anything,

No cooking, no cleaning,

Because I am the one to whom 

They assign all of these tasks.

So everyday, I wake up early,

Only to find a day of work,

No rest, no money,

No proper food, no good clothes,

Because I am black.

But slowly, I started to hope,

Everyday, there were revolts,

That gradually developed

Into fights for freedom

And abolition of slavery.

I became one of these people,

And soon, we were free.

We had no rights, we earned no money,

But we were not slaves anymore.

And then, it began;

We had a few rights, 

We could get payed a little, 

We could have a home

Belonging to us, only us.

Who cared if it was made of dirt and hay?

Who cared if people did not pay?

We had rights,

We were not slaves, we had a home.

We were happy, we were grateful

And we were free.  


Envoyé: 10:43 Tue, 14 March 2023 by : Rivron Martinelli Lucile age : 15