Silly Sista
On the road to recovery, that’s what she told me.
Huge tears in her eyes, she screamed, “Hold me, hold me!”
My silly sister, always in a mess she can’t handle alone
That’s why, every other day I try to pick up the phone
And make sure she’s still breathin’, they see her around
Those gansters and johns, you know? One’s you see around town
She tells me she needs money, but they say they keep her paid
God knows how many of them she’s hooked up with and laid
But she laughs up on the telly like she’s the queen on the board
She don’t realize, in their eyes, she’s just some dumb whore
But she won’t leave them alone, my opinion is nil
She smirks, because she knows that they’re paying her bills
And I’m tired of supervising her, she’s pretty much grown
It’s hard for a Black woman to make it on her own!
Until that day I saw her with the black eye, crying
Trying to turn her life around, she’s slowly dying
Men that wouldn’t have it shoved her ‘round a bit
And now I’m feelin’ hurt, these the boys we grew up with
Sweet boys when they were younger, now rotten to the core
Silly sista, put your head up, you know you deserve more
About this entry
You’re currently reading “Silly Sista,” an entry on In The Shadows of Black America
- Published:
- February 13, 2009 / 6:51 am
- Category:
- Poetry
- Tags:
- best friend, poem, sisters
No comments yet
Jump to comment form | comments rss [?] | trackback uri [?]